Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

CASH

Five years to the day I traded in my patch, took on the title of Nomad, and straddled my Harley, never to return to New York again. I was a widow, haunted by regret. My club was in disarray, and death was everywhere I turned. Leaving wasn’t as much of a choice as it was a necessity, and the open road became my sanctuary.

I bounced from state to state, never sticking anywhere for more than a few weeks. Every chapter of the Corrupt Hellraisers was more hospitable than the last, providing me a place to land, and a seat at their table. Odd, considering I was full prepared to be viewed as a traitor. It’s not every day a man with a rank as a high as mine gets a pass. But the New York chapter needed to rebuild after our President, Tank, got handed a five-year sentence, and me taking his place at the head of the table would’ve only drove the club deeper into the ground. I was in no position to rule, and the men I proudly called my brothers, knew that. They cut me loose and let me get right, checking in with me from time to time as I traveled the country.

Montana was my favorite state by far, the Hellraisers there were making money hand over fist, thriving on their legitimate sources of income, and I was looking forward to ending the year out west. It would’ve been my longest stretch with another chapter since I took my wheels out of the Empire state.

But the man upstairs had a different plan.

Death drove me out of New York, and it sucked me back in, forcing me to bury yet another woman I loved. This time, my mother.

“Butch says you’re sticking around,” Hound comments from the other side of the bar.

Ten feet from where he stands is where my wife was killed. Shot to death in cold blood. I remember holding her as she bled out and the life drained from her pretty blue eyes.

I reach for my glass, swirling the ice around the amber liquid before I shoot it down my throat in a single gulp. One thing about New York—they’re not stingy with their whiskey. These motherfuckers spare no expense stocking their shelves with the good shit.

“Thought you’d be gone after the service,” he adds.

“I wish it were that simple,” I clip, setting my glass on top of the weathered wood. For all the upgrades the clubhouse has seen since I got gone, this old hunk of shit remains just as it warped as the day I left. “I’ve got to get my mother’s affairs in order before I take off again. She doesn’t have much aside from a four-family house in Bensonhurst, but because she didn’t have a will, I have to drag my ass down to Probate court tomorrow. Get the ball in motion before I put the house on the market.”

Hound lets out a low whistle as I reach for the bottle of whiskey and pour myself another glass.

“A four-family in Bensonhurst is going to get you some cake, brother. The neighborhood is hot right now. The Chinese are buying them up, and they’re paying cash.”

“Sold my house for twice its value six months ago,” Mouse chimes in. “Antonia put it on the market, and twenty-four hours later I was in contract.”

My hand tightens around the glass at the mention of my former president’s daughter. She and I didn’t always see eye to eye, especially when she started dating a cop. But like so many other members of this club, I watched her grow up. Hell, one might even say we helped Tank raise her. There was a sense of responsibility there and I shitted all over it. I abandoned her after her father brokered a deal with the district attorney, making sure it included a stipulation that abolished any charges against me. She probably fucking hates me.

“How she doing?” I ask.

Mouse helps himself to the whiskey, topping off his glass. “She and the cop welcomed baby number two last year. Another boy. They named him after Tank.”

I don’t know why I’m so shocked by that. Maybe it’s the fact that I still think of Antonia as a little girl. I drain my glass and set it back on top of the bar. Hound grunts and my gaze instantly darts in his direction. Back in the day, he and Antonia were involved. It was one of the most toxic relationships I’d ever seen, and it ended messy.

“I didn’t think she still came around here,” I probe. “With Tank still in the can and all.” I tip my chin toward him. “Not to mention, you’re probably one of her least favorite people.”

Hound clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he extends his glass in the air to salute me. “True, but I’m not alone on Tonia’s hit list. I’m right up there with you.”

I let those words settle in and turn my gaze away from him. Wrapping both hands around the glass in front of me, I hang my head.

“I guess I deserve that.”

“Eh,” Mouse starts, prying the empty glass away from my hands. “Don’t let it get to you. She hates us all equally. The only reason she started coming around again is because Tank is getting released in a couple of weeks.”

I lift my chin as he pours me another drink.

“But you just said she sold your house.”

He nods. “The girl hates us, but she loves money. I reckon she inherited that gene from her pops.” He slides the glass back to me. “Anyway, since the sale of my house, she’s been showing her face more. Tank is gonna be on parole when he gets released, and she’s made it her duty to make sure everything around here is legit.”

“Spot checks our fucking rooms and everything,” Hound mutters. “The only weapons we’re allowed to carry are the ones licensed to us. Everything else stays locked away in a container down the docks. If we get ambushed by another club, we’re as good as dead.”

I bring the whiskey to my lips, using the glass to hide the smile that tugs at my lips. It’s easy to picture Antonia laying down the law. The girl was always too good for this place and the men that fill it, and she relentlessly tried to spill that goodness into every man with a patch.

The front door to the clubhouse opens behind me, and it’s followed by the click-clacking of a woman’s heels.

“Speak of the Devil, and the Devil will appear,” Hound grunts.

Realizing he’s referring to Antonia, I slowly turn around to greet her. Her wild maim of curls catches my eyes first then my gaze shoots to the double stroller in front of her, and the two little boys who stare wide-eyed at their mother.

Good God, they’re perfect.

“I don’t know why my name is still on your tongue, but it’s getting old.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, babe,” Hound fires back. “We were just catching Cash up to speed. He’s been gone a long time and needed to be warned of your wicked ways.”

She rolls her eyes, toeing the safety locks on the stroller.

“Excuse me for not wanting my father to go back to prison. How horrible of me to think he could finally be a grandfather to his grandsons.” Her brown eyes cut to me. “Which brings me to the reason I’m here.”

“You mean you’re not here to frisk us?” Hound taunts.

well.”

“Hi, Tonia.” I glance at her sons. “Looks like you’ve been busy. The little one looks just like you.”

Her eyes follow my line of sight, and she smooths a hand over her youngest’s short, unruly curls. “So I’m told.” She glances back at me. “I don’t see it.”

Not sure how to respond, I simply wink. We’re silent for another beat before she clears her throat. “I heard about your mom. I’m sorry.”

I nod, pressing a hand to my chest. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Was she sick?”

My mother wasn’t the poster child for good health. She smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and ate entirely too much red meat. But she wasn’t diagnosed with any life-threatening illnesses. One would have to go to a doctor for that, and she wasn’t one for doctors. She called them scam artists. Anytime she was sick, she chugged through it. Made me believe she was damn near invincible.

I bring my focus back to Antonia and shake my head.

“Heart attack. One of her tenants found her unresponsive. By the time they got her to the hospital, it was too late.”

She frowns. “Again, I’m so sorry. I would’ve came to the funeral but I only just found out yesterday.” She shoots a glare at Hound.

“Another thing for you to be pissed at me about. At least I’m consistant.”

Ignoring him, she drags her gaze back to me and worries her lower lip between her teeth. A telltale sign she’s holding back, which is rare for a girl as outspoken as Antonia.

“Something on your mind?” I question.

She releases her lip with a pop, her eyes darting all around the clubhouse as she purposely avoids looking at me. “It’s just that…well, Hound said you plan on sticking around until you clear up some things.”

“That’s right,” I say, shifting on my stool. “Gotta get my mother’s estate dealt with. She had a house I need to sell. Mouse tells me you can help me out with that.”

Her eyes shoot to mine, and she nods. “Yeah, of course.”

She looks away again. Sensing something is up, I rise from the stool and cross the room.

“Something else?” I prod.

“My dad is getting released soon, and I’m trying to keep things on the up and up around here.”

Crossing my arms against my chest, I jerk my head. “I heard.”

“I don’t know where you’ve been the last five years, or what you’ve done, but I think…well, actually, I can guess that you haven’t been walking a straight line.”

She isn’t wrong. It was one of the perks of moving around so much. You can fuck the law as many ways as possible and be gone before they catch a whiff of your scent. Got my hands dirtier on the road, then I ever got them dirty when I was rooted here.

“Thanks to Marco, I’ve been in contact with someone from the parole board, and he advised me on a couple of things.” She pauses, releasing a heavy sigh before she pins me with those brown eyes of hers. “I hate what I’m about to say because even though I’m hella mad at you for leaving us, I still have a soft spot for you in my heart, but Cash…you can’t stay here. I can’t risk my dad going back to jail, and with your track record?—”

I cut her off.

“Say no more.”

Her brows pinch together, confusing marring her features. “What?”

I did plan on crashing here while I was in town, but I didn’t know anything about the terms of Tank’s release. I won’t infringe on that, and Antonia is right—my record isn’t all that clean. I escaped a bid here, but for all I know there are warrants out for me in other states. One wrong move, and I’m fucked. That shit could land on anyone surrounding me, including her dad.

“Tank is the reason I’m not behind bars myself. The least I can do is abide by his daughter’s wishes.” I unfold my arms. “No one will ever know I was here.”

Pressing her lips together, she swallows. “I’m sorry, Cash. It’s just…I can’t risk losing him when I don’t even have him back in my life yet.”

If Tank DeLuca did anything right in life, it was raising the woman standing before me.

“You don’t need to explain yourself, sweetheart.”

I pull my bike into the driveway and kill the engine. Removing my helmet, I tuck it under my arm as I dismount, and start for the front of the house. For as much as things change, some remain the same—like the cracks in the pavement, and the faded stained-glass panels on the door. The rusted fence that lines the postage stamp sized lawn is just as I remember it too. I just hope everything else inside is up to code or I’m going to have a bitch of a time trying to sell this fucking place.

Turning the knob, I open the front door and enter the tiny vestibule. Brass mailboxes line the left wall, all four labeled in my mom’s handwriting. The sight of them makes me pause. Until now, I never gave much thought about the tenants. I knew one of them had found my mother, but I didn’t even bother to alert them of her funeral service. Now, I’m going to have to face them, and tell them they need to move, that I’m selling the place they call home. A big fat fuck you to the people who took care of my mother while I was off fucking the law.

Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I tear my gaze away from the mailbox and focus on the glass paned door. Mom never locked the front door, but this one she kept locked tighter than Fort Knox. I used to have a spare key when I lived in New York, but that thing is long gone.

I set the helmet down on the floor, and pull out leather pouch from the inside of my kutte. Flipping the top open, I examine the tools inside, selecting the one I think will give me the best chance of picking the lock. It’s late and I don’t want to wake the tenants.

After a little maneuvering, the knob finally turns, but the door doesn’t budge.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

Years ago, I installed a deadbolt lock on the top of the door for her, and if memory serves me correctly, it was keyless that way she could lock it from the inside when all the tenants were safely in for the night. It didn’t make much sense to me, but she insisted—said it kept the riff raff out of the building.

I don’t know what riff raff she was referring to, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was me.

Out of options, I reach into my back pocket, retrieving my leather riding gloves. I pull one glove on my right hand and flex my fingers before curling my fist and slamming it into one of the panes of glass. It shatters sending glass into the hallway on the other end of the door. I push my hand through the frame of the pane and feel around for the deadbolt. Unlocking it, I try the knob again with my free hand, and it finally fucking opens. I make my way inside, the soles of my boots crunching over the shards of glass.

Another thing to add to the list of repairs.

I’m about to head for my mother’s apartment when the door to apartment 1A opens.

“Put your hands over your head where I can see them, or I’ll blow your fucking face off, you son of a bitch!”

I stare at the man who looks to be about a hundred years old. Just shy of five feet tall, with a full head of white hair, and bushy eyebrows to match, he points a shotgun at me.

“What’s the matter? You hard of hearing? I said put ‘em up!”

Another door opens from upstairs, and a raspy voice sounds.

“Carmine? Is everything okay?”

“Gretta go back in the house and call the cops! We have an intruder!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The way I see it, I can play this one of two ways. I can either entertain the old son of a bitch and calmly explain who I am, or I can snatch the gun from his hands. If I go with the latter, he might shit his pants or break a hip.

Sighing, I glance toward the stairs. “No cops,” I call out to whoever is up there. Then I bring my eyes back to the old man.

“I’m CeeCee’s son, and you’re currently pointing a shotgun at your new landlord.”