Page 21 of Saint's Preciosa
Luna looks mortified, caught between respect for her grandmother and embarrassment at the situation. "Abuela, stop!"
"It's okay," I tell Luna, backing toward the door as the old woman hurls the other shoe through the air. I duck just in time to avoid taking a sandal to the face. Getting chased out by an old woman with a shoe wasn't exactly how I pictured this night ending, but I've been through worse. "We can talk tomorrow when everyone's calmer."
"There will be no tomorrow!" Abuela declares dramatically, her eyes scanning the room, probably looking for something else to throw. "My granddaughter is a good girl. A decent girl. She doesn't need someone like you in her life.”
I hold up my hands in surrender, not wanting to upset Luna further by arguing. "Buenas noches, señora," I say politely. "I hope you feel better soon." I mean it, despite her hostility. The old woman is clearly very ill.
A box of tissues barely misses me, thudding against the door frame as I duck out into the main room. Luna follows me, her face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and concern.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers once we're out of her grandmother's earshot. "She's been through a lot. She thinks all men with...with your look are like the cartel members who killed my parents."
Her parents were murdered by a cartel? That statement hits me like a punch to the gut. "Luna..."
"It's okay." She shakes her head, not meeting my eyes. "It was a long time ago. I was seven. Papá refused to pay protection money to the local cartel. They killed him and my mother as a message to others." Her voice is flat, as if reciting facts from a distant history book rather than the defining tragedy of her life. "Abuela took me and ran north. She never got over it. That's why we came here, to get away from the violence."
The bitter irony isn't lost on me. She fled violence in Mexico only to land in my arms—the arms of a man whose life is defined by controlled violence. The Sergeant at Arms of an outlaw MC isn't exactly the safe harbor her grandmother had in mind.
“The Shadow Reapers aren't like those cartel thugs. We have a code, honor among brothers. We don't target innocents.” As I say it, I realize the distinction might be lost on a woman who's seen her family destroyed by men who use violence to terrorize.
I want to pull Luna into my arms, to promise her that I'm nothing like the men who murdered her parents, that I'd kill anyone who tried to hurt her. But as another wracking coughing fit comes from there bedroom, I know now’s not the time.
"Get some rest," I tell her softly. "It's been a long night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A small smile curves her lips, tentative but real. "If you're brave enough to face Abuela again."
"For you? Absolutely.” I brush my lips against her forehead, inhaling the scent of her hair. "Lock the door behind me."
I wait in the hall until I hear the deadbolt slide into place and the chain rattle secure. It's a flimsy barrier against the world, but it's something.
Outside, I position myself on my bike across the street, finding a shadowed doorway with a clear view of her building. I don't trust those Los Lobos punks, and now that Luna's on my radar, she's staying there. I've got nowhere better to be than standing guard.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—Ghost checking in.
"Status?" I answer without preamble.
"Operation complete. Building's toast. We've got Popov at the compound for questioning. He's being surprisingly talkative already."
"Good." The thought of what that Russian bastard did to Luna makes my blood boil. "Any sign of Kovalev?"
"Negative, but chatter suggests he already knows it was us. We're expecting retaliation. Might need to go into lockdown."
Lockdown means all members on club property, no one in or out without direct approval from Ghost. It means dangerous times ahead.
"Understood."
"Your woman safe?”
"For now." I scan the street, hyperaware of potential threats lurking in shadows. "But I'm not taking chances."
Ghost is silent for a moment. "Brother, be careful. Kovalev's going to be looking for payback. Anyone connected to us is a potential target."
The implication is clear—if word of my interest in Luna gets out, it might paint a bullseye on her back.
“Yeah. I’ll hang here for a while and keep an eye out,” I say, my eyes fixed on Luna's darkened window.
Ghost sighs, knowing better than to argue. We both know exactly what my words mean—that I intend to protect what’s mine. And heaven help anyone who tries to come between us—be it a Russian gangster, a street gang, or a tiny, fierce grandmother with a deadly aim.
Chapter9
