Chapter 2 — Sienna #3
"Calculating means you understand the stakes.
Means you're not walking around here thinking everything's fine when it's not.
Means you're not stupid." His hand moves to my shoulder, thumb brushing against the fabric of my shirt.
This touch feels different somehow. Less mechanical.
"But if you're lying to me, if this is your father's play and you're here to fuck us over, being smart won't save you. You understand that?"
"Yes."
"Say it. I need to hear you say it out loud so we both know you understand what you walked into."
"I understand that if I'm lying, someone in Vigil will kill me.
Probably not you specifically, but someone will, and it won't be clean or quick or merciful.
That's the world I walked into. That's what I chose when I came to you instead of the police or the feds or any other option that didn't involve a motorcycle club at war with my father. "
"Why did you choose us?"
"Because you're the only ones who'll actually fight him.
Everyone else will hesitate or negotiate or try to manage the situation diplomatically.
You'll just act. And my father doesn't hesitate, doesn't negotiate, doesn't manage things diplomatically.
If I'm going to survive what comes next, I need people who operate the same way he does. Just on my side instead of his."
He watches me for another long moment, and I can see him processing what I just said, weighing it against what he already thinks he knows about me.
"That's a calculated answer," he says.
"Everything I say is calculated. I told you, I don't know how to stop.
" I meet his eyes. "But it's also true. I came to Vigil because I knew you wouldn't hesitate when the time came.
And the time is coming, probably sooner than any of us want.
So you can keep looking at me like I'm the enemy if that makes you feel safer, but I'm here because I need you to be exactly what you are.
Dangerous. Fast. Willing to do what needs to be done. That's what I'm counting on."
He nods slowly, like I've passed some small test he didn't tell me he was giving.
His arm stays across my shoulders and we sit like that while the bar fills up around us.
While people drink and talk and take pictures they think we don't notice.
I can feel the weight of observation, can track at least three phones pointed in our direction, can see Walt watching us from behind the bar with that knowing expression that says he's filing this away for later.
I count exits. Assess the crowd for potential Marrow presence. Note which brothers are Vigil and which are just civilians who happen to be here.
This is what I do. This is what I've always done.
Calculate. Assess. Plan three moves ahead.
And right now, sitting beside Diesel with his arm across my shoulders and his suspicion radiating like heat, I'm calculating something I didn't expect to calculate.
I want him to believe me.
Not for the arrangement. Not for safety. Not for strategic advantage.
I want Diesel to look at me and see something other than Victor Crane's daughter.
I want him to see me.
And that want is personal and dangerous and has nothing to do with survival or strategy or anything I can control.
After an hour, he stands and offers me his hand.
I take it and let him pull me up, and his hand engulfs mine, callused and rough and warm.
We walk out the way we came in, his hand on my lower back again, and I can feel eyes tracking us all the way to the door.
Outside, the air is barely cooler than it was inside.
He walks me to his bike without speaking and I get on behind him, arms around his waist again, and this time I know what to expect.
The engine roars and we're moving.
I'm holding on to someone who thinks I'm lying, who's waiting for me to prove him right, and I don't know how to prove him wrong when he's already decided.
The ride back is faster than the ride there, like he's done what he needed to do and now he just wants it over with.
When we pull into the yard and he kills the engine, I let go and slide off before he can say anything.
He doesn't walk me to the door. Doesn't say goodnight. Doesn't acknowledge the last hour beyond a quick nod that could mean anything.
Just watches me cross the yard and climb the stairs to the second floor, and I can feel his eyes on my back the whole way.
Inside my room, I close the door and move to the window.
He's still there in the yard, standing beside his bike, and he's looking up at my window like he knew I'd be here watching.
Our eyes meet through the glass and across the distance and for a moment neither of us looks away.
Then he turns and walks toward the clubhouse and I'm alone with the understanding that this arrangement just got much more complicated than I thought it would be.
Because I don't just want to prove I'm not lying.
I want him to believe me.
And that want is personal and dangerous and has nothing to do with survival or strategy or anything I can control.
I want Diesel to look at me and see something other than my father's name.
I want him to see me.
And I don't know if that's even possible when he's already decided what I am.