Chapter 17 #2
I could hear the smile in her voice when she said it.
The run was long and loud and full of that brotherhood energy that had saved my life more times than I could count.
We rode in staggered formation, engines eating up the miles.
Gas stops that smelled like hot dogs and cheap coffee.
Motel parking lots where men stood around, smoking cigarettes, and talked shit like it was a language.
In Arkansas, the air felt different—flatter, open, a wind that never stopped moving. The meet went smooth for the first day. Handshakes. Eyes measuring. A couple tense conversations where the wrong word could’ve turned into a gun.
I kept my phone close anyway.
Called her when I could—short calls from behind a building, leaning against brick, scanning shadows out of habit.
Sometimes she was in between meetings. Sometimes she was cooking.
Once she was folding laundry and I pictured her in that soft, domestic moment and it hit me like a punch how badly I wanted to be there.
“How’s work?” I asked one night.
“Busy,” she shared. “But manageable.”
“You eating?” I pressed.
“Dante—” she challenged.
“Answer.”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Sleeping?”
“Some.”
I heard the smile again. “You’re not my dad.”
“No,” I explained. “But I’m still gonna make sure you’re good. Make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”
She went quiet a beat. “I’m good.”
“You better be,” I murmured.
The next call, she sounded off. Something wasn’t quite right. Not dramatic. Not panicked. Just less jovial. Like her voice had an edge that hadn’t been there the other nights.
I noticed because I paid attention. Because she mattered. Because my whole body had tuned itself to her, the way men in my line of life tuned themselves to danger.
“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately.
“Nothing,” she replied too fast.
I stepped away from the guys, walking toward the edge of the lot where the motel lights died off into darkness. “Nita.”
She exhaled. I could hear her shifting, like she’d moved somewhere more private.
“Someone at work made a comment,” she shared finally.
My spine went tight. “What kind of comment?”
She hesitated. “About the Saints.”
I stopped walking. The night got quieter, like the world leaned in.
The club saved me. When I left DC and faced the monster inside me that could kill a man with my bare hands and still sleep easy, Gonzo and the Saint Outlaws accepted the part of me I was coming to terms with myself.
Crossing the line from law abiding to one percenter was different and meant changing some of my ways of thinking.
I found acceptance, brotherhood, and family with these men when I couldn’t find my footing in the world anymore.
I needed her to accept the club as much as she accepted the unspoken secrets about what I did to keep Char safe.
“What did they say?” I asked, voice calm but cold.
She sighed. “Just that I was risking my job by dating an outlaw.”
The word outlaw scraped my nerves raw.
“Who said it?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Nita,” I warned.
“I’m not giving you a name,” she replied firmly, like she had already anticipated where my mind would go. “It’s not about that.”
“It is about that,” I said, jaw tightening. “Who?”
“Dante.”
Her voice was sharp, a reminder of who she was. Not one to back down. Federal Investigator. Trained to face men worse than me. Controlled. Not some woman waiting at home for a man to handle things. I forced myself to breathe.
“All right,” I managed, slower. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
She hesitated again, then spoke carefully. “We were leaving a meeting. Small talk. Nothing important. And he,” She stopped, like she’d caught herself. Like she’d almost said too much.
“He,” I repeated.
She sighed, annoyed at herself. “A colleague. He made the comment like it was a joke. Like he was warning me. Like he knew something he shouldn’t.”
My hand tightened around my phone. “Did you tell him it was me?”
“No,” she said immediately. “I didn’t tell anyone who I was dating. That’s the point.”
My blood cooled in my veins.
“Then how would he know?” I asked, voice low.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, and that was what made it worse—Nita not knowing the how. Nita uncertain. Nita forced to look over her shoulder in a city full of predators in suits. In her world, private lives stayed out of work
I stared out into the dark beyond the lot. My instincts sharpened so fast it was like flipping a switch.
“They know about you,” she stated quietly. “Or they know about the club. Or—”
“Or someone’s watching,” I finished.
She didn’t deny it. That was her fear.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to stay measured. “Did you notice anyone following you? Any strange cars? Anyone lingering near your building?”
“No,” she shared. “But I haven’t been looking for that.”
I had. My pocket felt heavier. The feed. The alerts.
I hated the surge of vindication that tried to rise, hated that part of me that wanted to say see, like I had been right to be paranoid.
“Listen to me,” I said, voice turning steel. “From now on, you look. You check your surroundings. You don’t walk to your car staring at your phone. You vary your route when you can.”
She went still. “Dante, don’t do this.”
“Do what?” I snapped. “Care?”
“Turn me into a target in your head,” she corrected.
My jaw clenched. “I’m not saying you’re helpless,” I said, forcing the words out slowly. “I’m saying this feels wrong.”
“It is wrong,” she retorted, anger flaring now. “Someone in my workplace commenting on my personal life when I’ve said nothing? That’s wrong. My business is not their business.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is wrong.” I swallowed, throat tight. “When did this happen?”
“Today,” she shared. “A couple hours ago.”
“And you waited to tell me,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“I didn’t want to ruin what you were doing,” she replied. “Or send you into whatever this is.”
“This is me taking it serious,” I said.
She exhaled. “I know. I didn’t want to be your distraction, Dante.”
I heard the fatigue under her words. The weight of always being the competent one, the one who didn’t let things shake her.
“I’m going to handle it,” she stated. “My way.”
I stared at the dark, pulse steady but heavy. “You can handle it your way. And I’ll handle it mine.”
A beat. “What’s your way?” she asked quietly.
I didn’t tell her about the feed. Didn’t tell her I had already been watching that hallway like it was my own front door.
Because she would see it as control. A breach. A violation. And she wouldn’t be wrong. But my priority wasn’t her approval. It was her safety.
“My way,” I said carefully, “is making sure nobody gets close enough to hurt you.”
She was silent for a long moment.
Then, softer, “Dante, I’m okay.”
“For now,” I said, and I hated how true it sounded. “And as long as I’m breathing, for always.”
I heard movement on her end, like she sat down. “This is why I said I didn’t know if it would work,” she murmured.
I closed my eyes. “I know.”
“Because your world comes with shadows,” she continued, voice quiet. “And my world has its own. Political agendas, personal ones, everything you do being a way for someone to use it as a leg up.”
“Yeah,” I replied because she was right.
A pause. Then she asked, “Are you scared?”
I almost laughed. Me? Scared? I had stared down guns. Buried brothers. Sat with men dying in my arms. But this, this was different. And I had to be honest.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I am.”
Her breath hitched. “Of me?”
“No,” I stated immediately. “Of losing you.”
The words landed between us like something alive.
She didn’t respond right away, but when she did, her voice was softer than it had been all call. “I’ll be careful.”
“Good,” I whispered, “please do.”
“Will you?” she asked.
I glanced back toward the motel, toward the silhouettes of my brothers, toward the life that had shaped me. “I always am,” I reaffirmed.
And when we hung up, I stood there in the dark with my phone in my hand and my gut screaming one message over and over:
Someone knew.
And if someone knew, then the week of peace I tasted in her apartment was already under threat. I pulled up the feed. Her hallway was empty.
Too empty. I watched it anyway, jaw locked, mind already moving through possibilities.
Workplace comment. Saints mention. Outlaw.
That wasn’t random.
That was a probe.
And I didn’t like who might be holding the stick.