Page 18 of The Biker's Single Mom
Even from this distance, I know this is Carlo Ricci. He moves with the confidence of a man accustomed to fear and deference, straightening his expensive suit as he surveys our compound. His face is handsome in a cold, calculated way, the kind of looks that photograph well for political fundraisers and society pages, masking the rot beneath.
I hear Daisy's sharp intake of breath behind me. "That's him."
The hatred that surges through me is primitive and absolute. This is the man who hurt her. Who made Violet afraid. Who still haunts their nightmares.
"Stay here," I tell her, stepping away from the window. "When they breach the gate, we meet them outside. No reason to give them cover or vantage points."
The Riders move to their positions, Hawk and Victor flanking the main entrance, Devil and Blade taking the sides, me at the center. We've defended this ground before. We know its strengths, its vulnerabilities.
The sound of the gate being rammed open sends a surge of adrenaline through my system. Engines roar as the SUVs power up the driveway.
"Now," Blade commands.
We move as one unit through the door, spreading across the gravel yard in a practiced formation. The SUVs screech to a halt twenty yards away, and men pour out, weapons already drawn.
"Carlo Ricci," I call, stepping forward. "You're trespassing on Riders territory."
Ricci moves to the front of his men, hands casually in his pockets like this is a business meeting. "I've come for my wife and daughter," he says, voice smooth and cultured. "Give them to me, and we can avoid unnecessary bloodshed."
"Ex-wife," I correct. "And they're not yours anymore."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Everything I claim is mine, biker. Always."
"Not this time." I step further forward, creating distance between myself and the other Riders. Making myself the primary target. "Daisy and Violet are under Riders protection now."
"Protection?" Ricci laughs, the sound cold and calculated. "Is that what you call it? Stealing another man's family?"
"You can't steal what was never yours," Daisy's voice rings out from behind me.
My heart stops as she steps up beside me, her slight frame straight and tense. Goddamn stubborn woman. But the look on Ricci's face at the sight of her, shock giving way to fury, is almost worth the risk.
"Daisy," he says, his voice shifting to something silky and dangerous. "You've led me on quite a chase, darling."
"It's over, Carlo," she says, and I hear the tremor she's fighting to control. "You don't own me. You don't own Violet. You never did."
"Is that what you think?" Ricci's eyes harden. "You think you can just walk away? Take my blood, my legacy?"
His hand moves, and everything happens at once. The flash of a gun being drawn. My body moving instinctively to shield Daisy. The first crack of gunfire, not from Ricci, but from one of his men.
Then chaos erupts.
I tackle Daisy to the ground as bullets spray the air above us. The Riders return fire from strategic positions, the sharp reports of guns punctuated by shouts and the crunch of gravel under boots.
"Stay down," I growl at Daisy, pulling my own weapon. I fire twice, taking out the gunman closest to us, then drag her behind the cover of a concrete planter.
The air fills with gunsmoke and dust. Through the haze, I see Hawk engaged in hand-to-hand with one of Ricci's men, whileVictor provides covering fire. Devil has another pinned against an SUV, fist connecting with brutal efficiency.
And Ricci—Ricci is moving toward the clubhouse, toward where Violet is hidden below.
"He's going for the club," I shout to Blade, who nods grimly, understanding instantly.
"Cover me," he calls back, laying down suppressive fire as I sprint toward the entrance, cutting off Ricci's path.
I catch him at the steps, tackling him hard to the ground. His gun skitters away across the gravel. He's stronger than he looks, landing a solid blow to my ribs that makes me grunt with pain. But I've been in too many fights to be slowed by a single hit.
I drive my fist into his face, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath my knuckles. Blood sprays from his broken nose, speckling his pristine white shirt.
"She's mine," he snarls, slashing at me with a hidden blade that opens a stinging line across my forearm.
