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  He drove by the DiLuca house and saw yellow crime scene tape all around the property, with several cops standing guard. A few news crew vans were parked around the streets, no doubt waiting for a juicy tidbit. The fact that it was still an active crime scene punched him in the heart because there was no way the cops would’ve had access to the place unless Tony DiLuca was gone.

  The word gone knocked about in his head until it began to drown everything else out. Pain sluiced through him and he knew had to get somewhere before the dam broke. He wasn’t usually an emotional man, but then again, he’d never lost his wife before. Slade left the roped-off property behind and headed toward the only place he knew he could drown the emptiness. It didn’t take long to cross the Eads Bridge and drive over to East St. Louis. The area was a shithole and if one wanted to disappear, this was the place to do it. He pulled up to his old stomping ground, a low-key bar with the horrible moniker of Puddin’s. Although he’d not been there in years, the place hadn’t changed. Black exterior with the name of the bar painted on the door. On either side were closed-up failed businesses. Several homeless people made their bed on the cracked pavement, cardboard signs begging for help and cups placed to catch any change a drunken customer might toss their way.

  Slade parked his bike and entered the dingy bar, immediately blasted with the smell of old cigarettes and soured beer. The dark interior hid a good portion of the customers who sat scattered around wobbly tables on cracked vinyl seats. The bar was the only lit portion of the whole place, but even that light was dimmed to set the right mood. As a teenager, it had been the only place that hadn’t carded him, probably because nobody cared who walked through the door. As an adult, it wasn’t owned by Tony DiLuca so it became the perfect spot for him and Normandy to meet since it was away from any watching eyes that would report back to her father.

  The bartender stopped in his tracks when Slade sat down at the bar.

  “Well, hell! Look what the wind blew in.”

  “Hello, Whiskey,” Slade said. “Long time no see.”

  “Years, I’m thinking,” Whiskey said. “Want your usual? Are you waiting for your girl?”

  Pain sliced through Slade. It was too soon. It would always be too soon. “Bring me a double and keep ’em coming. Actually, just bring the bottle over. I’m going to live here for a while.”

  Whiskey frowned, but did as he asked, grabbing a tumbler to place it in front of him. Then he grabbed a bottle of scotch, poured him a hefty dose, and set the bottle next to it. Slade took out some cash and set it down on the bar top.

  “My girl was a DiLuca,” Slade whispered.

  “Oh, shit,” Whiskey murmured. “Sorry, my friend.”

  Slade downed the entire shot in one swallow. For the next few minutes, he took shot after shot, until the alcohol hit his bloodstream and began to numb his mind. He’d not been drunk in a long time, but now he needed the forgetfulness only alcohol could induce.

  With every drink, it became easier and easier to think about Normandy. How the sunlight made the red highlights in her hair blaze like fire. How her brown eyes regarded him with a mixture of love and lust. How soft her skin felt under his calloused fingertips. They would spend all day and night in bed, making love. The images were seared into his brain, as was the feeling of her body wrapped around his.

  Even when he’d left, knowing she might become involved with another man, at least he’d known she was alive somewhere in the world. Now, however, he had nothing to fall back on. Nothing he could tell himself why leaving her had been the right decision to make. His so-called noble gesture was now just as empty and worthless as the hollow pit in his heart.

  Eventually, the bottle came up empty, leaving the world whirling around. He laid his head upon the bar and closed his eyes, and before he realized what was happening, tears leaked from under the lashes. How long he stayed like that he didn’t know, but Whiskey didn’t bother him and eventually he dozed off.

  ****

  He woke up some point later, desperate to take a piss. The world still spun a little as he made his way to the back where the bathroom was located. The stench of urine was so powerful it turned his stomach, threatening to upchuck whatever was left in it. He peed and washed his hands before heading back to his seat at the bar. A cup of black coffee waited for him, instead of a full bottle of scotch.

  He pushed the cup away. “I want another bottle,” he told Whiskey.

  Whiskey pushed the cup back toward him. “No, you really want the coffee.”

  Slade frowned. “Not open for negotiation.”

  Whiskey leaned over the bar top to whisper, “You’re going to get a phone call so you need to be sober.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?”

  The bar phone rang, the piercing sound striking pain through his head. Jesus! How long was I out? Whiskey came back over and held out the wireless phone. Confused, he took it before his brain caught up with his actions.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  Normandy’s voice whispered through the line and he almost fell off the chair. “Normandy?”

  “Shh! Don’t say my name out loud.”

  Immediately, he looked around the bar, trying to detect if anyone was listening to his one-sided conversation. “What the fuck happened? I thought you were dead. Where are you?”

  “I’m in hiding. Puddin’s was the only place I could think of to go.”

  Again, he looked around, this time trying to see her. “Where? Tell me and I’ll come right away.”

  “I’m upstairs.”

  Slade glanced at Whiskey, and the sly old man glanced up toward the ceiling. For the first time since the nightmare had begun, Slade felt the heavy agony lift from his heart.

  “I’m coming now.”

  The line went dead.

  “Do you think you could do me a favor?” Whiskey asked, startling Slade. “There’s a stack of beer in the storage room that I can’t seem to move. Do you think you could restack it for me, closer to the door?”

  Whiskey tilted his head toward the back room.

  “Sure.” With his heart beating wildly in his chest, Slade wasted no time. He downed the black coffee to sober up and then hurried into the back room where a set of stairs led up to the second floor where his resurrected wife waited.

  Chapter Three

  At the top of the stairs there was a door. Slade rushed up to it and turned the knob, only it was locked. He banged.

  “Normandy! Open up!”

  A moment later, the latch clicked and it swung inward. For a second, they stared at one another. He drank her in, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Her red eyes were slightly swollen with dried tear tracks down her cheeks. She gave a little hiccup and launched herself into his arms, wrapping hers tightly around him. He hugged her back as she succumbed to her anguish in a crying fit. It shredded his heart to see her so broken because Normandy was one of the strongest women he’d ever known. He pulled her close and buried a hand in her hair, kissing the top of her head. His shoulders relaxed as he breathed out all the relief and fear that had slowly consumed him.

  For a long time, they stood locked in the embrace, until her tears dried up and her body gradually stopped shaking. Normandy only stood five foot four compared to his six foot, so all she could do was rest her head upon his chest. The last time she’d embraced him like this was the night he had decided to leave their marriage, so the reunion was almost bittersweet. The horror of thinking that he lost her still left a cold grip on his soul, one he never wanted to experience again.

  “They’re dead,” she whispered.

  “I know.”

  “They were targeted, weren’t they?”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you think I was supposed to be … attacked … too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Keeping his arm around her, he maneuvered her into the apartment and closed the door behind him with his foot. The small room
was cluttered with crap, leaving only a small walkway to walk down. It seemed Whiskey was a mini-hoarder in the making, with every square inch crammed with something, from a mound of toilet paper to a heap of plastic bags. He hoped any critters the mess had amassed stayed carefully out of view, otherwise they’d be one more stain on the carpet. A small loveseat had been jammed against one wall and he prayed he didn’t contract some type of bacterial infection as he sat down and pulled Normandy onto his lap.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t a typical day,” she said softly. “Dad wanted to go to the club because the quarter was almost up and he wanted to get the books in order. You know he always paid quarterly to allay any suspicion on his network, and even though it was a few days early, this was nagging at him, he said. Instead of the usual breakfast at the diner, he and Gregory went in one car to the club. I was supposed to catch a ride with Robbie, but…”

  “But?” he prompted.

  “I had gotten into an argument with dad just that morning and I didn’t want to be around him because I was angry.”

  “How did you come to be here, of all places?”

  “It was the only place I could think of that no one knew about, except for you, because it was our place.”

  He hugged her tightly. “Jesus. I’m so sorry about your dad and brothers. They were good men.”

  “I know what my father did for his money. I was his accountant so I wasn’t that naïve.” She sniffed and pulled back enough to look at him. “I also found out what he said to you, to make you leave me. It’s why I was angry. I hated him for that.”

  “Normandy—”

  Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. “I won’t get a chance to tell him I forgive him.”

  “Shh,” he said and wiped the moisture from her eyes. “He’s in a place where his soul knows what’s in your heart. He knows you love him. Sometimes parents do what they think is right for their children and you know he wouldn’t want you to dwell on your argument.”

  She nodded. “He was wrong, you know. As much as I love my family, you mean more to me.”

  Slade sighed. “I’m sorry, Normandy. It was my fault, too. I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

  “Next time talk to me before you make any decisions on what my happiness means.”

  His heart began to pound. “Next time?”

  She gripped his hand and squeezed. “I want my husband back. I love you, Michael Slade.”

  For the first time in almost two years, pure happiness radiated through him. He and Normandy had a wealth of history between them, and it had crushed him when he’d left her.

  “How could I be so happy when it was brought about by such a horrible tragedy?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “One has nothing to do with the other. When my father told me what he’d said to you, I had already made plans to come after you.”

  Amusement flashed through him. “Oh, really? You know I’m V.P. of a motorcycle club, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The White Death. Interesting name.”

  He shrugged. “Kix Rockwood was my best friend while growing up in Rider Pass, before I had to move to St. Louis. When I went back, he offered me a place in his club. Without you, I had nothing else, so Kix’s offer was a lifesaver.”

  The corners of her mouth turned down as sadness descended over her face. “I’m the last DiLuca,” she whispered. “My father had capos help him run his business, but … but that’s all gone now without a DiLuca to run it.”

  “You could run it.”

  “Those men would never follow a woman. Especially Cousin Harry. He’s too old, too set in his ways.”

  “Make them, Normandy. You are your father’s daughter.”

  She touched his face, traced over his brow and down his cheek. Something shifted between them, snapping with sexuality. Slade’s dick hardened and he shifted a little to try to ease the sudden tightness in his jeans. He didn’t want her to think all he wanted was sex, especially at this moment when she was grieving for her family.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  “Normandy, you’re vulnerable—”

  “No,” she corrected. “I’m alive. And right now, I want you to kiss me.”

  His willpower around her amounted to zilch. Always had and probably always would. He’d found her fascinating the first moment he’d set his gaze on her, and through the years he’d come to love her deeply. The two years he had lived without her came out in the desperation of his kiss. He cupped her face and their mouths met in a heated exchange, tongues meeting and twining together. Seconds later, without breaking the seal, she moved until she straddled him, her legs gripping his hips. The kiss went from white hot to frantic and Slade only hoped he didn’t come before he’d gotten her off. It’d been two years since his dick had been buried in pussy because it simply wasn’t interested in any other woman but his wife, and Normandy seemed just as eager since she began to wiggle out of her shorts as quickly as possible. He even forgot about the dank and dirty apartment they resided in as their kisses broke apart to shift clothing around. When she rose to discard her panties, he lifted his hips to unzip his pants and bring his cock out. Seconds later, Normandy straddled him again and lowered herself onto him, her cunt nice and wet.

  “Jesus,” he moaned as he sank deep inside her heat. “I’ve fucking missed you, woman.”

  “Oh, God,” she breathed. “Fuck me, Michael. Fuck me hard.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck as he grabbed her hips to help her ride him. Gripping her tightly, he bucked upward and watched his cock slide in and out, moving with ease and slick speed into her. Normandy was gasping and moaning, bucking and writhing and he’d never seen anything so beautiful. His release was rising fast, but he had to feel her cunt grab his cock before he gave in. Sliding in and out of her, he reached up and grabbed her nipples and twisted them hard. She arched her back, shrieked, and came immediately

  Slade couldn’t hold back anymore. He thrust one last time, burying himself, and came with a shout. “Oh, God, baby, I'm coming!”

  His heart thundered in his chest as his senses soared and euphoria descended through every cell in his body. Normandy slumped against him and he could feel the frenetic thump of her heart pounding a duet with his own. They both gasped for air and he gave an amused snort.

  “What?” she asked a bit breathlessly.

  “I haven’t come that fast since I lost my virginity in high school.”

  She leaned up to look him in the eye. “I want you to know that I’ve been faithful to our vows.”

  He brushed her sweaty bangs off her forehead. “Me, too.”

  Just as they leaned in to kiss once more, the door banged open. Slade’s instincts took over, and he rolled with her off the loveseat. Gunfire roared through the small room, almost blowing out his eardrum. His hand kept Normandy’s head down and he hovered over her to protect her from any stray shots. The only place he could think to escape was toward the kitchen area, so scooping up her shorts and thrusting them at her, he scooted her toward the small kitchenette. The bullets still whizzed by and Slade knew there was nowhere they could go. The tiny, cluttered apartment was about to become their tomb.

  Chapter Four

  “What do you mean you’re leaving?”

  Slade kept stuffing his personal belongings into his saddle bag. “I’m heading back to Rider Pass.”

  “I thought you left that club when you decided to come back to the family.”

  “You never leave the club, Normandy,” he said. “The V.P. got sideswiped by a tractor trailer and didn’t make it.”

  “So you’re just going back for a funeral?”

  What the hell was he supposed to tell her? That her father ordered him to get the hell out of town? That he was good enough to run dope but wasn’t good enough to lay his hands on her? He knew Normandy better than she knew herself. He wouldn’t stand in the way of her place in the DiLuca family.

  “I’m g
oing back to take his place. Kix needs me.”

  “I need you,” she stressed. “But I can see you’re set on going. I won’t take you back.”

  “I know.”

  Consciousness came back abruptly. Slade moaned and rolled out of the uncomfortable position sprawled on the floor. An agonizing pain shot through his side and he reached down to touch the area, only to encounter a wet, sticky spot. Bringing his hand back up to inspect it, he saw a bright red stain coating his fingertips.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  The door banged open again, and thinking the gunmen had come back, he made to grab his gun again, only to feel an empty holster. A second later, Whiskey appeared in the kitchenette doorway.

  “Oh, my God!” Whiskey cried. He had a blood running from his nose and a swollen left eye that was quickly turning black. “I got ambushed in the stock room, man. I think we were being watched.”

  “You think?” Slade snarled, wincing. He held his side as he pushed to his feet. “God damn it.”

  “Wait, where’s Normandy?” Whiskey asked.

  “They fucking took her.”

  “They? I only remember one man clocking me.”

  “There were two men,” he said, looking around. “Where’s my phone? Jesus, Whiskey, you gotta get this shit cleaned up. No one needs this much crap!”

  “Don’t bad mouth my home! Here’s your phone.” He scooped it up from a corner and handed it to him. “Let me get you a towel. You’re bleeding all over my floor.”

  “I’m only touching your towel if it’s been bleached!” As Whiskey waved off his comment, he dialed Kix’s number. When he picked up, Slade didn’t even wait to hear a greeting. “We were hit! They took her, Kix, and I’m shot. The bullet is still in me. Fucking hurts.”

  “Whoa, slow down,” Kix replied. “What do you mean you were hit? And took who?”