Page 91 of Rider Daddies
When the car takes off, we all release the breath we’ve been holding.
But the tension isn’t dismissed. I feel it clutching my bones still. This isn’t over. This tug-of-war with Lucia feels never-ending.
“That was weird,” she murmurs.
“Not really,” Saint says, walking out. “Standard cop visit, really.”
“No, not that.” Lucia rubs her head. “There were bodies everywhere. Think about all those missing person cases, all of those files becoming solved when the police turned up at the motel. What about murder? It was damn obvious that all of those men laid out in the parking lot were killed. And they’re here to investigate me, the only missing victim…”
Ryder crosses his arms over his chest. “What are you saying?”
“Murder is more of a priority than missing.”
A streak of moonlight crosses Lucia’s face. Her eyes are wide, alert.
She looks afraid.
“Why is this about a missing person instead of murder?”
14
LUCIA
I wantto believe that the cops chose to dismiss the dozen-or-so bodies laid out at the motel, but it’s not protocol to ignore murder.
Not even if the people who died deserved it.
Mid-afternoons at the clubhouse are quiet. Maybe too quiet.
Eerily quiet.
Most of the bikers are out at this time doing whatever it is they do. The brothers joined them today for numbers.
Normally, I like being left alone, but whenever they’re gone I feel lonely.
The memory of them haunts me. Last night, bent over the Harley, was quite something. Having three brothers fight over me really gets my engines revving.
But it’s starting to become old news now. It’s obvious that the three of them have unfinished business from their childhoods. Parents dying can’t be easy even in adulthood, so I dread to imagine the hurt they had to endure as kids.
After tidying up the bar, I decide to slip under the curtain to take a look around the infamous ammo room.
Shiny toys are everywhere.
I pick up a few weapons, gauging their weight.
Back in Sicily, my papa owned a rifle for the rats whenever they sneaked into the garden. When his affair came to light, intrusive thoughts got stuck in my mind. The only thing that used to make me feel better about his affair was the idea of me shooting him dead with his own weapon.
What the fuck is wrong with me…?
Shouldn’t I be experiencing PTSD by now?
Instead, I lay the rifle out like it’s an extension of my own arm, reliving the moment I shot Manual Lombardi dead.
The fucker deserved it.
I see the blood pouring out of his chest again. I can almost fucking taste it.
And it tastes divine.
