Ransom (Dead Man's Ink #3)

I smile, trying to reassure her. “And maybe she does. But you just tell her the truth. That you want to be here. She won’t be able to disprove that. We alter a few of the details relating to how you came to be here, maybe, but other than that…”

She nods. She squeezes her father’s hand, tears in her eyes. “What are you going to tell Sloane? Mom?” she whispers. Her voice is thick; I can hear the ache in it. I can feel perfectly well how badly she wants her mom and her sister back in her life, and it damn near kills me.

Alan’s eyes shine brightly, too. He places a perfunctory kiss on his daughter’s head and then squeezes her hand back. “I can’t tell them this, pumpkin. I can’t lie to them. Not if I can avoid it. So maybe I just don’t tell them anything. Maybe that’s for the best. I’ll be there for them. I’ll take care of them and support them. And when the time comes, we can tell them absolutely everything together. It will be better that way.”

I can see in her eyes that Sophia doesn’t believe this. She knows there’s no other way of allowing her father to help, though, which he is determined to do. “Okay. Okay, so I guess that’s it, then.”

And so the plan was set into motion. Alan called the DEA this morning and told Lowell Sophia had contacted him, asking for money. Lowell took the bait immediately. Alan had to leave right away to get back to Seattle, where he’d arranged to meet up with Denise, which had the added bonus of forcing her out of New Mexico as well. It’s temporary, of course. She’ll be back with a vengeance.

The goodbye Sophia shared with her father was heartbreaking. The fact that he knows she’s alive and safe, and he can contact her when he wants is of some comfort to her, though. She seems sombre but less panicked than she has been of late.

Raphael is gone. Hector is dead. Justice has been served for my uncle. For Leah. For Bron. For the pain and suffering that Sophia endured. We may be left walking a tightrope with the DEA, but our future is looking a lot less fragile than it did a month ago. Everyone can feel it.

Loud music and laughter spills from the clubhouse doors as Danny reels drunk out into the night. He staggers off toward the barn, mumbling something about fresh air. Sophia and I hover outside the building for a moment, arms around each other, listening to the raucous shouting and revelry taking place inside. I think about the black bag I had Cade hide under the bar earlier—the bag with my tattoo gun neatly packed away inside, and the black ink I plan on marking this beautiful, brave, wonderful woman with in just a few hours. She has no idea what’s about to happen, of course. She has no idea that I’m about to make her drink a foul, disgusting bottle of whiskey and make her lie down for me so I can tattoo her, making her a full, official member of the Widow Maker’s MC.

I wrestle with the smile that wants to spread across my face as she looks up at me, her eyes wide and clear. “You look like you’re up to no good,” she tells me, tucking her hands on the inside of my t-shirt. “You’ve got that look on your face. It’s making me nervous.”

I kiss the end of her nose, sighing. “Well. Y’know. You can always call Kansas.”

She won’t, though. I know her inside and out, and she knows me. We were born for each other. Our futures hold pain and suffering, there’s no doubt about it, but the joy and the beauty of what we will experience as we share our lives with one another outweighs the hurt. It will all be worth it. I can see it now, and so can she. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me.

“Still want to marry me?” I whisper into her ear.

She makes a soft, subtle sighing sound at the back of her throat. “I still want to marry you, Louis James Aubertin the third. In spite of everything. Because of everything, I still want to be your wife.”

“Good. Then let’s go inside. I have this bottle of scotch I want you to try.”