However, the more I ran, the more it felt as though I was running back through time. The newly rebuilt place was a mocking reminder of my time spent here. The girl I used to be stood to the side, taking it all in. She was in the same modest, grey dress I had worn when I first arrived, a knowing smirk on her lips, as if it was inevitable that I would wind up back here.
As if it was fate.
Destiny.
From the moment we had walked into Greasy over two years ago, we had sealed our fate. And she knew it. Her grin grew wider, mocking me as I ground my teeth the closer I got to the entrance.
She was wrong. I was not the same girl I once was, and this was not the same place. I noticed some slight differences, which helped ground me. To remind me I had overcome this placeonce. The differences were a sign of the mark I had left here. I had changed it—just like it had changed me.
One difference was the lack of stag mounted above the door. I had a vague memory of Dante telling me his grandfather had shot that stag himself, and had it treated, stuffed and mounted out of pride.
I guess a replica wouldn’t have had the same sentimental value behind it.
The sounds of cheers assaulted my ears as I approached the door, and I paused for a second as more memories washed over me.
So much had happened the last time I had been forced to live in this place. So many people had been hurt or lost their lives. And yet here they were, cheering at seven fucking a.m. as though nothing had happened. As though they hadn’t just repeated history and kidnapped someone else they had no fucking right to take!
I knew in my gut this time wouldn’t be any better than the last. I’d be walking straight into the lions’ den; into the perfect little trap he had crafted solely for me. But I’d do it all a million times over for him. For Axel.
I kicked open the door and my eyes immediately went to the bar where I knew they kept the stereo—on the back shelf, just as I remembered. I raised my gun, ignoring the shouts of the club whores as I fired round after round into it, silencing the music.
The room grew quiet as I turned, cocked, and aimed my gun at Dante.
“Hello, darlin’,” I mocked. “Where the fuck is my son?”
Chapter 9
Dante
Rachel glared at me as though I was the devil himself, her gaze full of hatred. I couldn’t help but smirk at her, which only resulted in a wave of fiery fury radiating off her. She looked good. Damn her for that.
She was blonde again. It suited her more than the red, and definitely more than that godawful black wig. But still, the blonde signified the removal from this life. From me. I fucking hated that reminder.
Nothing Rachel did was without purpose.
Her eyes fell on the woman sitting on my knee. I had my arm around her, and my hand resting on her bare stomach, lazily drawing circles on her skin. Rachel’s lips tightened, and my smirk turned to a full-blown grin. She brought her other hand up to the gun when she noticed, cupping the barrel between her palms, her fingers hovering over the trigger.
Rachel in a temper was always my favourite version. My body instinctively reacted to her, roaring to life, recognising its lost half. I clamped down on that emotion and removed my smirk. Fuck that. I wouldn’t fall into her trap again.
Rachel noticed the change in my attitude, and her eyes hardened, narrowing into slits.
A couple of the women gasped and looked at me, anxious to see how I would react. I wasn’t planning on doing a thing. Rachel would not shoot me. I knew her well enough to know if she was going to do something, she didn’t hesitate. This was a scare tactic, and she must think me fucking moronic if she thought I would rise to it.
I met her steely gaze with my own, sending her a silent challenge, mentally asking her what she was waiting for.
Pivot—one of the new prospects—rose from his seat and took a step towards her.
“Sit the fuck down,” I hissed at him, pointing back to the stool he had been sitting on without ever taking my eyes off Rachel.
Fucking prospects.
He was called Pivot, because he had once screamed at Trent when we were out on a club ride. He said the turns were too sharp for his piece of shit bike. Vienna had promptly done his best Ross Geller impression, yelling “pivot” in his face over and over for the rest of the day, and whenever he ran into him for the next week. The poor bloke had tried to go for a piss, and Vienna had pushed him over, yelling “pivot” as loud as he could when it came to the turning for the bathroom. And just like that, Pivot stuck with him.
If the poor bloke couldn’t handle Vienna, there wasn’t a chance in hell he could handle Rachel. Especially Rachel in a rage. It was laughable that he even got up from his seat.
The Rachel I remembered would have put a bullet in his brain without even turning her head in his direction.
“Last time I ask, Dante. Where. The. Fuck. Is. My. Son?”
