Page 6 of Stiletto's Savior

A couple of my co-workers rush over, eyes wide.

“Get the fuck outta here!” one yells, while the other hauls him up by the collar.

“Yo, you okay?” Damian asks, glancing at me.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I grunt, shaking off the adrenaline.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me from the moment of chaos.

I dig it out. The screen lights up—Siren.

I can’t remember the last time she said anything to me. It’s been too damn long.

“Long time since I’ve heard from you,” I answer, the noise around me fading.

“Miles,” she breathes, heavy and frantic. “I need you. It’s Stiletto… she’s been taken.”

My heart drops, slamming into my stomach. “What? What do you mean?”

My breath catches. Stiletto. Memories surge—a fierce spirit wrapped in laughter and loyalty.

“By who?” I demand, urgency creeping into my tone.

“An enemy of the club.”

“Fuck.” I glance at Damian, his brows furrowing as he watches me.

Panic grips me as I wait for her to say something, anything.

“I can explain more later. Please, you have to come to Montana. I need your help, Miles.” Her voice trembles.

“I’ll leave tomorrow on the earliest flight,” I swallow hard. “But I got stuff to handle out here first. Okay?”

“Thank you so fuckin’ much,” she whispers, relief mingling with fear.

The call ends, leaving silence in its wake.

I stare at the screen, feeling the weight of what Siren just asked me.

I know her and her sister are part of this big, bad biker club . . . so why does she need me?

I scan the street, heart still racing. This job, it’s always like this—chaos wrapped in noise. But for me, it’s just another night in the Bronx.

The dumb fucker is gone, but the adrenaline still thrums in my veins. Between that and knowing Stiletto is missing, my mind is running around in a constant loop.

The bass from the club vibrates through the pavement, and I take a deep breath to steady myself.

“You did a damn good job, Lion,” Damian says, clapping me on the back.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I had much of a choice,” I reply, eyes scanning the crowd.

“Your old man would be proud,” he chuckles, but there’s a bite to his tone.

“Chip Lion doesn’t know half of what I’m doing out here,” I mutter, pushing thoughts of my father aside.

“Still got that podcast?” Damian asks, eyebrows raised.

“Every damn week.” I roll my shoulders. “He’s always nagging me to get back into the ring.”

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