Page 72 of Inked Daddies

It’s a reckless gamble, but I see no other way. My father is inside, possibly tortured or near death, and these men are risking everything on my behalf. I can’t let them all bleed while I cower in a truck seat.

What fucking choice do I have? No choice at all, really.

I promised them I’d stay put.

But everything has changed. The plan is in tatters. They didn’t know about the sniper, or the number of men. If they keep fighting blindly, someone will die—maybe all of them, maybe Dad. I can’t stand that thought.

And if they all die, Crow gets me anyway. What the hell is the point?

A bullet smashes into the truck’s fender, jolting me. I let out a strangled cry, flattening myself against the seat. The muzzle flashes in the yard intensify as Trick or Hugo returns fire.

Resolve hardens in my gut. I can’t keep burying my head while everyone else bleeds for me.

My heart pounds so wildly I feel lightheaded, like I’m sinking into my body. I blink away tears, swallowing the terror that threatens to drown me. This is the last thing Sam, Trick, and Hugo wanted me to do, butI don’t see another way.

If it means saving Dad, I’ll do it. If it means saving them, I’ll do it.

I press my forehead to the seat in front of me, inhaling a ragged breath, bracing myself for what might be the biggest mistake of my life.

When I glance up, I see Trick pinned by two men near the porch, grunting in pain as they trade gut shots on him. Hugo is partially obscured by the swirl of debris, locked in a brutal struggle. Sam is out of sight behind the house or in it, but the random bursts of gunfire from that direction suggest he’s pinned as well.

So much pain. All because of me.

No. Because of Crow.

The thought makes the queasy fear harden in my veins. I’m scared as hell, but I’m angrier than that. I’m furious. If I step out, I might get shot immediately. Or worse, I might be taken forcibly. But I have to try to end this.

“Dad,” I whisper, tears slipping free. “Hold on.”

Clenching my jaw, I push open the truck door. It groans in protest, the night air rushing in, cold against my sweaty skin. The echo of gunfire pulses through the darkness. My heart is a caged animal, thrashing in my chest. I don’t step out yet, just hover there, half in the truck, half out, swallowing the panic that screams at me to stay safe.

My father’s face drifts through my mind—every memory of him, every argument, every moment I took for granted. If this is how I repay him, so be it.

A bullet rips into the pavement a few yards away, sparks skittering. I jolt, breath catching. The fight is only intensifying. Trick’s voice bellows something furious, cut short by the snap of gunfire. Another muzzle flash arcs from the corner of the house. A chunk of porch railing shatters.

The night air slams into me, carrying the smell of fireworks—gunpowder—and churned earth. The yard is a chaos of shadows and half-seen figures. Another bullet ricochets off a stone near the front porch, sending sparks into the night.

They want me alive, right? That’s the only card I have.

I let go of the door, letting it swing shut behind me with a metallic thud. I want their attention. I want them to hear me, see me. Let them come for me.

The yard looks like a nightclub, thanks to the muzzle flashes imitating strobe lights. They have to run out of bullets soon, right? I swallow past the dryness in my mouth. Through the half-light, I glimpse Trick flinging a thug away from him, only to be attacked by another.

I swallow a scream that tries to crawl up my throat. That is not going to help things. I raise my hands, a universal sign ofsurrender, and take a single step away from the truck. My throat tightens as I open my mouth, preparing to shout out who I am, to demand they release Dad or stop shooting. The words catch.

Dad is somewhere behind those walls, alone in the darkness. That bloody picture…

My hands clench, nails digging into my palms. I step forward, heart thundering, ready to call out my surrender, my plea, my offer.

The second my foot leaves the concrete, I know there’s no going back. The shots ring louder than ever in my ears, a violent backdrop to this choice I’m making. My breath catches.

I hear Sam’s voice in my head.Stay in the truck.

I hear my promise to him. And now, I’m making myself a liar.

Sam’s order burns away under the brutal reality that I can’t watch them die, and I can’t hear Dad’s final scream. Before I can speak, another bullet cracks the air, close enough that my hair whips in the concussive force. I flinch, tears blurring my vision. No more hesitation. With my arms half-raised, I take another step, heart hammering like a wild drumbeat.

I am a woman who has chosen safety her whole life. I hide behind a pen name. My mother was the safe choice in the divorce—Boston offered more opportunity than Auclair. I chose to be a librarian, because it was a safer, quieter life than any other option. When Dad came for her funeral, he begged me to move back here, saying Boston wasn’t safe for me anymore without Mom around. It wasn’t safe to be alone.

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