Seneca looked at me. “We clear?”
I nodded. “For now.”
He pulled Martini to his feet, one hand locked on the plastic zip tie, the other keeping the gun firm in the man’s rib. “Let’s go, big guy,” Seneca said. “You’re about to see what real family looks like.”
We walked him through the kitchen, past the racks of day-old bread and bags of pastry flour. I could feel Martini sizing up his chances, but the air had gone out of him. He shuffled, slow and resigned, and for a moment, I pitied him.
But then I remembered my mother’s face, the way she’d pressed her lips together whenever Martini’s name came up, and the pity drained away.
The street was quiet, too quiet, as we pushed out onto the loading dock. Damron stood there, one boot braced on the rail, a shotgun resting on his hip. Nitro had vanished, probably looping the block to make sure no one came in hot.
Seneca shoved Martini forward. “You want to beg, now’s your shot,” he said.
Martini looked up at me, and this time the fear was real. “Please, Catherine. You don’t have to—”
But I did. I always had. I raised the Sig and waited for Seneca’s nod. He gave it, a small tilt of the head. Martini squeezed his eyes shut.
But then the world exploded, and the choice was out of my hands.
The front door of the bakery shattered inward, glass and plywood and half the metal frame spraying into the entryway. I ducked, rolled, and brought the Sig up in a smooth arc.
In the back doorway stood my father, his hair gone shock-white but his face still hard as basalt. He had two men with him—both suits, both armed—and the look in his eyes said this was not a rescue, but a reckoning. It made sense now. Martini showed up because he knew my father would. He'd hope to kill us both. He'd not anticipated an outlaw biker club.
Seneca and Damron flanked me, guns ready. For a moment, nobody moved. The only sound was Martini, gasping for air.
My father stepped forward, ignoring the weapons leveled at his chest. “That’s enough,” he said, and his voice filled the room like a benediction and a curse all at once. “Catherine. Let’s not make this any worse than it already is.”
I held my ground, hands steady. My voice came out raw. “You don’t get to decide that anymore, Dad.” I looked around. This is your fault.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re a Bellini,” he said, almost pleading. “It’s time you remembered what that means.”
Seneca’s grip tightened on his gun. Damron took a half-step forward, ready to end this the only way he knew how.
But I just stood there, weapon up, breath burning in my throat, and waited for someone, anyone, to make the next move.
The room shrank with every word my father spoke.
“Your grandfather is dead,” he said, voice flat. "Let's not make things any worse."
I blinked, but didn’t drop the Sig.
He watched my face for a sign, then continued. “You’re expected back in New York. Tonight. We’ll fly private. Everything is arranged.”
I shook my head, the movement jerky. “No. I left that life. I built something different.” I backed away, boots scraping the tile, until my shoulder hit a metal rack stacked with baking sheets. The clang echoed. Seneca shot me a quick glance—concern, or maybe just a recalculation of how many guns it would take to fight out of this room.
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “You think you had a choice, Catherine? Blood is blood. You don’t walk away from it.”
He nodded at Seneca, who stood tense, pistol trained on Martini, every muscle ready for the next escalation. “Let him go,” my father said, not a plea but an order.
Seneca didn’t move, but I could see the war in his face. Damron eased in behind us, shotgun slung at the ready, and suddenly it was four people in a room built for two.
My father’s men fanned out behind him, spreading to block the kitchen exit. Two more appeared at the alley door, faces blank and efficient. They held their weapons pointed at the floor,but I recognized the postures: ready for a bloodbath if one word turned wrong.
Damron edged closer to me, voice low. “We got club at the perimeter,” he murmured. “Nitro’s crew is on the way in.”
I nodded, kept my gun up.
My father exhaled, slow and patient. “I don’t want to fight you, Catherine. But I will.”
