Page 39 of Gonzo's Grudge
“You did my son dirty,” I growled, my face inches from his. “Did you think I wouldn’t seek you out?”
“I—” he stammered, but I shoved harder, cutting him off.
“You think you can sit pretty in this house, eat roast chicken, and pretend you didn’t throw him to the wolves? You think you can play the respectable father while my boy rots in a cage for a crime he didn’t commit? You played with my kid, and I have to tell you, Walsh, I’m thoroughly enjoying fucking yours.”
Sweat beaded at his temple. “I—don’t—know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” I snarled. “You’re in Hampton Stanley’s pocket. You crossed an outlaw. And now you want to look me in the eye like a man and have a talk? Let me make this clear.”
I leaned closer, my voice low, deadly. “Do you understand the level of pain I’m going to rain down on your family? I came tonight simply so you could know what’s coming. You crossed me. You crossed my son. And you will never—ever—be safe from us. Right the wrong, Walsh.”
His breath hitched. His eyes darted, searching for a way out, finding none.
I let the silence stretch until I felt his fear seep through the air. Then I stepped back, slow, releasing him. He slumped against the wall, gasping.
I adjusted my cut. “Now let’s go back to dinner. Smile for your daughter. Pretend everything’s fine. But remember—when the storm hits, you’ll know exactly why. And until I’m ready for her to know, you’re gonna play my game better than you ever did for Stanley.”
I opened the door and walked out, leaving him pale and shaken in the shadows of his perfect study.
At the table, IvaLeigh looked up, relief flooding her face when she saw me. She smiled, innocent, unaware of the war I’d just promised. And my chest tightened with something sharp.
Guilt.
Because one day, when the truth came out, she’d hate me for it. But until then, I’d do anything—anything—for my son. Even if it meant breaking her heart.
Chapter 13
IvaLeigh
The drive back was quiet. I sat behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, cheek pressed to the leather of his cut. The wind snapped against us, the road unwinding in black ribbons, and still I could feel it—the shift. Something in him was different.
It wasn’t just the silence; Gonzo was a man who could live in silence without it ever feeling empty. No—this was heavier. His shoulders held a tension that hadn’t been there when we rode to my parents’ house. His grip on the bars was harder, tighter, every movement sharper.
I didn’t know what had passed between him and my father in the study, but I knew it changed something.
When he pulled into the drive at his cabin and cut the engine, the night fell quiet again. Crickets sang in the trees. The headlight clicked off, leaving us wrapped in shadows and silver moonlight.
I slid off the bike, tugging my jacket tighter. He didn’t move for a long moment. Just sat there, staring into the dark.
Finally, he swung his leg over and stood. “C’mon,” he said, voice low.
Inside, the cabin felt warmer than I expected. Safe, even with the weight pressing down on him. I dropped my bag by the couch while he pulled two beers from the fridge. He handed me one, then leaned against the counter, drinking like he needed the bite of it.
I set mine down untouched. My heart pounded, my words sticking in my throat. Finally, I blurted it out.
“Gabriel is my dad’s job a problem?”
His eyes flicked to me, sharp and unreadable. “Why you askin’ that?”
“Because you’re different tonight,” I muttered softly. “Something happened back there. I can feel it. And my dad—he’s always been proud of being this respectable man with his respectable job. But if that job is in the way somehow, I need to know. He’s a judge and you tell me you’re an outlaw so I can’t imagine those two things work together.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. He just studied me, like he was weighing how much truth I could take.
Finally, he set the bottle down. “Baby, your old man’s world and mine don’t mix. They never could. What I am, what I do—it don’t fit into the neat boxes men like him build their lives around. And yeah, that’s a problem.”
I swallowed hard. I always told myself not to ask questions I wasn’t prepared to hear the answer to, but this, I guess I needed to know. “What does being an outlaw biker mean, really?”
His eyes softened, but only a little. “It means loyalty above law. It means my word to my brothers comes before anything the state writes on paper. It means when the system fails us—and it always does—we take care of our own. Sometimes with our hands. Sometimes with our blood. It means you need to know there won’t be a line I won’t cross to protect what matters to me.”
