“Shut up and focus,” he snaps. His command shocks me into silence. Despite the circumstances, I didn’t expect to hear him talk to me like this. He’s never talked to me like this. But then, he’s also never had me tied up to a chair like this, either. Reaching around my head, he grabs a chunk full of my hair and pulls back on it. My chin points to the ceiling, my neck muscles ache from the position, and it’s hard to breathe like this.
Leaning in close, he whispers, “I’m trying to get you out of here, okay? If dad thinks you’re dead, he won’t send anyone else. You’ll be safe. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?”
I want to trust him. I want to believe that he can keep me safe. But pretending to be dead means leaving the club behind. It means leaving Ryan behind, and leaving my mother behind. If I leave them, where will I go? Panic seizes my chest, and I shake my head. A firm hand comes down hard on my cheek. The painful sting Michael leaves behind is nothing compared to the blow to my soul.
“Let me help you.”
“Let me go,” I beg. He isn’t having it. Rearing back, he brings another hard slap down to my other cheek. My neck jerks under the pressure, sending an ache up the back of my skull. Still, I try to right myself. When I do, he delivers another blow—this time higher up and across my right eye.
“Why do you want the club?” I choke out, pushing through the pain in my throat. He grabs the back of my neck, pulling my flesh hard against my binding, straining my neck to reach. Our noses touch, and our eyes lock.
“I’m going to kill them,” he says, a smile creeping up on his face. Without losing eye contact, I muster the ability to hash this out. I won’t give up the club, but maybe I can reason with him. Maybe he isn’t so far gone that he won’t be agreeable to a compromise.
“Why? They did nothing to you.”
“Sis, listen, please,” he pleads in the voice I’m used to, telling me that somewhere deep in there is still the boy I once knew. The boy I love and worry that I’ll never see again. But we’ve made our choices, haven’t we? We’re not allies anymore. “If I can kill them—all of them—and burn the clubhouse, and tell Dad you died in the fire, he’ll leave you alone. Don’t you see?”
His eyebrows raise, hopeful, na?ve. Stupid fool. Our father will want proof. It’s not that easy, and Michael will never be able to pull it off. I have to believe that if he were to kill me, that it would tear him apart. Otherwise, if my own brother can kill me in cold blood, I’d rather already be dead.
“I’m not going to let you hurt them,” I say. Rage fills his eyes, and he pulls back, then slams his fist into the side of my head. The chair tips to the side, sending me to the concrete. A new flash of pain emanates from my elbow, and I grit my teeth to stop the tears that spring into my eyes.
“You would turn your back on your family for them?” he shouts.
“No, I’m protecting my family,” I shout as he kicks me in the stomach. His undiluted anger pours out of him with every kick he delivers my abdomen. The first few make me queasy and send my eyes rolling into the back of my head in agony. Every inch of me hurts so bad, I’m almost numb. It’s like I can feel everything and nothing. I feel delirious, and the world around me is hazy. I catch myself dozing off, only to snap to, confused. Then I remember where I am and wish I hadn’t, and I pray that I’ll lose consciousness.
Finally, he stops after what feels like a couple dozen or a couple hundred kicks. I widen my eyes, trying to focus on the world around me from this vantage point. Michael towers over me, cursing in frustration. Deep in my heart, I know he’s trying to help me. Once the anger dissipates, I can see the fear. The only reason he could possibly be here is because he volunteered to either kill me or bring me back so someone else can kill me. And if he doesn’t deliver, then he’s in danger, too. A horrible sorrow engulfs me, and, for the first time since I talked to that stupid cop, the gravity of my choice really hits me. I was trying to help my brother back in Brooklyn. But I was also angry and spiteful. I couldn’t have predicted what’s happened, but maybe a piece of me was looking for a way out.
Through Michael’s legs, I see dirty black boots in the distance through the doorway. Forcing myself to focus, I’m able to make out several pairs of dirty boots, and then I spot them—worn black steel-toed boots—Ian’s boots. I’ve never seen him without them. Relief floods my system, then fear takes hold. If I tell Michael the club’s here, he could hurt or kill one of them. I can’t bear to lose a single one of them, even the ones I don’t know. If I don’t tell Michael, they could hurt or kill him.
“Please pick me up,” I whimper. He spouts a few curse words in Italian then leans down and picks up my chair with one hand. The other holds a gold Desert Eagle gun all my father’s men own. Any lingering doubt or hope I had that my brother wasn’t officially connected flies out the window.