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Hearing her call me her husband with such pride makes me want to rip that dress off and do dirty, depraved things to her. But we’re with her family, and he still has a gun pointed at me. So I shove all my lust down and meet his eye with a hard stare that communicates exactly how I feel. She’s mine and nothing you do can change that.
“Nice to meet you,” I hold my hand out. He reluctantly shakes it with a firm grip.
“If anyone cares, my name is French, and I’m also in The Brigade. I’m the mutual friend of theirs who set them up and made all this marital bliss possible.” He gives Grandpa a charismatic smile.
“I’ve heard of you,” he flatly answers, obviously not impressed. “You’re a knife whiz. You couldn’t pick those handcuffs?”
Oof. That was a scolding. The bikers behind him laugh, but French, being the well-mannered man he is, just smiles.
“We tried, but unfortunately, Russians were tailing us and shooting up my car. I was hoping you’d have something we can use.”
“Seems like you have a lot of explaining to do, Maddie. Let’s go to my office,” he says in a tired voice.
As we pass by, some of the men say hello to Maddalena and others tap her arm. I have to hold back on breaking their fucking fingers. I thought marrying her would quell some of my jealous ragey tendencies, but it’s only made me more protective and possessive of her.
If only keeping your wife in a tower, where no one could hurt her or touch her, was still a thing.
He walks us through the clubhouse, which is just as spotless as the outside. There are some pool tables, a bar, and an area with couches and armchairs surrounding a huge, wall mounted flat screen TV. It’s nothing like the MCs I’ve had to deal with over the years. Yes, there are some random women hanging around, but they’re fully clothed. Most of them are wearing property patches, too.
My wife gives me a curious look and tilts her head up to whisper, “You thought it was going to be a debauched nightmare in here, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” I hedge. “I’ve worked some jobs with MCs before being promoted to Second, and this place is nothing like them.”
“That’s because I made it so,” Iron snaps. “Profit comes from discipline, and my men don’t act like fucking fools, and neither do the women. No whispering in my clubhouse, it’s rude. You got something to say, spit it out, Cameron.”
We reach a wooden door, and he lets us inside. It’s a small office, much like mine at The Haul. No thrills, just a space to do some work or have alone time. A desk with a radio, table, chairs. We take seats, and Maddalena fills him in on everything that’s happened since the beginning. Thankfully, she skirts over exactly how we met, using French’s fib as part of the story.
When she’s done, Iron rubs his mustache thoughtfully. “Thankfully, you and your father are both okay. I love Franco—he’s grown into a good man—but he’s not ready to take over yet. Now that you’re aligning with the big bad of the criminal world and have a war going on with the Russians, you’re going to need strong leadership to see it through.”
“Don Vettore is a formidable man, even with a gun wound,” I agree with him.
“He won’t be happy that you married his only daughter without asking him first. Italians take that shit seriously.”
“Well, that’s a bridge we can cross if and when we come to it,” Maddalena swiftly interjects.
“No if about it, Mads. It’ll come, and your husband better watch himself when it does.” He lets out a raspy laugh. “Stay as long as you want. My family is always welcome behind my gates, and no one fucks with my favorite girl. When the time comes, we’ll ride with you,” he declares.
“Thanks, Grandpa.” She gives him a hug across his desk, and for a minute, he seems lighter and less grizzly.
“Well, come on, let’s have a drink and grab some food. Once your brothers and the rest of your husband’s people get here, things will get started.”
One of the women sitting by the bar settles Maddalena with some new clothes. A pair of tight skinny jeans, a black long sleeve shirt, and black leather combat boots. She’s stunning in everything, but the whole look is giving me ideas. There are a ton of nooks and crannies in a clubhouse this size, and the urge to take her to one is hard to ignore.
Most of our guests arrive within an hour or two of us, so we’re all currently sitting around the couches waiting for Maddalena's brothers. Franco, Maximo, and Luca walk in, and the eldest Vettore brother strides over to me and punches me square in the face. The bikers start cheering, their raucous laughs and shouts dimming the ringing in my head.
“Franco! What the fuck!” she spits.
I hit him with a left hook, and he stumbles back. Before I can blink, we’re wrestling on the floor, trying to hit each other.
“You wore a live bomb to rescue my baby sister?!” he shouts. “You’re fucking insane. You could have killed her!”
I start cackling, then roll him so I’m pinning him to the floor. I hit him right in the solar plexus and smirk when I hear the air leave his lungs.
“It was fake,” I admit.
Two of the bikers, Owl and his younger brother Hawk, pull me off him. Hawk hands us some tissues and I wipe the blood off my face. Franco still looks murderous. Maddalena takes the tissues from me and finishes the job.
“You’re not a brawler or hot headed, Franco. It’s not a good look on you,” she deadpans.
