“You heard about the Fallen Saints?”

“Group from Lincoln, aren’t they?”

“That’s the main chapter, yeah.” I get up and pace to the far side of the room, excitement coursing through me as I fiddle with a picture of Gunter and Tommy as kids on the mantelpiece.

What the fuck am I doing, though?

You know what you’re doing, dick. Yeah, I’m only about to reveal the whole gig to Ryan. King’s threat circles through my mind, but I shove a gag in that fucker’s mouth and asshole him out the door. He said it best—when all I can think about is Ryan, I need to tell her that and let her be the one who decides how this will play out. It’s time I stopped beating around the bush and gave her the truth. Let the cards lie as they will and deal with the fallout when it happens.

“You okay?” she asks, breaking me out of my head. I turn back to find her kneeling on the sofa, her hands on her thighs while she watches me curiously.

“I’ve got some things I need to tell you, but before I do, understand I’m tellin’ you not only because it might help you out, but because I can’t keep lyin’ to you.”

Her brow twitches, and she slumps back into the cushions, unfurling her long legs. “Lying.”

I nod, unable to look at her. I can’t risk seeing the pain or betrayal on her. That shits guts me every time. I can’t get it from her, too.

“What have you been lying about?”

“Why I’m here.”

She lets a laden breath out through her nose and frowns. “I don’t know if I can hear this now. I mean, with Tommy and everything. I can only take so much in one day, Bronson.”

“Don’t call me Bronson anymore. Please.”

Ryan pinches the bridge of her nose, squinting her eyes closed. “Let me guess—that’s the first lie.”

“It’s pretty much the whole lie,” I affirm. “The rest is circumstantial.”

She shakes her head, still pinching her nose while uttering a quiet ‘fuck’s sake’. “No more, okay? I can’t take more right now.”

“I want to help you.” I’m seconds away from falling to my knees and begging.

“Well, you’re not. In fact you’re making me want you to do anything but help. Shit!” She jerks her hand away from her face, throwing her head back and growling at the ceiling. “Is there a single fucking person on this planet who can damn well be open with me?”

“I’m trying to be,” I say, my tone a lot harsher than intended.

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Right after you fucking lied to me while you were busy shoving your tongue down my throat. Get out.” Her arm flings out toward the door. “Get the fuck out—now!”

“Ryan . . .” I hold my hands up, pleading.

“No, Br—whatever your name is. No! I gave you the truth and told you something about me that hardly anyone knows, and you know what? I feel like a fool for doing so, given you’ve been playing me this whole time.” She stands from the seat, fists at her side. “What are you after? Money? Drugs? Eddie’s spot?”

“All of it.” Her face reddens. “But none of it’s for me.”

“What? You’re going to tell me you’re a modern day Robin Hood, or something?”

I laugh coolly at the image of myself in green leggings. “Yeah, I guess so, when you put it like that.”

“Nobody puts this much effort into a job without getting paid,” she states, crossing her arms over her chest a few steps short of where I am. “What are you getting out of it? What’s your reward . . .”—her eyes search the carpet for something—“Jesus, just tell me your name so I don’t keep going to call you Bronson.”

“Bronx,” I murmur. “It’s Bronx.”

“Close enough, I guess.” She closes her eyes briefly, clearly trying to compose herself. “Tell me what you get from this. Give me something redeeming about you, Bronx, because fuck it all, I really want a to forgive you for this and go back to what we were starting.”

“I get my life back.” The answer was automatic, a raw truth, but saying it out loud slots something into place inside of me. I get my life back. Settling this deal with Carlos doesn’t just get the fucking drug lord off my back, it settles debts, and evens the playing field for everyone. It gives me space to breathe, room to move, and time to decide what the fuck I want out of the rest of my life.

Who do I want to be when these hands are no longer capable of fighting for a living? When arthritis sets in after years of neglect and my joints scream at the simple task of stirring my coffee, what then? Who will I be without the ability to fight and maim?

Ryan tips her head to the side, her brow furrowed as though she’s trying to work me out. “What makes you say that? Has somebody got a hold over you?”

“More or less.” I shrug, taking a step sideways to slump onto the arm of a chair. “Heard of Carlos Redmond?”

“Yeah, and of his son, Sawyer.”

Fuck—hasn’t everyone? “Yeah, well his old man, Carlos, wants me dead as collateral unless he gets what Eddie took from him back.”

“Like that’s ever going to happen.” She scoffs, turning away with her arms still firmly folded over her chest.

“You know what kind of man Carlos is, right?”

“Been told a few stories about him. He’s a brute—uses pain and fear to get what he wants.”

Reaching out, I take one of her hands, forcing her to drop her arms and step towards me. “Bear in mind, that to tell a story those people got to walk away with their lives. Imagine what he does to the ones who aren’t so lucky.”

“Am I meant to be scared by this?” she asks, staring down at our joined hands. “Am I meant to cower in fear so you can cuddle me better?” Her tone is scathing, disbelieving, and nothing short of spoilt.

I shunt her hand away, causing her to step back, cradling it with wide eyes.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Tears form in her eyes, and I know I’m being an asshole given she still doesn’t know if Tommy’s going to make it, but fuck—she needs to learn.

“Because of you,” I answer. “You’re so fuckin’ naïve. You play your games with these men, but I don’t think you quite get how fuckin’ serious this is.”

“I think I do,” she mumbles defiantly.

“Bullshit!”

Ryan takes a couple more steps back as I launch off the chair, ripping the T-shirt I wear up by the waist to show her scars that outside of Malice and Ty, only the women who’ve shared my bed have seen. “See that?” I ask, jabbing angrily toward a series of raised lines on my flesh. “Stab wounds.” I let go of the fabric and start untying the drawstring on the sweats. Her eyes flick between my face and my hands that are furiously fumbling with the cord. A gasp escapes her as I drop the sweats to my knees and turn my left leg outward. “See that?” She nods, eyes on the mass of scarred and reddened flesh—a reminder of times when I wasn’t quite so experienced. “That’s what happens when a .308 round takes hold of your leg. Skin grafts, physical therapy, months of shit to deal with.” Her tears spill over, her fingers to her lips as she backs away again. “And you know what?”

“What?” The word is barely a breathless whisper.

“That’s what happened when I got on the wrong side of men half the fuckin’ monster cunts like Carlos are. You want to know how sadistic and sick the fucker is? Go find Sawyer and ask him how his mother died. Go find Sawyer and ask him what his old man did to try and kill him.” Turning away from her, I jerk the sweats up, re-tying the drawstring.

She sobs openly now, and her mouth drops open with each loud hiccup. But fuck, I proved my point. I opened her shielded eyes to the world she’s toying in. She thinks that she’s learnt a lot about the underworld since she’s been running with this crew—she’s wrong. So fucking wrong. The bitch is a little girl playing with a box of matches she’s been given, and the damn things are yet to burn her.

“These men will literally gut you in your sleep if you cross them, Ryan. You can’t do this shit alone. You want information about your uncle? Fuckin’ look somewhere else than Eddie, because even if he dishes up the facts for you, what you think he’s going to do to your lying, scheming ass when he’s done? Huh? You wouldn’t get more than ten steps away from the sick fuck before he stuck a bullet through your skull.”