-Roxy Delgado:
As I watched Mateo walk out of the guest bedroom after we finished talking about the accident and what we are going to be doing about the Serranos situation this morning, I knew I couldn’t sit this one out.
I slowly hobbled back into my bedroom, leaning heavily on my crutches, every movement deliberate.
The ache in my leg reminded me it wasn’t fully healed yet, but I pushed it to the back of my mind. My body was sore, yes, but my mind was sharper than ever. Tonight was different. Mateo’s words earlier still echoed in my head. The seriousness of what was unfolding within the club pressed on me like an unshakable weight. This wasn’t about healing anymore. Tonight, it was about showing up and making my presence felt.
I know he said I need to stay home and rest, but I can’t just sit and do nothing, I need to at least be with them at the club before they decide to do anything about the Serranos.
When I closed my bedroom door behind me, I leaned my head back against it for a moment, letting out a slow breath. My chest rose and fell as the tension in my shoulders tried to ease, though I knew it wouldn’t. Not tonight. Tonight would demand more. I limped toward my wardrobe, dragging the crutches softly against the polished floor. My fingers lingered on the jackets, scanning the textures—worn leather, thick denim, black fabrics. Every piece of clothing was a choice, an armor.
I pulled open the door wide, revealing the jackets hanging inside. My hand hovered over each, almost reverent, before settling on my battered black leather jacket. It was cracked along the seams, worn from years of riding and battles. It carried history, grit, and the scent of danger. It was perfect. I slid it off the hanger, feeling the cool leather against my fingers, and draped it over my arm.
Beneath it, I rifled through my tops and settled on a deep crimson tank top. The fabric was soft yet form-fitting, clinging to my body in a way that emphasized my shape without being too revealing. The color was bold, fierce, and somehow intoxicating. I let my fingers smooth it over my shoulders, imagining the look I’d give tonight, the energy I wanted to carry.
My jeans choice came next—tight, black, ripped at the knees, elastic enough to let me move without restriction. They were practical but styled with intent. I stepped in slowly, the fabric hugging my hips and thighs, outlining the strength of my legs despite my injury. Combat boots followed—heavy, black, and solid. Each buckle glinted faintly under my bedroom light.
Standing in front of the mirror, I adjusted my jacket over my shoulders, tugging lightly at the tank top. My hair was loose today, cascading in messy waves around my face and shoulders, catching the light differently with each movement. I let my fingers trail through it absentmindedly, feeling its texture. My reflection didn’t scream perfection, but it spoke of resilience, of defiance, and of fire. I liked that.
Leaning on my crutches, I stepped away from the mirror and headed to the dresser. Jewelry wasn’t just adornment—it was a statement. I chose a thick silver chain necklace, resting just above the collar of my tank top. A few understated rings went on my fingers, not for show but as a symbol of strength. I kept my makeup minimal, dark eyeliner to sharpen my eyes, a light brush of mascara, and deep red lipstick that matched my top and my hair streaks. My boots clicked softly against the floor as I finished, each step a reminder that tonight mattered.
I moved toward the door, crutches in hand, when one of the maids stepped into the hallway, carrying a tray with tea and fruit. Her eyes flicked toward me, curiosity and concern mixing in her expression.
"Miss Roxy," she said quietly, "will you be home for dinner tonight?"
I paused, leaning on my crutches for a moment. "Yes," I replied firmly. My voice was calm, but there was a resolve under it that gave weight to my words.
"And... what would you like for dinner, Miss?" she asked gently.
I smirked faintly, leaning forward. "Steak. Rare. Mushrooms. You know the ones I like. And red wine."
She nodded quietly and stepped away, her heels making soft clicks on the marble. I adjusted my jacket one last time before heading toward the door. Outside, the air was thick and alive, heavy with the scent of evening. A sleek black motorcycle waited near the driveway, one of my chauffeurs standing beside it, helmet in hand. He nodded respectfully as I approached.
"Heading to the club?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, I need to see my brothers." I said without hesitation. My fingers tightened around my crutches, and I moved forward slowly, with purpose.
He handed me my helmet. I fastened it over my head without looking at him, as I watched him sliding onto the seat carefully and helped hop on behind him. The leather felt cool against my skin, the helmet heavy but comforting, I placed my crutches on my thighs and held into his shoulders.
I’m happy he didn’t try to convince me to get in a car instead of a motorcycle just because my leg is injured since he knows I prefer being on a bike when I head to the club.
The engine roared beneath me, a low and powerful vibration that ran through my bones. The city blurred past, lights and shadows streaking by as my focus narrowed.
The ride was loud—powerful engines thundering in harmony—and every vibration seemed to match the beat of my heart. The air was sharp, carrying with it scents of asphalt and gasoline, of smoke and something indefinable, dangerous. My thoughts were elsewhere—on Mateo’s words, on what awaited me tonight.
As we neared the club, the roar of motorcycles grew louder, a mechanical symphony that shook the ground. The parking lot was a spectacle—rows of chrome shining under dim lights, engines idling with a steady hum. The air buzzed with conversation, laughter, and the unmistakable energy of anticipation.
"Let me help you, Ma’am." The chauffeur said and quickly jumped off the the biker and help me hop off it too.
"Thank you, Ben." I thanked him, and leaned heavily on my crutches as we entered, boots clicking against gravel. The smell inside was intoxicating—a mix of whiskey, smoke, and old wood. It was raw and alive, filled with years of stories, battles, and brotherhood. The walls were lined with memorabilia: patches, photographs of past rides, weapons displayed like trophies.
Voices rose and fell, greetings exchanged in low tones. "Roxy!" someone called, their voice carrying over the hum of conversation. Others greeted me with nods and half-smiles. I smiled faintly back, keeping my face neutral. "I’m fine," I said when someone asked about my leg.
Kyle was the first to notice me. His eyes narrowed as he stepped toward me, concern evident. "Roxy," he said, his voice low. "Are you okay? Nobody gave you trouble on the way here?" He glanced at Ben and the two helmets in his hands in disproval, hating the fact that I rode here instead of just using the car, but thankfully he didn’t say anything about it.
I shook my head firmly. "Everything was fine, Kyle. Thanks for asking."
His gaze lingered on me, assessing. "Good. Take care of yourself."
Before I could respond, Mateo appeared beside me, arm linked with Jacki—his boyfriend aka my best friend. Jacki’s expression was warm as he reached for my hand. "Roxy," he said softly, "come sit with me."
I hesitated for a beat, glancing toward Kyle, then nodded. Leaning slightly on my crutches, I accepted, letting him guide me toward a seat at the bar where Mateo stood beside him. The quiet intimacy between them was subtle—touches, glances, the way Jacki rested his hand lightly on Mateo’s arm.
I settled in slowly, adjusting my jacket and taking in the room. Soon, more of my brothers arrived—Dante, Victor, Adrian, Marcus, and finally Leo. Leo’s voice rang out loud above the murmured conversation. "What’s going on? I was with my fiancée, deciding what wedding ceremony we should have!"
Kyle fixed his gaze on him, voice sharp. "Someone tried to kill your sister, Leo. And you’re worried about your fucking wedding?"
Leo froze. "What?"
"It’s true," Mateo said quietly. "The accident wasn’t an accident. The Serranos gang—they planned it. Shipments. Everything. That’s why we’re here tonight."
Their voices lowered, conversation turning urgent and hushed. I stayed leaning back against the bar, watching them with intent.
Finally, I spoke. "I’m not going with you. I’m hurt. I’m still healing. But whoever gave the order to try to kill me—I want them dead. I want to be the one to end them."
Kyle frowned but said nothing. "No," he finally muttered, but I cut him off. "No. I can’t sit this one out. Broken leg or not, I’m gonna be here waiting for you to bring them to me."
A murmur of agreement rose around us. Marcus glanced toward the group. "So... what time are we heading?"
Their conversation shifted to strategy—times, routes, weapons. I stayed quiet, leaning on my crutches, absorbing every word. Outside, the air pulsed with energy as engines roared louder, hundreds of motorcycles coming alive in perfect chaos.
I stepped out last, boots hitting the gravel with purpose, crutches steady beneath me. The noise washed over me—the vibration of engines, the smell of fuel and leather, the energy of my brothers preparing for war. My gaze lingered on them, on the bikes lined in gleaming rows, men checking straps and weapons.
Tonight, they rode out. And soon I’ll get to end whoever tried to hurt me... Though, I’m grateful to them, because I met Sloane.
Ah. Sloane, what would she be doing right now.