Page 73 of Sexting the Bikers
He stares at the food like it might bite him back.
He takes it, though, mumbling something that could be thanks or a curse. At least he stops pacing.
Bishop lifts his fork, squinting at the food through his swollen eye. “What is this? A peace offering?”
“Breakfast,” I answer, turning back to the stove. I crack two more eggs, listening to the hiss of oil. I know a couple plates of eggs won’t mend what’s broken, but it’s a start.
I keep my focus on the skillet, but guilt needles at me. Everything spiraled the moment I took Katya to bed. I let need cloud judgment and the club paid the price.
The eggs bubble, edges curling. I flip them, trying to burn the memory out of my head. It lingers anyway—her breathless laugh, the curve of her back, the fierce look in her eyes when she challenged me. A reminder of how easily desire can handcuff reason.
I load more eggs onto our plates and join them at the table, facing them squarely. “Walk me through everything you saw at the hotel. Start with the suite itself. How many men did Zaika have, exactly where were they?”
“Best I can tell, two full crews,” Dog says. “Roughly twenty-five, maybe thirty guys. They rotated in groups of six at the hotel, but I spotted three separate SUVs and a cargo van in the service lot. Good chance more were off-site.”
Bishop shifts on the stool, wincing. “They didn’t look like rent-a-cops either.
Dog nods, jaw tight. “And there’s one scary motherfucker running point—big guy called Gregor. Six-six, at least two-fifty. He’s the one who rag-dolled me out the door. Carried a suppressed forty-five like it was a toy.”
So Zaika has a small infantry unit, wheels on standby, and a walking tank named Gregor guarding Katya. The numbers settle into place like pieces on a board. Thirty enemies is a problem. Problems can be divided, but these people are smarter, more powerful than we can ever be.
Bishop slams his bottle on the scarred tabletop, amber foam sloshing over his hand. “We go in. Guns blazing. Take her back and settle this.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it. This stopped being just Novikov the minute Zaika stepped off that plane. We charge in now, we’re not fighting one brat with a hard-on for power. We’re at war with the Bratva’s old guard. Every crew from Brooklyn to Brighton Beach will line up to bleed us out of principle. This is nothing but suicide.”
Dog shifts his weight, restless, but keeps silent. Bishop shakes his head. “We can’t sit here doing nothing. He has Katya.”
“I know.” My voice comes out harsher than I intend. I push away from the counter and stand. “We can’t storm in there without preparation. If we die, so does she. We have to be smart. We wait. We regroup. We think.”
Dog scoffs. “Yeah? While Novikov does what he wants with her?”
The words sting more than they should, but I shove the feeling down. “This club comes first.” The declaration is final, but as I say it, something inside me twists. For the first time, I question if that’s true. “I’m not saying we forget her. But we need to replan and regroup. Then we go after her. No one goes off half-cocked.” My voice leaves no room for debate. The words sound like law, the way I’ve always meant them to.
But as I stare at the lines on the map—at the red circle around the estate, at the hotel, at the dead-end escape routes—I feelsomething twist inside me. I hear Katya’s voice in my memory, that mix of defiance and fear, and I wonder if I even believe what I just said.
Club comes first. Always has. It’s what kept me alive, what made me president, what turned this place into a family after mine was buried. And yet, standing in the half-light with Bishop battered and Dog’s eyes burning holes through me, I’m not sure where Katya fits into that equation anymore.
Dog stands up and slams his palm on the table. A plate crashes to the ground. “Thanks for showing me who you really are, Prez. Just a fucking coward.”
“Don’t do this, Dog,” I warn.
“Don’t call me Dog. My name is Rhett. And I’m done playing under your thumb.” With, that he walks out of the room.
“Bishop—” I start, but he doesn’t meet my gaze, following Dog out of the room.
I turn back to the table, forcing myself to focus. We need a plan, something that keeps us alive and brings her home. I tell myself I’m only doing what a good president would do. But as I circle possible breach points and note the guards’ rotation times from memory, my hands are shaking just enough to make me wonder who I’m really trying to save.
22
KATYA
Istare at the garment bag hanging on the closet door, its shape familiar and foreboding. They tossed it at my feet when they locked me in, like some kind of prize for a dog who finally stopped running. My wrists are still raw from the zip ties, and my throat aches from the silent screaming I’ve been doing in my head ever since Zaika left me in Novikov’s “care.”
I pull the zipper down. The bag sighs open, and a deep red floods the room.
Not ivory. Not even cream. It’s a shade of crimson so dark it looks alive under the light, the way fresh blood does before oxygen dulls it. Gold embroidery coils across the bodice, heavy thread shaping phoenixes and roses. The skirt flares in layered silk, each fold lined in deeper scarlet.
This is not the dress my aunts sewed for me.
