Page 14 of Brick's Retribution

He takes a sharp turn down an alley, cutting the engine in the shadow of an abandoned building.

"What's wrong?" he asks as I practically leap off the bike.

I pull out my phone, showing him the text. "Diego. He's involved."

Brick's expression hardens as he reads the message. "You sure this wasn't meant for someone else?"

"The timing is too perfect. He just left us, and suddenly someone's talking about a package in transit?" I pace, mind racing. "We need to change our route, change everything."

Brick studies me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable.

Then he pulls out his own phone, sending a rapid text before turning back to me.

"If you're right, we can't use any of the planned safe houses. They'll be compromised."

"We can't go back to my penthouse either. It'll be the first place they look."

He nods, decision made. "I know somewhere. But it's a long ride, and we'll be exposed."

"Better than walking into an ambush."

"Agreed." He hesitates, then asks, "Why would Diego betray your father? They've been friends for decades, right?"

The question cuts deep because I've been asking myself the same thing. "Money. Power. Who knows? In my father’s business, loyalty only lasts until a better offer comes along."

Something flickers in Brick's eyes—disagreement, perhaps.

The motorcycle club clearly has a different code.

It must be nice to believe in something so completely.

"We need to go," he says, already swinging his leg back over the bike. "Stay close. If I tell you to get down, you get the fuck down. If I tell you to run, you run like hell. No arguments."

Under normal circumstances, I'd bitch about being ordered around, but these aren't normal circumstances, and something tells me this man knows what he's doing.

"One condition," I say as I pull my helmet back on. "No more treating me like fragile cargo. I can handle myself. I can help."

He studies me for a long moment, then gives a single sharp nod. "Fair enough. But when it comes to your safety, I call the shots. That's non-negotiable."

I want to argue, to remind him that I'm a Torres, that I've been navigating dangerous waters my entire life.

But the determined set of his jaw tells me it would be wasted breath.

"Fine," I grumble. "Your show."

As I climb back on the bike, pressing myself against his solid warmth, a thought strikes me with crystal clarity: I've spent my entire life surrounded by my father's men, by security details and advisors and servants.

Not once have I ever felt as immediately, instinctively safe as I do with this stranger's body between me and danger.

It's a dangerous thought.

Comfort is an illusion in my world.

Safety is a myth.

But as we roar out of the alley, heading away from the planned route and into the unknown, I allow myself, just for a moment, to believe in both.

The wind whips past us, carrying away the last remnants of the life I'm leaving behind.

---