9. Chapter Nine

I’ve been to funerals before, and wakes held in this very clubhouse. Half a dozen, at least, probably more, some of them too far back for me to remember.

I’ve stood around caskets, just like this, with the surviving old ladies and club kids around me. Family, friends, all of us sharing in our common grief.

But this time, I feel alone.

It doesn’t matter that Nico is standing right beside me, so close I can feel his heat radiating against my cold skin, or that I’m surrounded by the same people I grew up with, the people I’ve laughed with, loved with, cried with.

I’m alone with a kind of grief that none of these people can understand. It rises like walls all around me, isolating and impenetrable.

None of the people here turned their backs on Rafe when he started dealing drugs on the side. None ignored him when he was arrested and tried. Not one of them refused to visit him in prison. Just me. Their grief is pure and simple. Mine is tainted with bitter regret. And it’s worse for me because I know if Rafe were here today, he’d forgive me in a heartbeat.

“Ride hard, live free, die with your boots on, brother,” I mutter.

Nice arm candy, I imagine I hear Rafe joke as I stare at his pale, still body right in front of me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in four years.

I force a mental eye roll at him. He’s not arm candy; he’s a client.

But even I can hear how hollow that sounds. At least the MCs life, I understand. I know nothing about Nico Vitelli’s life. Three days ago, I didn’t even know who Nico Vitelli was. And now, something inside already tells me I won’t be able to turn my back on him.

Cade’s warning echoes in my ears again.

He’s ready to pull the trigger on anyone who betrays him.

From Nico’s earlier reaction, it’s likely he killed his best friend.

Maybe I should never have run away from who I am. Maybe if I was in Rafe’s life, he wouldn’t have strayed so far that even the club’s influence with law enforcement couldn’t save him from prison. Maybe I never would have crossed paths with Nico, who is no doubt infinitely more dangerous than Rafe ever was.

I cast a surreptitious glance at Nico as he, too, stares at Rafe, guilt and regret etched in his features. He doesn’t look like an angry Don; he looks like a man grieving. Here, he’s free from obligations and prying eyes. He can just be a man who lost a childhood friend and confidant he deeply loved.

Grease steps forward as tears slowly trickle down his weathered cheeks. I’ve never seen Rafe’s father cry before. Not even when his wife died. He reaches up and takes hold of the lid of the casket, his big, calloused hand trembling, and my breath catches in my throat. Grease closes the casket with a quiet thud, slightly hollow sounding. And then nothing.

Silence.

It’s done.

My chest shakes. I swallow back the sob that’s climbing up the back of my throat and take a deep, shaky breath, but it feels like there isn’t enough air.

I take another breath—and another—faster, trying to fill my lungs with oxygen that doesn’t seem to come.

A hand lands on the back of my neck, not gripping, just… there. It’s warm, the fingers slightly abrasive. Pleasant. And strong.

The fingers start to move, just a little, back and forth across the nape of my neck. I focus on the faint scrape, the tingling sensation that spreads out like a starburst.

And I breathe. In and then out. In and then out.

It isn’t my father’s hand. Or Grease’s or Razor’s. It’s not even Cade’s.

It’s Nico’s hand.

He didn’t wrap a ‘comforting’ arm around me, hug me close, or whisper stupid platitudes in my ear. He put his hand on the top of my spine, lending me his strength. And I do feel stronger. Like I can breathe, like I can stand, like I can make it through this without collapsing into a pathetic pile of tears. He understands my guilt, because he feels it too.

And that is freaking crazy.

I stand up straighter and take a step away, just enough to dislodge his hand.

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” I whisper, lying through my teeth with a tight smile on my face.

What happens next is a blur. The drive to the cemetery—Nico behind the wheel. The hole in the ground. The casket and the red roses on the smooth, dark wood—which is ridiculous. Rafe wouldn’t have given a damn about roses.

I look around, searching for what he would have wanted, but deep down, I know. I know what I have to give him—what I owe him.

“Reaper Druids until the Reaper takes us to hell,” we’d vowed in blood—Rafe, Cade, and me—one stupid night a lifetime ago. Rafe and I were eighteen then, and Cade was twenty-two.

I shouldn’t have made that vow with them, being a woman and all, but they thought I would one day be Rafe’s Old lady. Cade would be Prez and Rafe VP. Or was it the other way around? It doesn’t matter. I’d broken that vow. So had Cade.

I step up to the casket as I retrieve my knife from the sheath I’ve attached to the loophole of my jeans. My fingers shake more than I would have liked as I lay the blade against the palm of my hand and slide it along my flesh, making a line of blood well up in its wake. Just like it had that stupid night. Unlike then, now I barely feel the sting.

No one gasps. No one tries to stop me. We’ve all done some pretty odd things at funerals.

I can feel Nico’s gaze on me, perfectly still and unwavering. For some reason, it feels like he understands what I’m doing more than most of the people here, which doesn’t make sense at all because he’s an outsider in my world.

Cade comes up next to me, withdraws his knife, and makes a slice across his palm, just like mine. Then we lay our hands on the casket, the blood of our broken promise the only restitution we can offer.

And that’s it, at least for the somber part of the funeral.

The bikers go on a memorial run for Rafe while the rest of us return to the clubhouse. The club’s prospects already have a bonfire crackling at the center of the massive yard and enough booze to intoxicate the whole town of Harmony.

Phoenix, of course, had declared Mud Night, in other words, a sex orgy. Mud Night is the club’s quirky way of celebrating life, death, and every significant event in between. All the club rules about sex are relaxed on Mud Nights, meaning that just about any woman is allowed to wander into the club and get her fill of bikers—as long as she’s happy to be taken right outside by the bonfire.

As soon as we return, Nico leaves me so I can catch up with Mags, Razor’s old lady, while he hangs out with my dad. I shouldn’t have bothered thinking he’d stick out like a sore thumb because seeing them from across the rowdy yard, their heads pressed together and lips barely moving, I know they’re talking, and it’s not about the decadence going on around us.

“Hmm,” Mags, one of the very few friends I’ve kept in touch with over the years, takes a deep drink of her beer, then runs her fingers through her long blonde hair, which is shaved on one side to add an edgy vibe. “You know, given his frosty welcome, I was half expecting Grease to try and slit your man’s throat before morning. But look,” she raises her beautifully arched eyebrows at a scene no doubt unfolding behind me.

I subtly glance back to catch sight of my father, Nico, and Grease, of all people, now gathered on the clubhouse porch. They’re deep in conversation, seemingly unfazed by the wild party unfolding around them.

“Haven’t seen that happen before, Soph, not with an outsider and in plain view of everyone.”

“Nico’s a businessman,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. I’m sure the Reaper’s Garage could use some investment.”

Mags’s eyes bug out as realization dawns on her. “Fucking hell, Soph!”

“What? Calm down, Mags. It’s nothing, believe me.” I already know what she’s thinking. One of the clubs less savory business activities is arms dealing and acting as a meeting point for out-of-state deals. Usually, those sorts of meetings happen on nights of activity, such as todaysMud Night.

“Like hell it’s nothing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they’re striking up deals—”

Before Mags can say more, a half-drunk Razor appears and throws an arm around her shoulders, his shaggy red hair illuminated by the bonfire’s glow. He plants a passionate kiss on Mags, who initially playfully pushes him away but soon returns his ardor as her laughter quickly morphs into a moan. Abruptly, she stands, leaps into Razors arms, and wraps her arms and legs around him.

“Don’t wander off too far, Sparrow. Our chat’s not over,” Mags warns me lightheartedly as Razor carries her off into the night.

I only chuckle in response, thankful he’s at least taking her indoors.

Despite the age difference, with Mags being only thirty—two years older than me—and Razor nearly sixty, their bond is unmistakable. Rarely have I witnessed a couple as deeply connected and openly affectionate as those two.

I take a look around the sweetbutts and hopefuls closer to the bonfire, some already consoling the club brothers with lap dances and blowjobs, and the others bent over tables or bouncing in laps. Yep, Mud Night’s started alright.

Home fucking sweet home.

I grab a solo cup from a stack next to one of the kegs with my good hand, fill it up, and then make my way across the yard to a bench as far away from the bonfire as possible.

I’m not a sweetbutt or old lady, so I know enough to stay well away from the men during Mud Night. Besides, my long dry spell, coupled with the feel of Nico’s body leaving me hungry for more, makes this the last place I should be.

Speaking of, I look back at the porch to see that Nico is no longer sitting with my dad and Grease. I wonder if he’s indulging in tonight’s excess. A knot twists in my gut before I remind myself that he wouldn’t disrespect me like that. We’re supposed to be an item. I ignore the relief rushing through me.

I had looked forward to the idea of bringing Nico here, out of his comfort zone, but he isn’t quite shaping up to be the asshole who needs to be taken down a peg now, which just makes this situation all kinds of confusing for me.

“So, how do you like being here?”

I start when I hear Nico’s voice but relax when he takes a seat on the bench beside me.

“Well, it’s Mud Night,” I say grudgingly. “All of a sudden, I’m the one who sticks out like a sore thumb. Even you seem to blend in well.”

“I don’t mean the orgy—which is fucking hot, by the way. I mean being back home. Your father is beyond happy to see you.” He takes a sip from a glass of vodka, which is surprisingly full. Beer is the traditional drink on Mud Night, not spirits.

Suddenly, it seems Nico is no longer my plus-one but an esteemed guest of the Reaper Druids MC. Dad must have somehow found out who Nico really is, which makes me wonder when I’ll get the third degree about who I’m choosing to date.

Nico continues, his voice soft, “He says it’s been four years since you last stepped into Harmony.”

Or maybe I won’t be getting that third degree after all. Rather, it seems like Dad approves of Nico, given that he’s been gossiping about me and breaking out the vodka for him on Mud Night, no less. I suppose I have myself to blame for making him think Nico and I are a thing.

I take a sip of my beer—which I’ve never particularly liked—and sigh as I look around at my home, my world, which outsiders don’t always understand.

“It’s good to be back, I suppose. Nothing’s changed. I’ve kept in contact with Dad and my closest friends all the while, I just haven’t been back here.”

Nico nods, then holds out his hand to me, “Let me see.”

Feeling more than a little sheepish that Nico witnessed my grief-driven show earlier, I show him my throbbing palm. I’d hastily wrapped it in a bandage and kept it fisted to staunch the bleeding. He starts to unwrap the bandage and I grit my teeth against the pain.

“What about your family, Nico?” I ask, turning the spotlight on him partly to distract myself from what he’s doing.

“What about them?” He doesn’t look up; instead, he takes out a roll of fresh bandages from his leather jacket.

“Do you fit in there?” I ask, watching him pour vodka on the wound. And I realize why he has vodka. He asked for it because of me.

Nico scoffs, then pins me with his bright blue gaze. “I am the family Sophie.”

He straightens slightly to explain, “There are only two kinds of people in my world: those who are family and those who aren’t. And to protect my family, the end will always justify the means. It’s not unlike the setup your father has got here.”

I recall Cade’s words again. “I’m sure. No wonder you seem to fit right in.”

He goes back to my hand, dabbing my palm dry with a clean white handkerchief. “Did you think I wouldn’t fit in, Sophie? Is that why you brought me here?” His tone is level, yet there’s… friction, an undercurrent of unease.

“You forced me to bring you, remember,” I retort, but I understand what he means. I could have warned him. I didn’t. Part of me wanted to unruffle him. To put him around dangerous men who have no allegiance to him. I wanted to see how the self-assured Nico would act when stripped of all his comfort. I should have known… cats always land on their feet.

Nico nods as he inspects the gash on my palm, which is no longer bleeding. “Very cleverly done, Sophie. Not the horror I was expecting.” For a moment, I think he’s referring to my motive behind bringing him home until he adds, “Who taught you how to use a knife?”

“A friend,” I respond with a smirk.

“I see.” He murmurs, “Did that friend also teach you how to shoot?”

I glance at Nico to gauge his reaction when I say. “No, my dad did when I turned ten.”

I knew it wouldn’t shock him, but seeing the look of admiration on his face warms me in ways I can’t explain. Meeting ‘normal people’ in college made me realize how fucked up my childhood was.

He starts to wrap up my hand. “What’s your range?”

“Dad made sure I could hit a quarter from a hundred yards out before I was even allowed to think about driving.”

Nico chuckles to himself as if in on a private joke.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing Sophie, I just think that’s impressive.”

I eye him warily as he knots the end of the bandage. He doesn’t let my hand go, though. Instead, he knits his fingers through mine and traps my hand against the warm, solid muscle of his thigh.

I look down at the hand holding mine. It’s tanned, with thick veins running across it like ropes, leading into his wrist and forearm. A platinum signet ring engraved with a V and set with diamonds sits on his ring finger. Unable to resist, I start poking and tracing the veins, loving the firm springy texture and the silky hairy skin.

“Are you trained in physical combat?” He asks in a gravelly voice that tells me he’s not unaffected by what I’m doing.

“Krav Maga, brown belt.”

“Not bad,” he praises. I glance up to catch a playful glint behind the scorching heat in his eyes.

I smile back, loving the thrill his words send down my spine “What next? You want to know how much I can bench press?”

Arching his brow, he lets his gaze trail slowly over me, leaving fire on my skin. “Weights? Nah.” He shakes his head, his voice dropping an octave lower. “What I’m curious to know about though, is your squat game. I have to say, Sophie, it is pretty fucking fantastic from whichever angle you look at it.”

It takes me a moment to grasp his meaning. I can’t help laughing. “You are unbelievable, Nico Vitelli.”

“And you’re sexy as fuck. Come here,” Suddenly, he moves me, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting on his lap. And while we’re on the subject of strength… just, wow. Fast reflexes too.

I look around self-consciously, although I can’t say I’m not enjoying where I am. I feel his steel hard length under my butt and can’t resist very subtly grinding against it.

He pulls me against his chest, splaying his hand low on my belly. A quivering begins where he’s touching me and spreads lower. His warmth and vetiver scent surround me, weaving their way around my brain. Before I give myself permission, I’m already leaning closer, pushing my nose into his neck.

His groan brings me back to my senses and I catch myself gently grazing my teeth on his earlobe. I’m shocked but don’t try to scramble off his lap, I just make my body sit up straighter, wondering what the hell just came over me.

As if sensing I need some distraction, he nods toward the couple by the bonfire. “So, who are they?”

“That’s Fang, the guy who gave up his room for us. Last time I saw him, he’d just earned his patch.” I glance at Nico, explaining, “It’s like becoming a made man.”

I continue when Nico nods to show that he understands. “Now Fang’s been promoted to the position of road captain—the one who organizes rides and outings.”

Nico nods again. “And the nice lady?”

I chuckle at his sarcasm because the woman in question is currently naked, on her knees, and drenched in spittle while administering what seems to be an impressive blowjob, going by her vigorous head movements and deep-throating skills. “She’s a sweetbutt.”

“A what?”

“A hopeful. I’m not sure you have an equivalent term in the Outfit. Club girls, maybe? Anyway, I think, like the others, she may have come from out of town with the aim of leaving her biker crush with something to remember. And given her…efforts, I’d say she has a huge soft spot for Fang. Bless her.”

“Yeah, I’d say that certainly is one thing they’ve got here that we don’t have back in Chicago.”

I chuckle, “Nico, you sound really distressed that you don’t have Mud Nights in the Outfit.”

“It’s a fucking crying shame, really,” he jokes right back.

“I mean, you’re the Don, who knows? Your Capos might thank you for it. And speaking of being Don…”

I feel him tense beneath me. “What about it?”

“Is there a line you won’t cross?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, like the Reaper Druids have club bylaws. There are things… crimes that bikers aren’t allowed to commit.” I swallow a lump in my throat, “For example, drugs.”

“Was that why the club wouldn’t protect Rafe from going to prison?”

I nod.

Nico unwinds his fingers from mine and places a hand on my thigh. It does not squeeze or work its way higher—it is just… there, like it had been on my neck earlier.

“Fiammetta, if you’re trying to find out if I’m redeemable, the answer is no.”

Why does this man want me to believe the worst of him when it’s clearly not true? I decide to let it go, though.

“Okay,” I place my hand on Nico’s, the tips of my fingers barely reaching his top knuckles.

Hands and mouth off the client, dumbass, my sensible brain chastises me. But I’m done listening to rational thought. I lean back against him and we both settle into a companionable silence, watching Fang and the sweetbutt and a few others around the bonfire.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d be observing an orgy taking place in my home with anyone, let alone someone like Nico Vitelli? It’s like a baring of my soul. That part of me that I always feared would be repulsive to others who don’t understand how things work here.

“You don’t really want therapy, do you?” I suddenly ask

Nico shakes his head.

“I guessed as much. And so, have you decided what you want to do after all this is over?” I throw my hands out in a gesture.

What you want to do with me.

“No,” he says simply, understanding the unspoken question.

It’s harsh but true. I nod, appreciating his honesty. It’s grounding to know this night isn’t real. He’s still the mafia don who thinks the Outfit is better off without a certain therapist. And I’m the idiot who is employing all her physical and intellectual skills to stay alive.

The fact that we enjoy being wrapped around each other is just a pesky complication. Easily remedied, right?

And speaking of complications… I spot Cade out of the corner of my eye, heading right for us, and he definitely isn’t wearing his happy face.

I sit up straighter, but Nico’s fingers tighten around mine, keeping them laced together on my thigh when my first impulse is to yank my hand away.

Cade’s gaze moves back and forth between Nico and me as he stops right in front of us.

“You’re making a lot of people uncomfortable, Soph. You know what Phoenix thinks about you getting cozy with anyone out here—never mind an outsider. And Grease… can you at least give the man some respect?”

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Nico mutters. Gently, he lifts me, puts me on the bench right beside him, then stands up to his full height, nose to nose with Cade. They’re both of similar height and build.

Ugh. That’s all I need; a playground fight in the clubhouse yard.

“Listen here, amico, what Sophie does with me is none of your business, so I suggest you fuck off. Now.” Nico snaps in a tone that says he’s used to people listening to him and doing what they’re freaking told.

Cade scoffs, “You’re the one who needs to run, Vitelli. How about I give you a twenty-four-hour head start? One day. Start crawling back into the hole you appeared from, or I’m coming after you—”

“For fuck’s sake!” Fear for Cade grips me, forcing me to get between the men. I plaster my back against Nico’s front, my eyes snapping angrily at Cade. Does he have a fucking death wish, or is his brain clouded by grief?

“Back off, Cade. I’m not stripping and shaking my tits for every club brother passing by. I’m fully fucking clothed here, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Sophie, you can’t possibly—”

“I can!” I cut him off again. I grab Nico’s hand, pulling it around me to splay low on my belly.

Cade’s mouth twists in disgust when Nico immediately drags me back against him. Then his other arm comes around me, slowly palming my breast, but it doesn’t stop there. It continues trailing up my torso until Nico circles my neck in a light chokehold.

Rage flashes in Cade’s eyes. I bet if I turned around, Nico would be smirking.

Oh fuck.I’m not trying to rile up Cade, I just wanted to distract Nico from reacting to whatever Cade’s protective old brother shit was making him say.

“You don’t want me fucking in the middle of the yard?” I throw my arms out wide, encompassing our surroundings. “No problem. I’m happy to go fuck somewhere Fang’s naked ass isn’t part of the backdrop.”

I make to leave, knowing Nico will follow me, but Cade grabs hold of my arm. Not painfully—I could jerk myself free. Or at least, I could have, but I don’t get the chance.

“Take your hand off her, or I’ll break it,” Nico says in a tone that’s like pure ice, cold and sharp.

Nico doesn’t move a muscle, and I think that’s about a thousand times scarier than if he’d flown into a murderous rage. The temperature of the air around us seems to plummet, and the menace that’s radiating from every pore of his body is terrifying enough to make most men soil themselves.

Lucky me. A standoff between a mafia don and an ex-biker FBI guy who might just get himself killed with the way he’s meddling. Who wouldn’t want front-row seats to that?

“That’s enough,” I snap, yanking my arm free of Cade. “The minute I need you telling me what to do,” I say, glaring at Cade, “or you fighting my battles for me,” I turn my glare on Nico, “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

I stride across the yard and into the clubhouse, ignoring my surroundings—because I’m sure as hell not in the mood to watch Razor’s son, Smokey, doing body shots off the naked girl on the bar.

Ugh. Home sweet fucking home.