Chapter 3
Riot took the stairs two at a time, restless energy burning through him like always.
Prospect work. Talking to some scared woman about a problem that probably wasn't club business.
Turnpike had given him the address and a name—Amanda Fitzgerald, house cleaner, something about a burglary crew—and sent him off with instructions to listen, assess, and report back.
Not exactly the action he'd been craving, but at least it got him out of the compound.
He found the apartment on the third floor of a Fishtown walk-up, knocked twice, and arranged his face into something he hoped looked reassuring. Scared civilians needed calm. Needed to feel safe. He could fake that for an hour.
The door opened, and everything Riot thought he knew about this job went sideways.
She was small—five-five, maybe—with strawberry blonde hair cut short and practical, freckles scattered across her nose like someone had flicked a paintbrush at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, exhaustion carved into every line of her face, and she was clearly terrified.
But she was smiling.
"Hi! You must be from the club. I'm Mandy—well, Amanda, but everyone calls me Mandy. Come in, come in. Can I get you some coffee? Jenny just made a fresh pot. I'm sorry the place is such a mess, we weren't expecting company until—"
"It's fine." Riot stepped inside, thrown completely off balance.
He'd been expecting tears. Shaking hands and whispered fears and the kind of brittle desperation he'd seen a hundred times.
Instead, this woman was apologizing for the state of the apartment and offering him coffee like he was a neighbor stopping by to borrow sugar.
What the hell?
"The coffee's really good," she continued, already moving toward the kitchen.
"Jenny gets it from this little place in Reading Terminal.
I keep telling her it's too expensive, but she says life's too short for bad coffee, and honestly, after the week I've had, I think she might be right.
Cream? Sugar? I think we have both, let me just—"
"Black's fine."
She turned back with a mug already in her hands, that smile still fixed in place even though her fingers were trembling around the ceramic. Up close, Riot could see the dark circles under her eyes, the way her cheerfulness was stretched thin over something raw and terrified underneath.
Armor. The smile was armor.
Something in his chest shifted, went tight in a way he didn't recognize.
"Sit down," he said, and it came out rougher than he intended. "You don't need to wait on me."
"Oh, I don't mind. I like being useful." She pressed the mug into his hands—her fingers brushed his, warm and soft against his taped knuckles—and gestured toward the couch.
"Please, sit. I know you're here to help, and I really appreciate it.
I know your club probably has better things to do than listen to some house cleaner's problems, so I'll try to keep it short, I promise. "
Riot sat because it seemed easier than arguing. She perched on the edge of an armchair across from him, knees pressed together, hands clasped in her lap, still smiling that heartbreaking smile.
"Where's your cousin?" he asked.
"Jenny went to the store. She thought I might be more comfortable talking without her hovering." Mandy's smile flickered. "She worries about me. Everyone does, lately."
"With reason?"
"I honestly don't know anymore." She laughed—a broken sound that didn't match the brightness in her voice. "Three weeks ago I had a life. Now I'm hiding in my cousin's apartment, watching my business fall apart, and asking strangers from motorcycle clubs for help. So... yeah. Maybe with reason."
Riot set down the coffee mug and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Her eyes tracked the movement, and he saw them snag on his hands—the tape, the bruises, the knuckles that never quite healed. Most people flinched when they noticed. She just looked curious.
"Tell me what happened," he said. "From the beginning."
She took a breath, and some of the manic brightness dimmed. The real fear underneath crept through, making her voice smaller.
"I'm a house cleaner. Have been for six years—I started right after I aged out of foster care, built my whole client list myself.
Mostly working families, elderly people, folks who need help keeping their lives together.
" She twisted her fingers in her lap. "About eight months ago, I started dating this guy.
Derek. He was a package delivery driver, really sweet, knew all my clients' addresses because he delivered to the same neighborhoods I worked in. "
"Convenient."
"That's what I thought. Common ground, you know? We'd compare notes about the nice old lady on Spruce Street or the family with the three kids who never picked up their toys." Her smile was bitter now. "I didn't realize he was using everything I told him to plan burglaries."
Riot went still. The restless energy that usually crawled under his skin quieted, replaced by something colder. More focused.
"Keep going."
"There's this crew—Trevor Boone's crew. They've been hitting houses in the area for years.
Really organized, really professional. They know exactly when people will be away, exactly what's worth stealing, exactly how to get in and out without leaving traces.
" Mandy's voice steadied as she talked, the fear giving way to anger.
"I started noticing a pattern. Every house that got robbed was either one I cleaned or one Derek delivered to.
The timing was always perfect—funerals, weddings, vacations.
Information only someone on the inside would have. "
"Your boyfriend was feeding them intel."
"And so was I, without knowing it." Her eyes glistened, but she didn't let the tears fall.
Riot watched her jaw tighten, watched her force the emotion down.
Backbone. This woman had backbone. "Every time I mentioned a client's schedule, every time I talked about someone going on vacation or visiting family.
.. Derek was passing it along. They robbed my people using information I gave them. "
The cold in Riot's chest spread outward, icing over the usual heat.
He thought about Mrs. Patterson leaving cookies on the counter.
The Delgado family inviting their house cleaner to dinner.
People who trusted this woman, who let her into their homes, who got robbed because she'd fallen for the wrong guy.
Not her fault. She didn't know.
But she was carrying it anyway. He could see it in the set of her shoulders, the guilt swimming underneath the fear.
"What happened when you figured it out?"
"I confronted Derek. Stupid, I know. But I thought.
.." She shook her head. "I don't know what I thought.
That he'd have an explanation? That I was wrong?
Instead, he got this look on his face—cold, like he was calculating something—and three days later, one of Trevor's men showed up at my apartment. "
Riot's hands curled into fists against his thighs. "What did he say?"
"His name was Kyle Renner. He knew everything about me—where I worked, who I cleaned for, my whole schedule. He said I'd noticed things I shouldn't have, and if I talked to anyone about it, I'd disappear." Mandy's voice dropped. "Just like Mrs. Hartley."
"Who's Mrs. Hartley?"
"One of my clients. Seventy-one years old, got robbed while she was at her granddaughter's wedding.
She started asking questions afterward—noticed things that didn't add up, mentioned them to me.
Two weeks later, she was gone. Supposedly moved to Florida.
" Mandy met Riot's eyes, and the fear in them was raw and real.
"She had seventeen grandchildren in Philadelphia.
She didn't move anywhere. They made her disappear because she asked questions, and now they're going to do the same thing to me. "
The cold crystallized into something sharp and hard.
Riot had walked into this apartment expecting a simple intimidation case—some asshole ex-boyfriend, maybe a small-time crew that needed a warning.
Instead, he was looking at a professional operation that eliminated witnesses.
Elderly women who asked too many questions.
A house cleaner who'd figured out their pattern.
These bastards hunted regular people. Made them vanish for noticing what should have been obvious.
And they'd threatened this woman—this bright, terrified, stupidly brave woman who smiled through her fear and offered coffee to strangers—like she was just another loose end to tie off.
Something in Riot shifted. The restless energy that never stopped, the hunger that always needed feeding—it locked onto a target and went laser-focused in a way it hadn't since he'd walked into the Sons' compound six months ago.
"How many men does Trevor have?" he asked.
"Sixteen, according to Kyle. Three lieutenants, twelve operators, plus Trevor himself." Mandy blinked at the change in his tone. "He wanted me to know how big the crew was. How professional. How pointless it would be to fight back."
"He was wrong."
Mandy stared at him. "What?"
Riot stood, the movement sudden enough that she flinched back in her chair. He made himself stop, breathe, gentle his voice even though everything in him was screaming for action.
"This crew. Trevor Boone. They think they can threaten a woman in Sons of Liberty territory and nobody's going to do anything about it." He looked down at her—small and scared and still holding herself together with that stubborn cheerfulness that made his chest ache. "They're wrong."
"You'll help me?" Hope cracked through her voice, raw and desperate. "The club will—"
"I can't promise what the club will do. That's not my call.
" Riot crouched down so they were at eye level, close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, smell the faint scent of coffee and something softer underneath.
"But I'm telling you right now—you're not disappearing. Not while I'm breathing."
She stared at him, lips parted, and he watched something shift in her expression. The fear was still there, but underneath it was something else. Something that made his blood heat in a way that had nothing to do with the fight ahead.
"You don't even know me," she whispered.
"I know enough." He shouldn't be this close to her.
Shouldn't be making promises he might not be able to keep.
But the words kept coming anyway, dragged out of some place he hadn't known existed.
"I know you built a life from nothing. I know you figured out a criminal operation that's been running for six years without getting caught.
I know you're scared out of your mind but you're still sitting here, talking to a stranger, fighting for a chance to survive. "
He reached out without thinking and caught her hand—small and soft against his taped knuckles. She didn't pull away.
"That's enough," he said. "That's more than enough."
Mandy's breath hitched. Her fingers curled around his, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had gone sideways.
"What happens now?" she asked.
Riot stood, pulling her up with him. She was close—too close—and he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, see the pulse jumping in her throat. Everything in him wanted to step closer, crowd her against the wall, promise her things he had no right to promise.
Instead, he let go of her hand and stepped back. One thing at a time.
"Now I take this to my club. Tell them what you told me." He headed for the door, then stopped and looked back at her. "Pack a bag. If the Sons vote yes—and they will—you're going somewhere safer than your cousin's apartment."
"You sound pretty confident for someone who says it's not his call."
Riot smiled, and it felt sharp on his face. "Professional thieves who eliminate witnesses? Target regular folks and make old ladies disappear?" He shook his head. "That's exactly what the Sons of Liberty handle. It's exactly what we handle."
He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, watching the hope battle the fear in her eyes. Then he turned and walked out, already pulling his phone from his pocket to call Turnpike.
This wasn't just club business anymore. This was personal.
Mandy Fitzgerald had smiled at him through her terror and offered him coffee like he was worth something, and now a crew of professional killers thought they could threaten her into silence.
They were about to learn how wrong they were.