Chapter 21
The house on Spruce Street looked exactly the same.
Mandy stood on the sidewalk, cleaning supplies in hand, staring at the familiar brick facade with its window boxes full of geraniums and the welcome mat that said "Bless This Mess.
" She'd cleaned this house every Tuesday for four years.
Knew exactly which floorboards creaked, which cabinets stuck, which windows let in the best light for dusting.
But that was before. Before Trevor Boone. Before the Sons. Before her entire life had been dismantled and rebuilt from the ground up.
Now she was standing here with her heart hammering, terrified that Mrs. Patterson would take one look at her and see everything she'd become.
The door swung open before she could knock.
"Amanda Marie Fitzgerald!"
Eighty-three years old, barely five feet tall, and absolutely furious. Mrs. Patterson stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes, white hair perfectly curled despite the early hour.
"Six weeks," the old woman continued. "Six weeks without a word, without a visit, without anything except phone calls about the flu and family emergencies. I was about to call the police!"
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Patterson. Things got—"
"Complicated. I know. Jenny called and told me some of it." The fire in her eyes softened, replaced by something warmer. "Come here, child."
Mandy barely had time to set down her supplies before Mrs. Patterson pulled her into a fierce hug. The old woman smelled like lavender and fresh-baked cookies, and something in Mandy's chest cracked open at the familiarity of it.
"I was so worried about you," Mrs. Patterson murmured against her shoulder. "When Jenny said you were in trouble, that there were dangerous people... I prayed every night. Every single night."
"I'm okay now." Mandy's voice came out thick. "It's over. I'm safe."
"You'd better be." Mrs. Patterson pulled back and studied her with sharp eyes. "You look different. Harder somehow. But also... happier?"
"I met someone."
"Did you now?" The old woman's face transformed with delight. "Well, get inside and tell me everything. I've got coffee brewing and a fresh batch of snickerdoodles that need eating."
The next three hours were the most normal Mandy had experienced in weeks.
She cleaned while Mrs. Patterson talked—about her grandchildren, about the neighborhood gossip, about the new coffee shop that had opened on the corner and charged four dollars for a basic brew.
The rhythm came back like muscle memory: dusting the shelves, scrubbing the bathroom, vacuuming the oriental rugs that had been in the family for three generations.
Simple work. Honest work. The kind of labor that made a difference in someone's life without involving bullets or blood.
"So tell me about this man," Mrs. Patterson said during the kitchen deep-clean, perched on a stool with a cookie in hand. "Jenny said he's a motorcycle rider?"
"He's..." Mandy paused, cloth in hand, trying to figure out how to explain Riot to an eighty-three-year-old woman. "He's intense. Protective. The kind of man who makes you feel like the most important person in the world."
"Those are the best kind." Mrs. Patterson's eyes twinkled. "My Harold was like that. Scared the living daylights out of my father the first time they met, but he treated me like a queen for forty-seven years."
"Riot's like that. He's had a hard life, but he's got the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met." Mandy smiled, thinking of him. "We're having a ceremony tomorrow. Making things official."
"Official how?"
"Like... a commitment ceremony. In front of his family." She didn't mention that his family was a motorcycle club, or that the ceremony involved claiming rituals that went back decades. Some things were better left unexplained.
"That's wonderful, dear." Mrs. Patterson reached out and squeezed her hand. "You deserve to be happy. You've worked so hard, been through so much. It's about time something good happened to you."
Mandy felt tears prick her eyes. "Thank you. That means more than you know."
By the time she finished, the house was sparkling and her heart was full. Mrs. Patterson pressed a container of cookies into her hands at the door, along with strict instructions to bring "that young man" by for dinner sometime.
"I want to meet him," the old woman said firmly. "Anyone who makes my favorite cleaning lady smile like that deserves a proper inspection."
"I'll bring him," Mandy promised. "Soon."
She stepped onto the porch and immediately spotted the motorcycle parked at the curb. Riot leaned against it, arms crossed, watching her with that half-smile that made her stomach flip.
"How long have you been there?" she asked, walking toward him.
"About an hour. Didn't want to interrupt." He pushed off the bike and met her halfway, pulling her into a kiss that probably gave Mrs. Patterson quite a show through the window. "How was it?"
"Perfect." Mandy wrapped her arms around his neck. "Completely, wonderfully perfect. She hugged me, fed me cookies, and demanded to meet you."
"Meet me?"
"She wants to inspect you. Her words." Mandy grinned. "I think you'll pass."
Riot's eyes crinkled with amusement. "An eighty-three-year-old woman wants to inspect the biker dating her house cleaner. That's not terrifying at all."
"You've faced down professional killers. I think you can handle Mrs. Patterson."
"Professional killers don't make snickerdoodles." But he was smiling as he said it, that rare genuine smile she'd learned to treasure. "Come on. I'm taking you somewhere."
"Where?"
"It's a surprise."
The "surprise" turned out to be a cheesesteak joint in South Philly—a tiny place with no sign, just a window cut into a brick wall and a line of locals who clearly knew something tourists didn't.
"Best cheesesteaks in the city," Riot said, joining the queue. "Patriot showed me this place when I first started prospecting. Said you can't call yourself a Philadelphian until you've eaten here."
"I've lived in Philadelphia my whole life and I've never heard of it."
"That's because it's not for tourists." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "It's for family."
They got their sandwiches—wiz wit, the only acceptable order according to Riot—and found a spot on a nearby stoop to eat. The evening sun painted everything gold, and for a long moment they just sat there in comfortable silence, grease dripping down their chins, watching the city go by.
"So," Riot said eventually. "How does it feel?"
"How does what feel?"
"Going back to work. Being normal again." He wadded up his wrapper and tossed it in a nearby trash can. "I know you were worried about it."
Mandy considered the question. A month ago, she'd been terrified that she couldn't go back. That too much had changed, that she'd become someone her clients wouldn't recognize, that the violence and fear had permanently altered who she was.
But sitting in Mrs. Patterson's kitchen, scrubbing counters and listening to stories about grandchildren, she'd felt like herself again.
Not the old Mandy—that woman was gone forever—but a new version.
One that could still find joy in simple work, still connect with the people she cared about, still be useful and kind and present.
The violence hadn't broken her. It had forged her into something stronger.
"It feels good," she said finally. "Different, but good. Like coming home to a house that's been remodeled. The bones are the same, but everything else is better."
"Better how?"
"I'm not scared anymore. Not of work, not of life, not of anything." She leaned into his side. "For years I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for something to go wrong, for someone to take everything I'd built. And now..."
"Now?"
"Now I know I can handle it. Whatever comes. Because I've already survived the worst, and I came out the other side with you."
Riot was quiet for a moment. Then he turned, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her with a tenderness that made her heart ache.
"You're incredible," he said against her lips. "You know that, right? Everything you've been through, everything you've survived, and you still have this... light. This warmth that makes everyone around you feel like they matter."
"I learned it young." She smiled. "Foster care survival skills. Make people feel good and they're less likely to send you back."
"It's more than that." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "It's who you are. That light—it's what I fell in love with. The first time you smiled at me, terrified out of your mind but still trying to make me comfortable, I knew I was done for."
"Done for?"
"Completely." He kissed her again. "Utterly. Permanently."
They sat there as the sun set, trading bites of cheesesteak and stories about their days.
Riot told her about prospect duties at the compound—the mundane tasks that made up club life between the violence.
She told him about Mrs. Patterson's grandchildren, about the gossip from the neighborhood, about the small victories of a bathroom that sparkled.
Normal. Domestic. The kind of evening she'd never thought she'd have.
"Tomorrow's the ceremony," Riot said as the streetlights flickered on. "You ready?"
"I've been ready since the day you walked into Jenny's apartment." She laced her fingers through his. "Are you?"
"I've been ready since the moment you offered me coffee like I was worth something." He stood and pulled her to her feet. "Come on. Let's go home."
Home. The compound. Their room. The life they were building together.
Mandy climbed onto the back of his bike and wrapped her arms around his waist. The engine roared to life beneath them, vibrating through her bones, and then they were moving—weaving through Philadelphia streets she'd known her whole life, heading toward a future she'd never imagined.
The wind whipped through her hair. The city blurred past. And Mandy held tight to the man she loved, feeling something that might have been perfect happiness settling into her chest.
Tomorrow she'd stand in front of the Sons of Liberty and be claimed. Tomorrow she'd become Riot's old lady, officially and permanently, in front of everyone who mattered.
But tonight was just them. A cheesesteak dinner and a motorcycle ride and the simple, precious gift of being together without anyone trying to kill them.
The future stretched ahead, bright with possibility.
And it was theirs.