Page 60 of The Fixer

French gets a call from Maximo, which he promptly puts on speakerphone. “Hello Max, you’re on Bluetooth.”

“Mads?” he expectantly asks.

“What?” she answers with a sheepish tone.

“Don’t what me,” he sasses. “You got married without me?” he teases, unable to hide the slight disappointment in his voice.

Oh shit. I didn’t think of her family not being there. Of course, they’d all want to see her get married. I make a note to myself to plan something for when we get back. Whether it’s something small or a huge Italian wedding, she can have whatever she wants.

“It was a spur of the moment thing. And technically, we didn’t sign any paperwork, because we’re in a war with the Russians right now. I promise you can be one of our witnesses.” She doesn’t sound regretful or apologetic. If anything, she sounds excited.

Not like it matters. As far as I’m concerned, paperwork is just a formality.

“Where are you? The others said you, Garrix, and French never made it to The Haul.”

“We’re going to Grandpa’s upstate compound to lie low. I’ll keep you updated every step of the way and I’ll come home in one piece, okay?”

“Fuck that, I’m meeting you up there. One of our other brothers can stay with Papà.”

A flash of guilt crosses her face. “How is he?”

“He’ll be fine. They missed his vital organs and as long as he takes care of himself, he should heal. He also has a lot of thoughts about you getting married on a whim to a man you barely know in a Russian church of all places…”

“Of course he does. Not even a bullet can slow him down.” She exhales a sigh of relief, but stays silent. Her eyes go distant and she frowns.

“Papà doesn’t blame you. The first thing he asked when he got up was whether you were okay or not,” Max adds. “We’ll do everything we can to end this, okay?”

“Okay. See you soon. Love you.”

“You too.” The call ends, and I can feel the heaviness weighing down on her, like a lead blanket.

“It’s not your fault,” I repeat her brother’s words to her.

“Okay.” Her voice is small, riddled with disbelief. We all drift back into silence.

By the time we get to the gate of the compound, my wife seems a bit lighter. There’s a man at the gate who taps on her window. He’s tall and lanky, with wiry muscle underneath a muscle shirt and cut. His dark blond hair is tied in a high bun on his head, with huge brown eyes that look like they’ve seen too much. I lower all the windows, and she greets him with a smile.

“Hey cousin,” he drawls. “Heard you got married…but to which one? Or both of them? I’m not judging you, just trying to make sure the right gossip gets spread around the clubhouse.”

Maddalena cracks up laughing. “Hey Owl. I married the one driving. His name is Garrix. The other is a mutual friend of ours, French.”

I shake Owl’s hand through the window, whereas French gives him a stern nod. His road name makes sense.

“Go on through, Grandpa is waiting. He’s in one of his ornery moods.”

“Oh, fun,” she mutters. Except it doesn’t sound like we’re walking into fun at all if the cousin’s expression is anything to go by.

We roll into a gravel lot that surrounds a two story clubhouse with pristine dark blue siding and gray shutters. Motorcycles are parked around it in a semicircle with gleaming chrome. I didn’t expect the place to be a dump, but I definitely didn’t expect it to be so spotless.

I get out of the car and open Maddalena’s door, gingerly helping her from the backseat since her hands are still cuffed. French gets out and stands next to us on high alert. His time in the French army made him hypervigilant in new surroundings.

An older man with shoulder length salt-and-pepper hair stands in the lot, with a posse of bikers behind him. His face is strong, with a roman nose topped by a mustache that would make Tom Sellac jealous. His cut says Prez in bold white letters over a stallion emblem. He takes one look at Maddalena and I can tell he isn’t happy. His face scrunches and he pulls a gun out from the back of his pants, pointing it directly at me. To my credit, I don’t even flinch. Neither does my kitten, which makes me think her grandpa is always this dramatic.

“Why the fuck is my granddaughter dressed in a bloodstained wedding dress, handcuffed? Did you force her down the aisle?” he snaps.

“No,” I truthfully answer.

“Grandpa, he saved me from someone who was trying to force me down the aisle. Garrix, this is my grandfather, Iron Anderson, the Prez of the Rogue Stallions MC. Grandpa, this is Garrix Cameron, Second in Command of The Brigade and my husband.”

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