Page 66 of Undone

“I’ll fly out tonight.”

“It might be better if you gave me a few days. I have a man to bury.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” I disconnected our call. My eyes landed on the miniature chess set sitting on the corner of my desk.

Vasyl and I had started a game that we never got the chance to finish.

I picked up the black knight and moved it forward—calculating the many ways I could win.

But I wasn’t playing Vasyl anymore. The moves I was making would put The Vega’s and the Felons in check.

We buried Vasyl on a frigid fall day. The rain splattered against my face and plastered my hair to my head. We dug his resting spot ourselves, at our camp in Oregon beyond a grove of apple trees.

He used to hike out to the spot, smoke, and drink.

He felt peace there.

It was the most fitting spot for him to rest. My boots sank in the wet soil as I trudged back through the woods and over fallen leaves to the base of the camp. The last time we all gathered here, we were all happy as hell. Today was a sobering reminder how quickly one’s fate can change.

I knew I should stay away.

But I walked away from Vasyl’s grave, needing my angel more than ever. We were all heading to Springdale anyway and had planned to stay the night before riding to Vancouver. I was meeting Roque there to talk strategy on taking down The Vega’s.

One by one, we rode. I pulled over, motioning my men to continue to Sassy’s. “Don’t go.” Federico warned. “Leave Luce alone.”

I pinned my hard gaze on him and kicked off, speeding down the winding lane that led to Rog’s rental property on the edge of town.

Wet leaves cluttered the road.

The rain fell.

It was a cold, harsh, bitch of a day and I needed her to make my world right. Even if it would only be for a few stolen hours.

The lights were out in her apartment, but her car was there. The hood was cool under my palm. I saw red for a minute, thinking she might be out on a date or some shit. Some people move on that way… the way I set it up to pretend I had.

Through the rain—I heard music. The notes vibrant and brash. I followed it out back noticing the old barn had come alive. I moved close to the perimeter and peered through a window.

My angel was wearing those denim cut-offs I loved. Her T-shirt was twisted and knotted at her side, showing me glimpses of her midriff.

My throat dried.

I felt my groin tighten immediately, remembering the feel of being inside her. Paint streaked across her forearms, thighs, and splattered across her face. She was an artistic warrior; the canvas in front of her just as bold and bruised as our love—but still vibrantly alive.

I made my way to the barn doors and hauled them open.

The wind and rain followed me in.

She whirled, holding her paint brush out like a weapon. The music she played vibrated so loud, the windows rattled with it and the wind.

One battling from the outside to smash the glass while the other tried to break out from within.

Our eyes spoke a million things at once.

Her chin lifted, eyes narrowing as she tried to stare me down into leaving. I shook my head, to let her know I wasn’t.

I stalked forward, uncaring my boots stepped in wet paint. She held her ground as I came closer.

---