I don’t have time for sugar-coated answers or long-winded explanations. I’ve got a club in chaos, a mole maybe in my bed, and an ex with secrets involving a fucking Don from New York. I need to get out of this bed and back in control. Because the longer I lie here, the more pieces shift without me. And the more dangerous that becomes for all of us.
“Well?” I ask.
He glances at his iPad, clearly trying not to look up at the three pissed-off bikers staring him down. “You had a significant head injury. I need to run some blood work, get a CT scan, ask a few questions, and then we’ll assess the next steps. If all goes well, you could be discharged within a week, as long as there are no deficits.”
He says it rushed, like he’s trying to get it all out before we grow fangs.
“Okay, Doc. Break it down for me—plain English. What exactly happened?”
I drop the growl from my voice. No need to push him closer to pissing himself.
“Yes, of course.” He clears his throat. “When you arrived… You crashed your bike in the ER parking lot. That’s what caused your head trauma. Swelling in your brain forced us to place you in a medically induced coma. It’s gone down now. You’re healing well.”
I nod slowly, letting that sink in. He continues.
“You were shot twice. Once in the side, once in the shoulder. The shot to the side went straight through—no vitals hit. The other lodged in your shoulder blade. We removed it, though you had a minor infection that we quickly controlled. Might have some stiffness, maybe permanent, maybe not. But overall? Your recovery’s been solid.”
He looks relieved just saying it.
“Okay,” I say. “So nothing permanent?”
“No,” he confirms. “Maybe some headaches. Dizziness now and then for a few months. But you should fully recover if the scans and bloodwork come back clear.”
He pulls a pen from his coat pocket and runs a few basic neuro checks: eye tracking, memory questions, and orientation.
“What’s your name?”
“Talon Masterson.”
“Date of birth?”
I rattle it off.
“Current president?”
I arch a brow. “That a political question or a club one?”
He flushes and moves on, clearly satisfied.
“Everything looks great. I’ll have Nurse Carter take you for the scan, and then we’ll follow up.”
He presses on my sides gently, checking the damage. Cold fingers, but no real pain—just that dull pressure of healing muscles.
“Stitches are out, no new signs of infection. Everything’s healing as expected. Any other questions?”
I shake my head. “Nope. We’re good.”
He steps back, nods nervously, and hurries out of the room like the air’s too heavy to breathe. As soon as the door clicks shut, I glance between my brothers.
“So no one’s spoken to Gabriella or my kids?”
Nitro exhales hard, still simmering from earlier. “We’ve seen them—just haven’t talked. They’ve been around, but they’re feeling some type of way. Lot of shit went down when you got hit.” He glances at Axel, then back at me.
I catch it. I don’t call it out. Not yet.
“I can’t blame them,” he adds. “Pop’s been with them more than anyone... but he’s staying real tight-lipped about it.”
The door opens again. Both my parents walk in. Pop sees me first. His face lights up like someone flipped a switch. Ma looksup from rummaging in her purse. Her eyes land on me, and she freezes. Then her bag drops to the floor, her hands cover her mouth, and tears spill instantly.
