Unbeloved

Chapter Three

Two days earlier

With the highway stretched out in front of him and nothing but more highway behind him, James “Hawk” Young could finally breathe again.

Whatever craphole town he’d been holed up in for nearly a month now had early on begun to wear on him. So when Deuce had called and told him to get his ass to Vegas, he was more than happy to oblige and leave behind the obscenely clingy bartender he’d been trying to shake since day fucking one. Young and hot didn’t necessarily make the ideal companion, and after a few rounds of sex, he’d been more than done with her.

But he was finally free of her, finally back on the road, the only place he’d ever felt he could just . . . breathe.

No, that was a lie. There been one other place, or rather one person, who’d given him that same feeling. Who’d taken away the stifling emptiness with just a simple fucking smile.

It wasn’t the case anymore but way back when, when he still had the woman he loved within his reach, that damn smile . . . it was fucking magic.

Usually when he was on the road this late at night, mostly empty aside from him and the occasional car, he would think about that smile, those eyes, that tiny little nose all covered in freckles. And for just a moment, the emptiness would begin to ease.

He’d think about his favorite memory, the one and only morning he’d ever been able to wake up beside her . . .

**•

“Good morning,” Dorothy had said, stretching her body.

Hawk had already been awake, he was always up with the sun, and had spent the last two hours just staring down at her naked body, watching her sleep.

It had been the first time they’d ever spent the night together. Between taking care of her daughter and her ridiculous relationship with Jase, spending time together wasn’t an easy feat for Dorothy. But for once it was just the two of them; the clubhouse was empty. For the first time what he felt for her, how fucking deep those feelings went, felt real.

“Did you hear me?” She laughed and he loved it. Just hearing her laugh. He fucking loved it. “I said good morning.”

Instead of answering her, he pushed her over and onto her back, looking his fill at her tight little body covered in all that soft, creamy skin. Dorothy immediately tried to cover herself, but he pinned her arms down and quickly rolled on top of her.

Then he had tickled her.

And as she’d squirmed beneath him, howling with laughter, he’d whispered, “Good morning.”

**•

Closing in on his destination, Hawk hit his blinker and turned his bike onto the exit headed for downtown Las Vegas. The memory evaporated and just as quickly the emptiness returned.

Another fifteen minutes later, he pulled up behind an old abandoned shipping warehouse. Hawk shut off his engine and glanced around anxiously at his old stomping grounds. It wasn’t that he disliked coming to Las Vegas; quite the opposite, actually. Whenever Deuce needed one of the boys to make a run to Sin City, he always volunteered. He might look very different from the kid he’d once been, and sound different, but Vegas would always feel like home.

Because technically Vegas was home, and he wasn’t truly who he’d spent the past two and a half decades pretending to be.

Yeah, he was a biker. Just another patch on a totem pole full of patched, leather-wearing bikers living as criminals, not for the money or even for enjoyment but because that was all they knew. It was how they survived, how they paid the bills and cared for their families. It wasn’t about greed or excess, it was about living a certain way, being a certain kind of man who didn’t have to bow down to laws and the government who enforced them. It was a brotherhood, a camaraderie. It was about really, truly living your life the way you wanted to live it.

It was about . . .

Freedom.

But Hawk didn’t have that same freedom. It wasn’t the same for him. And it never would be.

Like a lot of his brothers, Hawk was just another piece of shit Deuce had fished from the gutter. But unlike Cox or Dirty, Hawk hadn’t had a hard life spent living on the streets. At least, not at first. But neither did his upbringing resemble Ripper’s, who’d lived a good, solid life, the American dream, until he’d lost his parents at the age of seventeen.

No, Hawk had been born a spoiled and privileged son of a bitch, his mother a cocaine-addicted burlesque dancer who’d fatally overdosed when he was only three years old, his father an infamous member of the Bratva, a Russian mob boss, the one and only Avgust Polachev of the Polachev cartel.

For eighteen years he’d been a gluttonous whore, reveling in a life of overindulgence, seduction, and sin. Spoiled was putting it mildly. He’d had more money than he could have spent in ten lifetimes, as well as cars, drugs, booze, and women, all at his self-destructive disposal. He’d had it all.

Until he’d lost it all.

The summer he turned eighteen, his father was gunned down inside the man’s own home during an FBI raid. His father had gotten greedy and that greed had made him careless, and that carelessness had landed his father with an undercover federal agent on his crew. Actually, several undercover agents.

After the FBI, fitted in bulletproof vests and armed to the teeth, had broken down their door and stormed their home, they’d informed Hawk’s father of the stack of evidence they had against him. They told him he’d never again see the light of day, and that a lethal injection would be his last memory of life.

Hawk would never forget what happened next. His father, his only family, had turned to him and mouthed one single, solitary word.

Begi.

Run.

Turning back to the agents, his father had reached for his gun, as had every other man in the room. A flurry of bullets had cracked through the air, and Hawk hadn’t waited around to see what was going to happen next. After pulling his own piece, he’d run from the house as fast as he could.

He ran, and because he was a wanted man, not one of his father’s former associates would take him in. He was deadweight. His picture was all over the news and there was a price on his head. So he kept running, living in the shadows for two years until Deuce found him hiding out and digging for his dinner inside a casino dumpster.

Hawk had recognized Deuce and Deuce him, having met each other several times in the past. The Hell’s Horsemen motorcycle club president hadn’t been a friend of his father’s, but a loyal buyer, and because Deuce knew what had transpired in the wake of his father’s greed, he’d taken pity on Hawk and took him in.

Deuce’s connections provided Hawk with a fake birth certificate and driver’s license, giving him a new identity. He’d become James Alexander Young, a New York native who for all intents and purposes was a big, fat nobody. Deuce burned off his fingerprints, gave him a Harley and a haircut, nicknamed him “Hawk,” then took him home to Miles City, Montana, where he’d begun the second chapter of his life.

His Russian accent had been the first thing to go. Luckily it was slight compared to the heavy Slavic intonations of his father and friends, developed only because he’d grown up around it. But even so, his transition from mob prince to homeless grifter had been easy in comparison to his transition from homeless grifter to biker.

Learning to ride a motorcycle hadn’t been the hard part; the most difficult transformation had been learning to live and breathe leather and chrome, to talk the talk and walk the walk. The Hell’s Horsemen, while still a highly profitably criminal organization, were the underbelly of the world Hawk had come from. Whereas his father had once been at the top of the food chain and considered men like Deuce and his boys necessary trash, Hawk was now at the mercy of them. Funny how life worked out sometimes.

As a Hell’s Horsemen prospect he’d kept his head down, stayed quiet, kept to himself, and did what he was told. That diligence and intense survival instinct ensured he acclimated quickly, gained loyal friends among his brothers, and was unanimously voted in a full-fledged Horseman.

No one but Deuce knew who he really was, something that Deuce had told him was for his own protection from other MCs looking to make a quick buck or weaken another club. Therefore no one, not even Deuce’s top boys, were allowed in on the secret. Which was just fine with Hawk, since even the most loyal of brothers could turn on you.

It was the reason he was in Las Vegas.

Just this morning Deuce had gotten a tip on ZZ’s whereabouts, a former brother of the Hell’s Horsemen who, if Deuce got his way, wasn’t long for this world.

Over the last year ZZ had been spotted repeatedly across the country, part of the underground fighting circuit. He’d been made a few times in Vegas, only by the time the information had been passed down the line, the fights were over and ZZ had been long gone.

Not this time.

Blowing out a long breath, Hawk toed his kickstand down and dismounted his bike. He didn’t want to be the brother to find Z, he didn’t want to be the man to have to take the guy out. As fucked up as it was that ZZ had shot Deuce’s son, Cage, Cage had freely admitted that ZZ hadn’t drawn first, and had even spoken in his defense.

But Deuce wouldn’t be swayed. The guy had shot his son point-blank in the chest. Twice. Then he’d taken off, turning his back on what he’d done, and on the club altogether. Now he wasn’t just wanted by the law, but by Deuce. The president of the Horsemen was out for blood, and when Deuce had his mind set on something, you didn’t question him. You did as you were told or you ended up in the same sticky situation ZZ was in. Sticky with your own fucking blood.

Blood that Hawk was going to have to spill. Merry fucking Christmas to him. His only saving grace was that after this he was headed to San Francisco for the holidays, to see his boy . . . and Dorothy.

As if on cue, he felt his cell phone vibrate against his chest. Reaching inside his cut, he pulled out his phone and found a text message from Dorothy.

Christopher is wondering when you’re getting in.

Although he should have been used to this by now, Dorothy’s refusal to acknowledge that they’d once shared something more than just their child, he found himself frowning.

All her texts, all their phone conversations, even their face-to-face time, were only ever about Christopher. Even after all this time had passed, she was still going well out of her way to ensure he didn’t get the wrong idea.

What he wouldn’t give to wrap his hand around her fucking throat and give her a nice, hearty shake. Despite what she thought, he wasn’t a fucking moron clinging to some childish hope that someday she’d realize she still had feelings for him. Maybe way back when, when she’d been coming to him desperate for something Jase could never give her. Freedom. The freedom to let go in a way she never could with Jase, because with him she hadn’t been trying to win a prize, she hadn’t had the same feelings of inadequacy, the constant looming threat that if she wasn’t as good as Chrissy was, as beautiful, as giving and loving, that Jase would leave her.

All that pent-up misery, all that desperation, all that hidden anger and harbored resentment, he’d gotten the brunt of all of it. Once Dorothy had realized he was her safe place, she’d never held back on the crying and the yelling, and she’d taken it all out on him . . . him and his cock.

But that was then and this was now, and things weren’t the same. Not even close.

He’d gotten her message loud and fucking clear about who she really wanted on the day she’d told him the baby inside her was Jase’s, even though they’d both known she was a damn liar.

Yeah, he’d fucked that all up. Taking what hadn’t been his to take, forcing her hand, essentially blackmailing her into his bed, none of it had been the right way to woo a woman you wanted. But even now, older and wiser, he still couldn’t bring himself to regret not even one fucking second of it. Not when it had resulted in the birth of his son. Hearing that little boy call him Daddy, seeing those big eyes looking up to him for . . . everything. No fucking way would he ever regret a single moment that had led to Christopher. Not a chance in hell.

Still, he’d always kept his feelings, his yearnings, and his disappointments to himself. Well, other than announcing to all and sundry that Christopher was most certainly his. After finding out Dorothy had been shot, not knowing whether she was going to live or die, there was no way in hell he was going to let a lying, cheating piece of shit like Jase Brady raise his kid.

A good thing, too, seeing as Jase couldn’t seem to do much of anything since then other than lift a bottle to his mouth.

I’ll be there tomorrow.

As he typed out his message, he felt his dour mood begin to lighten. Shit might be in permanent stasis between him and the woman he loved, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thankful for the time he got to spend with them in some semblance of a family. When you lived on the road, you learned to appreciate the little things.

“Brother.”

Hawk recognized Hammer’s voice before the man himself walked out from the shadows. Hammer was president of the Las Vegas chapter of the Hell’s Horsemen motorcycle club. With a shaved head, sparrow beard, and built like a tank, Hammer was a fearsome-looking beast of a man. He’d gotten his nickname after beating a man into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp with nothing but his own two fists.

If Hawk hadn’t been secure in his own reflexes, in knowing his trigger finger was as steady as a rock and he hit dead center hit every damn time, he might have feared the man.

“You look like hell,” Hammer said, approaching him. “Long ride?”

Sliding his phone back into his cut, Hawk shook his head. “Long fuckin’ life, brother. Long fuckin’ life.”

Hammer snorted. “I hear that. My old lady’s been givin’ me hell. Knocked up a patch whore, bitch is demandin’ money . . . I’m about ready to start eatin’ concrete outta here.”

“Been runnin’ 66 for a grip now,” Hawk said, his gaze dropping to his saddlebags. Inside lay his Miles City rocker, the patch he’d given up when he’d gone nomad. “Shit’s startin’ to wear on me.”

Hammer’s expression turned grim. “I got you, brother. I like to bitch, but ain’t nowhere I’d rather be than here with my boys. You do this job, you goin’ home?”

Hawk shrugged. He didn’t have a home, not really. As much love as he had for Deuce and the club, after everything that had happened, he wasn’t able to sit in one place for too long. He’d start dwelling on the countless things he couldn’t change, wishing for things he couldn’t have. The road was a better place for him. Running jobs across the country, keeping him busy, too busy to sit down and think about how jacked up his life really was. But Hawk had never talked about his problems, or worse, his feelings, with anyone. And he wasn’t about to start now, especially with an asshole like Hammer.

“So this shit’s for real then?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the broken-down warehouse. “Z’s really inside?”

“Shit’s real,” Hammer answered. “Seen ’im with my own two eyes. He’s lined up now, got two boys ahead of ’im. Coulda put ’bout fifty holes in ’im by now.”

Hammer’s expression hardened. “Wanted to. Man’s gotta pay the price for what he’s done.”

Hawk wished he had, wished the deed was already done, and done by anyone but him. But ZZ had been one of Deuce’s top boys. Because of that, it had to be one of his own that put him to ground. It was the rules of the road and a code they’d all sworn to live by.

Pulling his smokes out of his leather jacket, Hawk lit one up and surveyed the warehouse. “How many exits?” he asked.

“The whole fuckin’ place is full of fuckin’ holes and ready to crumble.”

“Fuck,” Hawk muttered.

“Yeah. I got three of my boys with me, each of ’em hangin’ by an exit. But this fucker’s a slippery bastard. How many times he been spotted and got away clean?”

“Too many,” Hawk said grimly. An intense wave of exhaustion washed over him, settling deep into his muscles. He took another drag off his cigarette, hoping the nicotine would shake him awake some. After all day on the road, he was more than tired. He was damn near comatose.

Blowing out a breath of smoke, Hawk flicked his cigarette away. “Let’s do this,” he said, and together he and Hammer headed toward the front of the building. As they grew closer, the din of noise that could be heard from outside grew louder, more discernable as excited shouting.

Stepping past the broken and bent steel door, he found the large room empty, other than a few pieces of rusted-out machinery and scattered garbage that could just barely be seen. As he’d suspected, the noise was coming from beneath their feet, from the basement of the building, making him all the more wary of what was to come.

Silently, the two men continued slowly toward the stairway, the noise growing louder and louder with every step they took, until they’d reached the bottom, where it had become damn near deafening.

After exchanging a look with Hammer, judging by the man’s expression he was more than ready to put ZZ six feet under, Hawk gripped the edge of the already partially open door and pulled it open. The dimly lit, smoke-filled storage room was filled with wall-to-wall bodies, both men and women, pressed up against one another, all shouting at the top of their lungs.

This wasn’t the first bare-knuckle cage fight Hawk had been to. The underground fighting circuit was infamous in Vegas, and in his youth he’d taken part in his fair share of illegal betting in abandoned warehouses very similar to this one.

But as Hawk shoved his way through the spectators, his hearing began to adjust, the screams of the crowd beginning to sound less like excitement and a lot more like bloodthirsty war cries.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!” They chanted the lone word over and over again, in and out of unison.

Realization slammed into him like a runaway freight train. This wasn’t any ordinary cage fight, this was a fucking death match. All around him, bodies were straining against one another, their arms raised in the air, holding up their money as they continued to trample one another, attempting to get a better glimpse of the gory entertainment.

His apprehension mounting, Hawk glanced over his shoulder, looking over top of the crowd seeking out Hammer. Due to the sheer volume of people packed inside the room, the man had fallen a ways behind him. Only because of Hammer’s size could Hawk find him, violently shoving people out of his way as he made his way toward him.

Hammer having reached him, the two of them stood side by side and charged forward. The size of their combined statures created a human battering ram that allowed them to slam easily through the remaining people, clearing a path to the front of the crowd.

A wall-to-floor steel cage had been erected in the center of the room, the floor within stained brown with the blood of past fights, and currently slick with the fresh blood of the battle presently raging inside it.

“There he is!” Hammer shouted, jerking his chin in ZZ’s direction.

At least it looked like ZZ—if ZZ and the Terminator had a fuck fest that had produced a love child named “Warmonger” who had been kept on a steady diet solely consisting of raw eggs and steroids.

The man was all deadly muscle, furrowed brows, and fists flying with a single-minded focus. To kill.

One, two, left, right, left. Hawk watched as ZZ hammered his bloody, swollen fists into his opponent’s stomach, chest, and face in that precise order, sending blood and teeth flying with every bone-crunching punch.

Like a machine, ZZ never once paused to catch his breath, never once missed a beat. On and on it went, him beating the other man senseless while deftly avoiding all punches aimed at him.

Watching him, Hawk felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Hawk wasn’t looking at ZZ; this was not ZZ, this wasn’t even a man. Hawk was looking at a slab of meat covered in skin, a walking, talking, still-breathing carcass.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. ZZ had just cornered his opponent against the cage wall and in a quick maneuver, grabbed a fistful of the other man’s hair, forcing his head down and his body to fold over. Then bringing up his own knee, ZZ slammed it into the man’s face, snapping his head backward and breaking his neck.

As the man slumped to the ground, his lifeless eyes wide open, the crowd erupted in an explosion of exhilarated cries and shouts. Only Hawk and Hammer remained still, frozen in the midst of the chaos.

What in the holy fuck had he just witnessed?

Seeing his former brother like this, a man who’d once been so damn easygoing, always had a grin on his face and a joke to tell, turned into a ghost of his former self, a stone-faced killer . . .

Well, it didn’t exactly leave him feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. Quite the fucking opposite, actually. And he might have just continued to stand there, staring, leaving him vulnerable to ZZ noticing him if Hammer hadn’t grabbed him, yanking him backward into the crowd. The cheering people swarmed around him, hiding him from sight just as ZZ straightened and turned to face his fans.

He spared them only a quick glance before abruptly turning away. Outside the cage, ZZ took a wad of cash from some greasy-looking asshole, grabbed a jacket from a nearby chair, and then he was on the move, shoving off the poor souls who dared to approach him before disappearing behind a door Hawk hadn’t previously noticed.

“Follow him!” Hammer shouted. “I’ll head back upstairs and cover the front!”

Cursing, forcing himself into action, Hawk started maneuvering his way through the throng of people, heading for the exit ZZ had taken. As soon as he passed through the open door, he slipped his hand inside his cut and pulled his gun free from its holster.

He was only a few feet inside the dark hallway when the door behind him suddenly closed with a loud bang. He spun around, his trigger finger ready, only to find Hammer and two of his men standing there.

Confused, he lowered his gun. “Why aren’t you . . .”

He trailed off as something hard and cool, undoubtedly the barrel of a gun, was pressed against the back of his neck.

“You thought you had the drop on me, huh?” ZZ’s tone and the laugh that followed were so cold and devoid of emotion, chills went skittering down Hawk’s spine. But even worse was Hammer’s refusal to meet Hawk’s eyes.

Well . . . shit. You really couldn’t fucking trust anyone, could you? There was no loyalty among criminals. The only man he’d ever met who’d been the exception to that rule had been Deuce.

The barrel of ZZ’s gun dug deeper into his neck. “Drop your fuckin’ piece.”

Thumbing the safety, Hawk opened his hand, allowing the weapon to fall. It clattered onto the floor with a sad, slapping thud that echoed throughout the empty hall.

Grabbing hold of his arm, ZZ roughly turned him, shoving him face-first into the wall. Without having to be told, Hawk assumed the position. After placing his palms flat against the wall, he then spread his legs apart.

ZZ’s pat down was quick, yet thorough, and within moments both of Hawk’s blades and his phone had joined his gun on the floor.

Hawk blew out a silent, frustrated breath. It was just a phone, but it contained the only photos he had of his son. Living life on the road didn’t allow him the luxury of keeping anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Not that any of that was going to matter if he didn’t make it out of this warehouse with his brains intact.

“Whatever you’re gonna do,” Hawk said quietly, “you best do it now. If not, I got places to be.”

“Yeah?” ZZ snorted. “More fool’s errands for your prez?”

“He was your prez once too.”

“He’s out for my blood, meanin’ he ain’t jack shit to me.”

“You shot Cage,” Hawk said, “meaning you shot us all. Your brothers. You can’t be dumb enough to think that shit was gonna fly with Prez.”

“He pulled on me!” ZZ yelled.

“Enough!”

Hawk turned toward the voice just as Hammer and his men parted, allowing four more men to enter the hallway. Dressed in expensive suits, their hair perfectly styled, these men weren’t more of Hammer’s crew.

The lead man, a good twenty years older than Hawk, judging by his white hair and wrinkled skin, stopped directly beside Hawk and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile but a vicious one. It was a smile that niggled at his memories.

“Luca,” the old man said, his voice heavily accented. “Is good to see you again . . . alive.”

Hawk blinked. That name, his name, his real goddamn name and that thick Russian accent. Which meant . . . this man was mafia. Cut from the same damn cloth Hawk was.

Behind him, ZZ burst out laughing. “To think all those fuckin’ years I was livin’ amongst mafia royalty.”

Hawk said nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, too busy trying to compute what was happening. Or better yet, why it was happening.

“You no remember me, do you?” the old man asked.

Hawk stared at his face, his features, trying desperately to place him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t. Not until he looked directly into the man’s eyes, such a dark shade of brown that the pupil was virtually indiscernible from the iris. Not only were they a mirror image of his father’s eyes, but of his own as well.

“Yenny,” he said flatly.

As the man’s smile grew, so did Hawk’s anger.

Yevgeniy Polachev was Hawk’s uncle and had been his father’s second-in-command. Hawk had been under the impression that Yenny had died along with everyone else in his father’s company.

But Yenny hadn’t died, he’d lived, and from the look of his expensive clothing and the armed men behind him, had prospered.

“You,” Hawk spat. “You turned on my father, didn’t you? You took everything he’d made for yourself!”

In answer, Yenny simply shrugged. “Your father was greedy, Luca. He would have fallen eventually.”

Hawk said nothing, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them. In the background, the shouts of the spectators could still be heard, along with the low hum of a plane flying overhead. But predominant was the sound of Hawk’s own heart, fast paced and erratic, his blood thundering violently through his veins as he fought the urge not to reach out and strangle the man he’d once called Uncle. Something that would undoubtedly end badly for him, seeing as he was the only unarmed man in a room full of guns.

“Luca!” ZZ continued laughing. “I still can’t believe this shit.”

Ignoring ZZ, Hawk focused on Hammer. “You set me up? You set this up?”

Whereas every Hell’s Horsemen chapter had their own president, their own business dealings, and their own way of doing things, Miles City was the mother chapter and Deuce was ultimately in charge. Hammer’s involvement in this wasn’t just disloyal, it was traitorous. Once Deuce found out, the Nevada chapter would be gutted and rebuilt from the ground up, if it even was rebuilt at all.

A body slammed unexpectedly into Hawk from behind, forcing him flat against the wall. He felt a gun pressed into his cheek, causing the soft skin on the inside of his mouth to grind painfully against his teeth.

“I set this up,” ZZ hissed, his breath hot across Hawk face. “Deuce has been buyin’ less and less Russian metal since teamin’ up with Preacher and those Chinese fucks.”

Hawk cut his eyes toward Yenny. “Deuce hasn’t been buyin’ less. Fact, this isn’t about Deuce at all, is it? You want Preacher. You want the East Coast.”

“You always were a smart boy, Luca. Such a shame what happened to you . . .”

Yenny’s gaze ran up and down the length of Hawk as he eyed his leathers and his cut with nothing short of disgust. Once upon a time, Hawk would have done the same, way back when his name was still Luca. But he wasn’t Luca anymore. He was James motherfucking Hawk Young, he was Deuce’s boy, and he was unfailingly loyal.

“I’ll never help you,” he gritted out.

Hawk found himself suddenly spun around and face-to-face with a smiling ZZ. No, ZZ wasn’t smiling, he was mocking him with a crude and ugly grin.

“Brother,” ZZ said with a sneer. “You already have. Now we wait to see if your prez gives a fuck about you.”

“Enough,” Yenny demanded. “The car is waiting. Shoot him already.”

The declaration caught Hawk by surprise, but he had little time to dwell on it as a shot rang out, and his left leg bent suddenly and then gave out entirely. Searing pain shot up and down the limb as he stumbled backward and slammed into the wall behind him. Falling forward, his body crumpled to the floor in an awkward heap.

Blinking through watery eyes, he tried to assess his injury, could almost make out his shin. The bullet had gone into the left side of his leg, torn straight through, blowing out the other side, taking with it bone, muscle, and a shit ton of blood. Seeing the gaping wound, the broken bone fragments sharply jutting through the gory mess of shredded muscle and blood, all caused his stomach to roil.

Shaking, starting to shiver from the cold quickly taking hold of his insides, Hawk glanced up at ZZ and, despite his pain, attempted a smile. No fucking way was he going to let these assholes use him against Deuce. He would die first.

“Never did see Danny lookin’ at you the way she looks at Ripper,” he whispered hoarsely. “Must burn you up inside knowin’ she loves lookin’ at somethin’ Crazy Frankie carved up, more than she ever did you.”

ZZ’s nostrils flared wide as the hand holding his gun began to twitch.

“And Tegen,” Hawk continued through chattering teeth. “Shit, brother . . . you packin’ light . . . ’cause you’re losin’ women left and—”

Hawk jerked as a gun discharged and sent ZZ sprawling backward. But before Hawk could see how badly ZZ was hit, Yenny stepped in front of him, blocking his line of sight.

“Luca, Luca, Luca.” Yenny sighed and tsk-tsked. “You made me shoot my best fighter.”

“Yeah,” Hawk rasped. Defeated, he let his head drop back against the wall. “So not fuckin’ . . . sorry . . . about . . . that.”