I flick off the safety and give the kid a taunting smirk. I like him, so I won’t tell the brothers about this, but I will tease him about it. Patting him on the shoulder, I say, “Oh, sweet boy, I’m from Detroit. That’s only an AR-15. An AK-47 is a choppa.”
I leave Rink there without looking back. He’s on guard duty, which means Wyatt trusts him. So I trust him, too. I keep the gun down by my side, as hidden against my black yoga pants as possible. Wyatt is already storming up to the van, telling the dude in the driver’s seat that he can’t park there. The guy rolls down the passenger window and nods at Wyatt, promising to move. He talks quickly and stumbles over his words as he asks Wyatt how to get back to the highway. I watch from the distance, keeping both my man and this random dude in my sight. The driver gets out of the van, his door squeaking loudly upon his exit, and he walks around to Wyatt with the map in hand. For the briefest moment, I feel like my instincts have led me down a path of paranoia. This is insane. The dude is just lost.
A few cars pass by on Main Street, which happens to be what the highway turns into once you hit the town limits. Just as I’m relaxing and about to put the safety back on, the back door of the van slowly opens. It’s soundless, really. If I weren’t watching it happen, I wouldn’t have any idea. The van itself is beat up, old, and not in the best repair. The driver’s door squeaked when it was opened, but this one doesn’t, which means one thing—I was right. This looks like a fucking hit on Forsaken, and oh hell to the fuck no is this going down.
Fear shoots through me. They couldn’t know it would be Wyatt who would come out here to deal with the suspect vehicle. For a split second I hate that it’s Wyatt. Even knowing that Rink and I have his back, having my man in danger never sits well with me. Zander hasn’t even gotten his dad yet, and now this? Not on my watch.
A bruised and bloody man half stumbles out of the back of the van. He’s holding one arm protectively against his chest. It looks broken. He has a knife in his other hand. He drags his feet on the pavement as he moves toward Wyatt. The noise catches Wyatt’s attention, and he steps back from the bloodied man and the driver, his back now to me, as he draws his gun. The driver nods resolutely, and it’s only now that I notice he’s wearing a black suit. His olive complexion and the suit give him away immediately—Italian mafia.
“Mr. Segreti respectfully demands that our debt to Forsaken has been paid with the delivery of Mr. Florentine, the man who put the wheels of our little spat in motion,” the man in the suit says. Segreti? What the actual fuck has the club gotten themselves into? Their war was with Mancuso . . .
The man with the knife, now known as Mr. Florentine, lunges at Wyatt. Wy dodges him easily and screams at the man to put the knife down. Rink shouts from behind the fence, letting Wyatt know he’s got his back. Florentine doesn’t drop the knife. Instead, he lunges again, and this time, Wyatt puts his gun away and takes the fucker to the pavement.
Taking my eyes off Wyatt, I refocus my energy on the nameless driver. He scurries around the van to the driver’s side. He’s trying to get away, but he’s not going to get far. I push off the concrete under my feet and run at the guy with Rink’s gun in front of me. The man is half into the driver’s seat by the time I reach him. He’s got one hand in his suit jacket and the other on the steering wheel.
“By the time you pull your piece, the van will have a new paint job,” I say evenly. He doesn’t move, so to make him take me seriously, I close in and press the barrel of the .22 against the back of his skull and wait. Slowly, he removes his hands from his jacket and the steering wheel, putting them both in the air. Now that he’s less of a threat, I remove my finger from the trigger and slam the butt of the gun into his head as hard as I can. He falls to the ground just a second later. He’s face up, with his eyes closed and his mouth open. I back up and wait for the boys. I can hear them in the distance, all heavy feet and deep voices, as they rush out. Knowing they’re on their way, I put the safety back on the gun and drop it to the ground.
“Amber!” Wyatt shouts as he rounds the van and grabs me from behind. I melt into him and close my eyes. He spins me around so my face is in his chest and lifts me up. I don’t fight it. I just hold on to his neck and keep my face pressed into the base of his throat. I can be strong and tough. I can handle my shit—like I did with Rig—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t keep me up at night. It doesn’t mean I don’t think about Rig’s face right before he died as I kiss my boy good night and rock my baby girl to sleep. It doesn’t mean I’m not haunted by it. It just means that I do what I was raised to—I protect my family even if it screws me up in the process. And I don’t complain. I don’t cry. I don’t talk about it. Except for here, in Wyatt’s arms, where I can be scared. Where, if even just for a moment, I can feel a little human and a little afraid.
CHAPTER 10