Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
RAFE
Fuck, I needed a drink.
I didn’t deserve to live the high life, hadn’t done much in my life to earn a happy family or the American dream with a house, picket fence, and two point five children. But motorcycle clubs were proving to be... odd. At the same time, I had to blame Massimo for this SNAFU as much as Sas and the president, Wilde.
Or, Prez, as everyone called him.
I figured I’d be okay after the military’s tendency to throw a TLA at everything under the sun—from KP to TAC? 1 . Fucking hell, I could probably create whole sentences that didn’t use anything more than capital letters and only others in the service would recognize what I said.
Guess I did speak another language. Just not something useful like Spanish or Italian.
In the MC, they spoke in code too—Prez, Veep, enforcers. Some things, like tail guards, sounded quite military, but it really applied more to the motorcycle formations than a platoon. As far as business went, everything worked about the same as it did in la Famiglia, but at least I could get Massimo to listen to me. Most of the time.
The same couldn’t be said for Sas. Maybe he’d shoot me for speaking out of turn, no matter how fucking stupid his deal with the cartel was. At least the Mafia’s deal had the money flowing in and lining the Parisi pocketbooks. After, of course, passing it through several legit businesses to keep the source under wraps. Sas entered a deal that landed the MC in debt. Stupid fucker.
I meandered over to the fridge behind the kitchen island in the clubhouse and grabbed a beer, not caring which kind. It was all American and all watered down. If I was going to drink a beer for enjoyment, someone had to give me a juicy IPA or rich and creamy stout.
Using the granite countertop, I popped off the cap and took a long swig, polishing off half the bottle in one go. The taste transported me back to the desert. Lukewarm American beer, because the refrigeration sucked ass when it was 120 degrees in the shade. Gritty sand clung to sweat that dried too quickly and left a crust on my skin. Concrete and metal buildings, ISO shelters, and huge tents rife with suffocating body odor had all been commonplace.
The worst, though, had been the sound of hearty laughter trying to chase away a constant sense of impending death. Soldiers understood the risks of our missions, and most of the time, laughing it off had been the only way we could cope.
I drank more, trying to wash away those memories before they darkened and swallowed me whole. On the second pull from the bottle, I gulped down the beer, then reached for another. As much as I needed to keep my senses about me—for both my safety and Adelina’s—we had experienced one hostile situation already between the cartel and the club, and the Rojas brothers proved another wasn’t out of the question.
My presence wasn’t or trusted. Rightfully so. I was accustomed to being unwanted by the Mafia—my own fucking brother—and now by the MC.
I couldn’t let any of that interfere with my duties. Adelina was the only mission that mattered.
When I turned back to the clubhouse with my second beer in hand, I noticed that only one person had stayed behind.
Graff. The tattoo artist and Tail Guard in the LA chapter, according to the intel I’d gobbled up from what Massimo had shared.
Information was power when it came to strategic bets. In both combat and the criminal underworld, that bit of wisdom applied. I still needed more on the members of the MC to keep Adelina safe... all because her father fucking couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
And her betrothed didn’t seem to give two shits about her. That meant she got a broken and less than worthy veteran to do the job.
She deserved better.
Everyone else had jumped when Sas told them to scatter. The club bunnies hadn’t returned, nor had Duchess, who had been behind the kitchen island. I couldn’t quite categorize her as one of the bunnies or sweetbutts, because she seemed older. And wise beyond everyone’s years here.
I made a mental note to get myself well into her good graces as I wandered over to Graff. He sketched in a book with frayed edges that made it look like it had been to war and back. The doodles on one page overlapped, nothing like the clean lines of the belladonna on the outside of the building. His doodles included figures that were half human and half animal— was that a monkey riding a unicycle?
In the one image, though, the members of the club stood around, each with their patches drawn, and the cartel’s Rojas brothers all had snake heads. It surprised me how much it resembled and symbolized the scene we’d just experienced.
Graff raised his head.
“I can see your style in your tattoos,” I said, trying to give my best compliment without stepping over a line with a man I didn’t know.
Besides the doodling on the page, the same inked swirls and sharp edges ran up his arms, partially hiding under his T-shirt, and bloomed on his neck above his cut. The ink covered most of his visible skin, all the way down to his knuckles. I imagined the rest of his body would be covered too.
“You’re good,” I said.
“I know.” Graff quirked one side of his mouth into a half smile. “But I like to hear it, anyway.”
I jutted my chin at a canvas hanging near the table. “That yours too?” I asked.
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Not my favorite piece, but the bunnies were complaining the clubhouse looked too drab. They asked for colors.”
I arched an eyebrow in question.
“I normally do black and whites with a pop of one color.” He scratched the side of his pencil along one line, feathering the dark shadow away from the snake’s head.
That much was clear in his own ink, but the art surprised me. I didn’t realize any of these bikers gave a shit about the bunnies outside of using them for a hole to fuck. “And the graffiti? Belladonna?”
His mouth thinned into a line, but he gave a curt nod. “Our sweetbutts like flowers.” He placed the pencil in the center of the page and lifted his eyes, pinning me with a sharper than expected look. “Most people don’t recognize it.”
“I once knew someone who favored the flowers.” I shuddered at the mental image of Massimo’s mother and the way Petra Parisi stared sideways at me. I’d faced plenty of people who hated me simply because I represented America, but that woman scared me more than the truly badass enemies I’d faced. “Hell, she probably favored the other uses more.”
“Is that so?” Graff crossed his arms on the top of the island.
I chugged another few gulps of beer but made a small affirming grunt. Sighing after the drink, I asked, “Didn’t want to make roses for the girls?”
“Nah.” He chuckled. “Only person in the club who gets roses is Wilde.”
Interesting. I recalled the rose on Wilde’s neck. There had to be a story there, but I was too new to ask. Instead, I kept the small talk rolling. “But you can do roses?”
“I can do anything.” A challenge sparked in his eyes. “What’re you looking for?”
“Still figuring that out.”
Sliding my jacket down my arm and then rolling up my T-shirt sleeve, I showed off my arm to Graff. He studied it, his eyes dragging across my skin. He really was an artist, looking at my past work. It was a concoction of tattoos, some from the desert in the Middle East and others from Las Vegas. I could’ve spread them out on my body, yet they crisscrossed, tying together.
“It’s only a start of the sleeve,” I said.
“May I?” asked Graff, raising his fingers to my skin.
“Go ahead.”
He prodded my skin lightly, brushing his fingers over the lines. He looked off the tip of his nose as he traced the tattoos, connecting one from another. It was all under his appraising hardened eyebrow.
“I’d like to complete the sleeve,” I said.
“How far down?” asked Graff, leaning away.
“To the wrist.”
“Not the fingers.”
“Not yet.” I smirked. “My mother would lose her shit.”
“How does she feel about you joining a motorcycle club?” asked Graff, smiling.
“Yet to be decided.” I didn’t want to share that my mamà would likely forget the detail as soon as I’d told her.
Graff was looking down the rest of my arm, but he hadn’t given me an answer yet. His mind had to be working, deciding what kind of designs he would mar my skin with. The thing was that I didn’t even quite know what I wanted.
“How are you with pain?” asked Graff.
I flinched, drawing his eyes flicked up to meet mine. “I’ve had my fair share.”
“In the Marines?”
“Yes... and no.” I gulped. “Anyway, you down to create my sleeve?”
“Absolutely,” said Graff, standing. He walked over to the trash and threw his napkin and empty bottle inside. He glanced over at the door where Sas had disappeared. “He’s probably waiting on you in the ring, ya know?”
“The ring?” I scowled.
“Yeah, gym and boxing ring downstairs. Sas spends a lot of time down there.”
Pursing my lips, I nodded. He’d called for me, but I wasn’t ready to jump to his commands. While Graff and I were silent, a roar came up from below. Men yelled, and then they laughed, causing a storm somewhere beneath the concrete under my feet. The whole sit’ reminded me of all the times I’d had to raid houses in the desert.
The screams. The yelling. All of it.
I closed my eyes, envisioning a huge pink eraser wiping away the scenes. Didn’t need to go down a rabbit hole in front of someone who was supposed to be one of my new brothers. Instead of addressing that, I looked around the huge empty living space.
“There don’t seem to be any other ol’ ladies,” I mused aloud. The fact made me not want Adelina here either.
“Nope.” He laughed. “Seems like when the brothers get one of those, they’re all settling down in The Ridge.”
“You?”
“Nah, man. Not this city guy,” answered Graff with a shake of his head. He lifted his chin toward the open basement door. “You better get going.”
I took the first few steps, then stopped and glanced back. Graff seemed safe enough, someone I could probably connect with as a brother, so I asked, “Should I be concerned?”
Graff shrugged. “Don’t piss anyone off, you don’t get your ass beaten.”
“I can handle myself,” I said without thinking, not afraid of an unarmed fight.
He beamed. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“Really?”
“You’re a Marine.”
“Don’t give that too much credit,” I said, covering my ass. I shouldn’t be having this conversation.
“If you didn’t learn to be a badass there, then the Mafia taught you. Yeah?”
I snorted, done with his fishing. “I’m going to talk to Sas.”
Graff called out, “Because that’s a good idea?”
“No,” I said without looking back.
At the door, I took another swig of beer and then jogged down the steps.
The growls of men increased until I thought my ears would bleed. I had only heard this kind of gruffness when I’d been in the Marines—in basic training or in the bunks with only canvas separating us from the scorching desert sun.
They sounded like corralled bulls, beating their feet against the floor and groaning to be free. The same sound wouldn’t ever happen in la Familgia. The family meetings were much too controlled and political for that.
The whole basement smelled dank, filled with body odor. Another reminder.
I prowled down the last few steps and around the corner to stand beside Sas. He didn’t look at me, but he stiffened. Anger rolled off him in waves, but I should’ve known he would be pissed after tangoing with the cartel.
His dance hadn’t been graceful, though, or well thought out, just a stoic stall.
I leaned toward him and whispered, “We need to talk about?—”
“We don’t need to talk about shit.” Sas jerked his head back and squared off with me. “You don’t get a say here.”
My spine tensed, and I drew myself up taller. He might be nearly a head taller than me, but I probably had twenty pounds of muscle on him. I was a patched member. An officer even. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I do.”
And I especially had things to say where Adelina was concerned.
He barked a laugh, but unlike Graff upstairs, it wasn’t natural. The sound ripped from his throat like a wolf growling.
“Your big brother handed you the position on a platter, part of a deal,” spat Sas. “You’re not one of us.”
He tried to walk away, but I grabbed his leather jacket without moving more than my arm.
Sas turned around and glared down at my hand and then into my eyes. “Maybe this isn’t how things are done in la fucking Famiglia, but around here, laying hands on a brother will get your ass beat.”
Everyone had already been stopping their workouts to stare at us, several of the club prospects murmuring amongst themselves like gossiping teenagers. Now they stared at me with death in their eyes. I wasn’t one of them, even if my cut and patch said otherwise. I hadn’t been a prospect or come up through the ranks.
In that regard, Sas was right. They viewed me as an outsider, a transplant in an MC that’d had a lot of change recently. They didn’t just not trust me ; they didn’t trust each other yet either.
I could see it in their stance and worried glances around the room. This sit’ was just like every time I’d been assigned a new platoon full of fresh-out-of-basic lackeys. To top it off, I wasn’t certain they trusted Sas as their local leader. If they didn’t shape the fuck up, that dissent was how the Mafia would destroy them. Or how the cartel would rip them to shreds.
Massimo had always been the one to showboat. He liked eyes on him and the power in his back pocket. But, over the years, I had learned a few things at his side.
Projecting my voice, I said, “You think I’m trying to make you Mafia?” I let out a laugh like it was the most ridiculous thing I could ever say. “Never. Not you. Absolutely not. But I am one of you.” I tapped the patch on my cut. “By technicality or otherwise, we’re on the same side. So is Adelina upstairs.”
Sas rolled his eyes. “Why you bringin’ a bitch into this?”
“That bitch will be your wife someday.” Sadly.
He scoffed. “The only thing the princess and I have in common is how fucking much neither of us wants to be married!” burst Sas.
The men hollered, like they could smell blood in the water.
“I don’t belong to a bitch. Or to an ol’ lady,” he added. “The only thing that has my loyalty is The Ridge Motorcycle Club!”
The men jeered.
“I answer to the Prez,” continued Sas, and the guys clapped, cheering again. “And only him! The only bitch I’m riding on the regular is my bike.”
The men went wild. They hollered until they were red in the face, pumping their fists and stomping like fucking gorillas. Sas stood in the center as their ringmaster, a big smile on his face and hands spread out to the sides. He was taking it all in, reminding me too much of Massimo. More crass than my brother, but every bit the one to rile up his men.
And the energy the others down here fed him would lead to his demise.
The VP snickered and sauntered over to a long table. There, he sat on the top and grabbed his beer, tossing back what remained. I stalked after him, fishing the large coin out of my jeans front pocket.
I slapped my hand down on the table next to him, picking it up to reveal my military challenge coin.
Sas glanced down. “The fuck is that?”
“A sign of honor. A challenge. If you can earn it, I’ll give you the history lesson later.” No civilian punk like him would know what it was. But men worth their salt lived and died by the challenge coin. It normally meant buying a round of drinks, but right now, I was picking a fight.
“A challenge to what?” snapped Sas.
“The ring.” I bent my head toward him and whispered, “Bitch.”
He jerked back like I had slapped him, fury in his eyes. His lips peeled back, revealing his teeth. “Ghost!”
A prospect appeared at his side. “Yeah, Veep?”
But I didn’t take my eyes off Sas.
“Gloves,” the vice president ordered, and the prospect toddled off to do his bidding.
To me, Sas growled, “Get your ass in the ring.”
I pocketed my coin. “My honor.”
Stepping away from him, I tugged off my leather vest. The other MC members had gobbled up Sas, peeling off his cut too.
Someone I didn’t know came over to me with gloves and tape. As he taped up my hands, I didn’t bother to look him over, just kept my attention focused on my target.
They wrapped and gloved Sas’s hands and pumped him up like he was Rocky Balboa or something.
I tightened the bands on my wrists and stepped between the ropes as Sas was still being pampered. He clearly had the respect of several of the prospects, but that was just proof that these fuckers needed a reality check.
Sas pushed down the top rope and stepped over at an awkward angle. He’d shed his cut and T-shirt, and when he rose, he clenched enough to make his pec jump. Without his jacket hanging off his body, he was lean. Too thin for his own good. While he had muscles, they weren’t bulky like mine.
We stood in opposite corners of the ring. I stretched my body and threw a few air punches, warming up. Sas only smiled at me, like this was all a game.
“Too soon for that smile,” I said.
“Why? Freak you out?” asked Sas, running a thumb over his lower lip.
“Nah, just shows me where to aim.” I smirked. “I can’t decide how you’ll look without teeth.”
Sas snorted. “You think too highly of yourself. Must be a Mafia thing.”
“At least we’re smarter than to get into debt with the cartel.”
That wiped the grin off his face, and he snarled.
“You have the resources to pay it,” I said in a low tone.
“And be in debt to your family? I think not.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
Sas threw a punch, and I ducked under his arm.
“You got reach, but it’s not trained.” I danced away on the balls of my feet.
Sas grumbled, his lip curling into a snarl. He approached, and I kept my eyes on his waist, gauging his movement.
He said, “Maybe we should sign one of my brothers up to marry the Mafia bitch?”
I flinched at what he called Adelina.
Sas took the opportunity to move into my space. “You might be better at the business deals, but at least in the MC, we don’t pay off other clubs with our children and women.”
“You could’ve fooled me with how you’ve treated Adelina,” I said, working my jaw.
He rolled his eyes. “She’s a big girl. She can handle herself. You know who couldn’t... All the victims of la Famiglia’s human trafficking. From what I know, the Parisis served the Gambinos for how long? Decades?”
“The Parisi family would never,” I spat.
“Oh, but Massimo was one of the capos, no? That means you all stood by and let it happen,” he challenged, light glinting in his eyes.
I narrowed my eyes at him, reading his diversion “Are you really so insecure you can’t admit to having a problem with women?”
“Just your niece.”
“Doubtful.”
A bell rang, and Sas ran toward me, swinging his fist. I ducked, and he tried an upper cut, but I was already spinning away. Sas turned red in the face.
So much for the stoic front he’d been putting on. How easily he lost it when I managed to wiggle under his skin. Now I would make him squirm.
He rushed at me again, fists flying.
I dodged his blow, though his glove managed to brush my side. I needed to be faster.
It had been years since I’d fought like this. In the Marines, we used bare fists. I thought the MC would have too, but maybe they didn’t want to screw up their mugs any more than nature already had.
Sas moved quickly. I had to give him that much. He spun around, aiming for where I just was with his next blow. He was thinking with his heart. His moves weren’t calculated and sorely lacked the strategy he needed to best an enemy.
Fucking hell, Adelina would eat his ass alive with how strategic she was.
Each punch Sas tried to throw was too weak, and he grew more frustrated when his blows didn’t land correctly. I flexed, keeping my muscles taut to take each blow he gave.
When I burst free, I threw a series of punches. A hit to the ribs, then to the gut. Sas curled forward just as I’d planned. My glove connected with his face, sending him backward a few steps with his back arched and arms flailing.
The men watching let out deep groans, turning their faces away. Fuck, I hoped they weren’t squeamish. Or had they thought Sas would kick my ass?
Perhaps I should’ve challenged more than just Sas. This was too freaking easy.
Before Sas could clear his bleary eyes, I was on him again. I landed another punch to his gut, and he doubled over. He heaved. Beer splatted onto the floor and spittle drooled from his lips. He tried to raise his hands to block the next blow, but I punched him straight in the face. He dropped to the floor, sprawling flat on his back. Before he could attempt to jump to his feet, I dropped a knee into his chest.
He wheezed and struggled to get up.
“Stay the fuck down,” I muttered for only his ears.
“Never.” He tried to push up, but I pressed my weight down harder.
“You better get used to me on top of you,” I growled, and he narrowed his eyes into slits. “We’re family now.”
“We’re not?—”
I moved my knee into his solar plexus, and he harrumphed. His body flopped like a fish on a dock.
“Family’s family. Right or wrong, we stand by each other,” I said. “We protect what’s ours. I expect you would understand that, being part of the club, but now I know you can’t see past the end of your own nose. Massimo warned me about you, and I have my eyes peeled now, Tate . Everything you do, I will fucking be there. Your waking nightmare.”
“You got . . . no . . . right . . . to use my name.” Sas struggled under me.
“Seems I’ve won this challenge. I’ll take whatever rights I want.” I stood, letting him breathe again.
“I’m not scared of you.” He sat up.
I crouched, shooting my hand out, and squeezed the sides of his neck. “Maybe not now,” I conceded as I watched the lack of blood flow make his eyes bulge.
Then I ducked my head down, getting so close to his ear that I could’ve bitten down and ripped it off. “If you hurt my niece in any way, I will hurt you in every way.” Then I shoved off him and marched toward the ropes that kept us caged in like animals.
“It’s not even a real marriage!” grumbled Sas behind me, blood pooling from his injured nose and cut lip. The drain underneath him would get some good use after this. He would have bruises too, but he’d remember the ass beating. Maybe next time, we could skip the fists.
I ducked between the ropes, and the men parted for me. Heading for the stairs, I stripped the gloves, let them fall at their feet, and grabbed my MC cut.
1 ? TLA—Three Letter Acronym; KP—Kitchen Patrol; TAC—Tactical Air Command