Page 84 of Tank
“What happened?” Havoc asks.
My voice is raw when I answer. “Vanessa. She didn’t make it. Tank made Ricky a prospect. He… Tank told him he’s family.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, they’re already moving.
“Hey!” a nurse barks. “No running!”
“Our brother’s in pain,” Mayhem calls back. “Like hell we’re not running!”
They rush past me and descend like a protective wall around Tank and Ricky — patting Ricky’s shoulders, murmuring low words of comfort, offering presence and warmth. A ring of grief and brotherhood. I feel like my chest is split open. I stagger back from the scene, toward the hallway entrance, trying to hold myself together.
My eyes blink through the tears and I see Alex stepping through the double doors, scanning the space until she finds me.
“Bianca?” Her voice undoes me.
I rush to her, throw my arms around her, and start crying again.
“It’s Vanessa,” I say, my voice breaking. “She’s gone. She’s really gone.”
Alex hugs me tightly, rubbing my back. “Oh, no, B…”
I want to stay in her arms forever, but then I feel something else — another hand, big and warm, settle gently on my back. I turn and see Tank standing there, glassy-eyed. His mouth is tight, his expression strained with everything he hasn’t said.
But it’s his voice that gets me. Rough, trembling. Human.
“There’s been too much dying tonight,” Tank says. “And I know I said we’d talk later, but I can’t wait any longer.” He looks at me, eyes dark and raw and wide open. “You’re too important. We need to talk. Now.”
I stare at him for a heartbeat, and then I nod. Because I need answers. Because I need him.
Because I still love him.
Alex squeezes my arm in silent support as I step away from her and take Tank’s hand.
It’s warm. Solid. Familiar.
He smiles at me. It’s wan, pained, but still, him.
“Let’s go talk.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Bianca
Tank leads me into one of the quiet family rooms just down the hall. It’s sterile and cold and lit by dim bulbs that hum faintly above us. I sit on the edge of the couch, and he stands for a long moment, pacing like he doesn’t know how to start.
Then he stops. Turns. And looks me dead in the eyes.
“I never told you where I came from,” he says. “My dad was a drunk and a degenerate gambler. But he was all I had. Never knew my mother, don’t know what happened to her — if she died, disappeared, or what. He and I, we bounced between shitty motel rooms and shittier card rooms from as far back as I can remember. Most nights I fell asleep to the sound of machines clinking and drunks yelling, and most mornings I had to drag my old man out of fights he started and couldn’t finish.”
My throat tightens. I want to reach for him, but I hold still, because there’s something in Tank’s eyes like he wants to fight this battle alone.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
Tank’s voice is low, steady, like he’s just trying to get it out before it swallows him. “I raised myself. Taught myself to fight. Learned early that the world doesn’t give you a damn thing unless you take it. So when I was old enough, I joined the Army. Needed structure. Family.” He smiles faintly, and it’s almost broken. “Met Diesel and Hunter there. My real brothers. We saw hell together. Survived it. And when we got out, we didn’t know where else to go. So we drifted, and we fought, and we raised all sorts of hell, until we found the MC.”
I nod, breathe again. “I’m listening.”
He takes a breath and drops onto the couch beside me, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I came to Boise for one reason. To kill your brother.” The words land like a blow. Even though I knew them, even though I know who he is, they still hit me full-force. “And when I met you, I thought maybe I could use you to get to him. That was the plan. I’ll never lie about that.” My chest constricts, my breathing nearly ceases, and my eyes waver from his face. “But what I didn’t count on,” he says, looking deep into my eyes, “was falling in love with you.”
