Page 20 of Dirty Deeds

“The campaign manager.”

She rolls her eyes and I flip the switch on the side of my phone, effectively silencing it. Ro isn’t exaggerating, the damn thing has been blowing up for hours. If it’s not Brent’s campaign manager, it’s another staff member. Occasionally it’s a reporter, looking for a statement.

The press has been just as relentless as Brent’s posse. Earlier today, I went to the police station to give a statement and they were camped outside. As soon as they spotted me, they bombarded me, firing off question after question. I wasn’t sure how they knew I’d be there or if they were just there because they knew that’s where they were holding Enzo.

Most of the questions were about Brent’s condition; others were about his business partner, Guthrie. Apparently, he was also attacked that night on Staten Island and is now in a coma.

There were a few questions about Enzo too. They wanted to know if he was the new man in my life and if the attack on Brent was intentional. I thought about giving them the standard ‘no comment’, but sometimes those two words can be a double-edged sword, so I said nothing.

I brushed past the sea of reporters, entered the police station, and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of Enzo’s case. I made it clear that Enzo acted in self-defense, but I don’t know how much good that did. It seems like it’s my word against Brent’s at this point, and a judge will ultimately be the one to have the final say.

“This is the holy land for the Satan’s Knights? It looks like a saloon.”

I drop my phone onto my lap and swipe my sweaty palms over the maxi dress that clings to my thighs as my gaze cuts to the window. The bar that acts as the Satan’s Knights clubhouse looks a lot different during the day than it does at night.

“Are those horseshoes on the steps?” Ro queries, leaning over the console to get a better look. “I thought it would be bigger. And where are the bikes? Aren’t there supposed to be a bunch of bikes parked outside like in the romance books?”

Keeping my eyes pinned to the passenger window, I try to drown out Ro’s rambling as I’m flooded by memories of the last time I sat in a car, staring out the window at Big Nose Kate’s, trying to work up the nerve to go inside.

Enzo isn’t going to come pull me out of Ro’s car this time. Hell, he’s probably sitting in his cell, regretting the day he ever laid eyes on me.

“What’s happening? Why aren’t you getting out?”

Shaking Enzo from my head, I turn back to Ro.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I just…what if this doesn’t work?”

By that I mean, what if Wolf tells me to fuck right off. It’s a strong possibility and the one of the milder potential outcomes. But Ro thinks I need to clear the air with the president of the Satan’s Knights. He gave me twenty-four hours to help him expose Brent and, in that time, the only one I managed to bring down is his son.

“Stop being so pessimistic. You did the right thing, you went to the cops and sided with Enzo without any probing from the Satan’s Knights. That’s a show of good faith. Now, march your ass in there and demand to speak to the big cheese.”

“The big cheese?”

She dramatically waves her hand.

“The guy in charge. Wolf.”

“I think you’re forgetting who exactly we’re dealing with here. You don’t turn a cheek to his threats.”

She opens her mouth to deliver a rebuttal but gets distracted by the car pulling into the side lot in front of us. My gaze follows hers, and we watch as the car comes to a stop and the passenger door opens. Dressed in the same clothes as he wore the night of the fundraiser, Enzo steps out of the car. A gasp slips past my lips, and I blink rapidly, sure my eyes are playing tricks on me.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” Ro asks. “Do you know him? Is he one of the Knights? Again, where are the fucking motorcycles? There should be bikes. Leather. Something.”

I smack her arm lightly.

“It’s Enzo.”

“Oh….Oh. That’s Enzo? Damn, girl. Talk about an upgrade. He is fine with a capital F.”

Yes, he is, especially when he lifts his arms over his head and stretches his taut body. I’ve seen him do that before. Once on the boat, after he finished repairing the boards on the deck and again, after he delivered me a third orgasm.

“Wait. Who’s the chick getting out of the car?”

I force the memories to the back of my head and tear my gaze away from Enzo, taking in the woman getting out of the driver’s seat. She calls out to Enzo, and he turns, giving me the perfect view of his backside as he moves to the back passenger door. He opens it and bends, lifting a little girl about five or six-years old out of the car.

“Holy fuck. He has a kid?”

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