Chapter Three
The licensing paperwork blurred in front of Diana's eyes for the third time in ten minutes.
She blinked hard, forced herself to focus, and read the same paragraph again. Documentation of outdoor play equipment maintenance must include photographic evidence dated within thirty days of inspection...
She'd taken forty-seven photographs of the playset this week.
Every bolt, every board, every inch of the structure her father had built with hands that would never build anything again.
She had maintenance logs going back four years, receipts for replacement hardware, inspection records from three different licensed contractors.
It would be enough. It had to be enough.
The daycare was quiet around her, that particular stillness that settled over the building after the children left.
Usually she loved this time—the peace after beautiful chaos, the chance to reflect and plan and breathe.
Tonight the silence felt oppressive, watchful, like the building itself was holding its breath.
Diana shook off the paranoia and returned to her paperwork.
The inspection was Monday. She'd be ready.
She'd show them everything was perfect, document every safety feature, answer every question with the calm professionalism she'd cultivated over years of dealing with worried parents and suspicious regulators.
And then whoever was doing this would file another complaint, and she'd start the whole process again.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. One problem at a time.
Vice had been watching the building since Tuesday, he'd told her.
Some days she caught glimpses of the club's SUV parked down the street; other days she only knew he was there because he texted her when she arrived and when she left.
Brief messages, nothing personal, just I'm here and you're clear that shouldn't have made her feel as safe as they did.
She didn't know what to make of him. The leather and the patches said one thing; the way he'd folded himself into a toddler-sized chair and listened to her fall apart said something else entirely.
He'd asked questions she hadn't thought to consider, suggested connections she'd been too exhausted to see, and when he'd left that first night, he'd given her a burner phone and told her to call if anything—anything—felt wrong.
The phone sat on her desk now, cheap plastic and preprogrammed numbers, a lifeline to a world she'd never imagined needing.
A sound from the back of the building made her freeze.
Diana held her breath, listening. The old house had its noises—pipes settling, floors creaking, the furnace kicking on with a groan she'd learned to recognize. This wasn't any of those.
This was the back door opening.
She'd locked it. She always locked it. She'd checked twice before sitting down, the paranoia of recent weeks making her compulsive about security.
Footsteps. More than one person. Moving through the building with purpose, not stealth.
Diana's hand shot toward the burner phone, but before she could grab it, the door to her office swung open.
Three men. The one in front wore a suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent, his smile pleasant and professional and completely wrong for the situation. The two behind him were bigger, rougher, positioned like guards.
"Miss Marsh." The suited man stepped into her office like he owned it. "Working late?"
Diana stood slowly, putting the desk between them. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady. "This is a private business. You need to leave."
"I'm afraid I can't do that." He settled into the chair across from her desk—uninvited, in her space, like he belonged there—and crossed his legs with casual arrogance. "We have business to discuss."
"I don't know you. We don't have any business."
"Craig Phelps." He offered the name like a gift she should appreciate. "I represent certain interests regarding this property. Interests that would prefer you find... alternative accommodations for your little enterprise."
Diana's blood ran cold. "You. You're the one who's been—"
"Encouraging your departure? Let's call it creating incentives." His smile didn't waver. "You're a smart woman, Miss Marsh. Surely you've realized by now that continuing to operate here isn't in your best interest."
"I have a lease. Two more years."
"Leases can be broken." Phelps waved a hand dismissively. "The owner is prepared to offer compensation—six months' rent, enough to relocate somewhere more... suitable. All you have to do is sign a few papers and walk away."
"And if I don't?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Something that made the pleasant smile look like a mask over something much uglier.
"Then the incentives continue. The complaints, the accidents, the unfortunate incidents that seem to plague your establishment.
" He leaned forward, and the guards behind him shifted.
"How long do you think your license will survive ongoing investigations?
How long before the parents start wondering if their children are really safe here? "
Diana's hands curled into fists at her sides. Twelve faces flashed through her mind—Matty and Sophie, the twins, baby Lily who still fell asleep on her shoulder. Children who trusted her. Parents who trusted her.
This man was threatening them. Using them as leverage. Treating their safety like a bargaining chip in whatever scheme he was running.
"Get out." Her voice came out low and hard. "Get out of my daycare right now."
Phelps sighed like she'd disappointed him. "Miss Marsh—"
"I said get out."
He rose slowly, still wearing that pleasant mask, and Diana saw the moment it slipped. Just a flicker—irritation, maybe anger—before he smoothed it back into place.
"You're making this harder than it needs to be. I'll give you the weekend to reconsider. Monday morning, have your answer ready." He straightened his cuffs. "And Miss Marsh? The next conversation won't be as friendly."
He turned toward the door.
And Vice was standing in it.
Diana hadn't heard him arrive, hadn't seen him move, but suddenly he was just there—filling the doorway with leather and danger, his gray eyes fixed on Phelps with the flat calm of a predator assessing prey.
"Going somewhere?" Vice's voice was soft. Almost pleasant.
It was the most terrifying sound Diana had ever heard.
Phelps recovered fast, she'd give him that. "This is a private conversation—"
"Not anymore."
Vice stepped into the room, and the two guards moved to intercept him. The first one reached for his arm.
The crack of breaking bone echoed off the cheerful yellow walls.
Diana watched, frozen, as Vice took apart both guards in the space of three heartbeats. A joint lock that ended with a scream. An elbow strike that dropped the second man choking. Economy of violence, precise and brutal, delivered with an expression that never changed.
Then he turned to Phelps.
"You're the one who's been harassing her." Not a question.
Phelps had gone pale, his pleasant mask crumbling. "I don't know what you think you're—"
Vice moved. One second Phelps was backing toward the wall; the next he was pinned there, Vice's forearm across his throat, his feet barely touching the ground.
"Listen carefully." Vice's voice stayed soft.
Conversational. "The woman who runs this daycare?
She's under the Sentinels' protection now.
Every window, every pipe, every fucking fire alarm in this building.
You touch any of it, we'll know. You file another complaint, we'll know.
You come within a hundred yards of this property—"
He leaned closer, and Diana saw Phelps's eyes go wide with genuine terror.
"—and I will break every bone in your body, starting with the small ones and working my way up. Do you understand?"
"You can't—Barron won't—"
Vice's arm pressed harder. "I asked if you understand."
"Yes." Phelps's voice came out strangled. "Yes, I understand."
Vice held him there for another long moment—long enough to make his point, long enough for the terror to sink in—before releasing him suddenly. Phelps staggered, clutching his throat, gasping for air.
"One more thing." Vice grabbed Phelps by the collar before he could bolt and slammed him face-first into the wall. The crack of cartilage was audible.
Phelps screamed, blood streaming from his nose, but Vice was already shoving him toward the door.
"Tell Barron the Sentinels say hello." He kicked Phelps toward his groaning guards. "And don't come back."
They ran. All three of them, Phelps stumbling and bleeding, his guards clutching damaged limbs—they fled through the back door like the building was on fire.
The silence they left behind rang in Diana's ears.
Vice turned to face her, and she saw the shift—the predator receding, something more human taking its place. He crossed to where she stood behind her desk, still frozen, still trying to process what she'd just witnessed.
"Are you hurt?"
Diana shook her head. She couldn't seem to make her voice work.
"Diana." He stepped closer, into her space, and his hands came up to cup her face. Warm. Careful. Completely different from the violence she'd just watched those same hands deliver. "Talk to me."
"You—" She swallowed hard. "You've been watching. All week."
"Told you I would."
"You just..." She gestured vaguely toward the door, where blood still stained the wall. "That man. You—"
"He threatened you. He threatened twelve kids." Vice's thumbs brushed her cheekbones, and his voice dropped even lower. "Nobody does that and walks away clean."
Diana should have been afraid of him. Should have been horrified by the casual brutality, the broken bones, the blood. Should have been running in the opposite direction from this man who wore violence like a second skin.
Instead, she felt something loosen in her chest. Something that had been wound tight for weeks, waiting for a blow she couldn't predict.
Vice had predicted it. Vice had been there.
Vice had made them run.
"He said a name," she managed. "Barron."
"I heard." His jaw tightened. "I'll find out who that is."
"They'll come back. He said—he said the next conversation won't be friendly."
"This was their friendly version." Vice's eyes went hard. "Next time they won't get the chance to have a conversation at all."
The words should have been frightening. From this man, in this moment, they felt like a promise.
"I can't stay here," Diana heard herself say. "If they know where I am, if they're willing to just walk in—"
"No. You can't."
"The children—Monday, I have to—"
"We'll figure it out." His hands were still on her face, his body close enough that she could feel the heat of him. "But right now, you're coming with me."
Diana should argue. Should insist on calling the police, on handling this the right way, the legal way, the way that didn't involve motorcycle clubs and broken bones and blood on her office wall.
But the police couldn't protect her from men who walked through locked doors. The law couldn't move fast enough to stop sabotage, false complaints, systematic destruction of everything she'd built.
Vice could.
"Okay," she whispered.
Something flared in his gray eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. Possession. The look of a man who'd just won something he intended to keep.
"Get your things." He released her face but didn't step back, staying close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. "We're leaving in five minutes."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe." His hand slid to her lower back, guiding her around the desk. Protective. Possessive. Completely natural, like he'd been touching her for years instead of minutes. "Somewhere they can't find you."
Diana grabbed the burner phone and her keys, leaving the licensing paperwork scattered across her desk. It didn't matter anymore. None of the careful documentation mattered if she wasn't alive to present it.
At the back door—still hanging open, the lock clearly forced—Vice paused to check the street before letting her pass. His hand never left her back. His body stayed between her and any potential threat.
She'd built Little Sprouts to give children a safe place. Somewhere they'd be protected and loved and allowed to be small while the world demanded they grow up too fast.
Tonight, for the first time in weeks, Diana felt protected herself.
She followed Vice into the darkness, leaving behind blood and broken bones and the shattered illusion that she could fight this battle alone.
The children deserved someone who could actually protect them.
She'd just found him.