Page 120 of The Wild Charge

“I know you do.”

“And I know there’s no use worrying over what you can’t change – we’re all Devin Green’s monstrous offspring. No changing that. None of us was ever going to have a normal life coming from him. But sometimes – sometimes, when things are quiet, and I haven’t had to speak to Philip for two weeks, and I’m focused on work, it starts tofeelnormal. Like I’m not connected to this – thisthing. This crime family. And then I see something on the news, and I wonder which one of my brothers has gotten shot, or shot someone, or gotten themselves tangled in an international sex trafficking ring.” She gestured to the window in front of her, to their situation. “They do bad things, but they do good things, too, and every time I wish it wasn’t connected to me at all, they go and tackle something likethis, and I’m terribly proud of them, even while I’m shaking in my Louboutins.”

She dabbed her eyes and glanced over at him. “Don’t you ever wish you could stop being afraid all the time?”

“Darling, I’m a beautiful drug dealer and an MC bankroller who used to be an unpaid hooker. I willneverstop being afraid.”

She coughed a little laugh and shook her head – before she rested it against his shoulder.

Ian was surprised, but not so cruel as to not put his arm around her shoulders.

“I like to think of it this way,” he said. “Despite its dangers, I’ve found it infinitely less scary to be one of the power players running the board, than being a pawn in other people’s games. Civilians live with fear, too, but lack the means to do anything about it.”

“Hm. You’re quite wise for a drug dealing, MC bankrolling, former unpaid hooker.”

He chuckled. “Don’t forget the ‘beautiful’ part.”

“Who could?”

She felt better, he could tell, and that made him feel better. Maybe it was the gin, but with each second that ticked by, he felt readier to tackle what lay ahead.

A soft knock from the door to the bathroom heralded Bruce’s appearance; he was an old pro at this, steady and unfazed throughout, and Ian felt a surge of gratitude for him. Bruce had been through so much with him, and never failed him once…save stealing his mint Milanos. But Ian was willing to let that slide.

“Sir,” he said, “the Lean Dogs have arrived.”

Ian glanced at Raven. “Shall we?”

She sighed, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a hint of a smile. “If we must.”

In the other room, Cassandra was still teary, and Raven went to her right away and gathered her into a close hug. Alec stood and stepped away to give them a bit of space, and moved to Ian’s side. In a low voice, he said, “What do we know about the New York Dogs?”

In truth, Ian would be glad when Charlie and the boys arrived; he would rather deal with familiar, trusted faces. But that was the beauty of the club: membership spoke to loyalty. He hoped that the Dogs on their way up were capable killers, but if they weren’t they at least weren’t traitors or enemy spies.

He heard a door open out in the suite’s sitting room, and one of his guards said, “Wait here, and Mr. Shaman will come to you.”

“It’s like that, then?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

“Shut up,” another, mellower voice said. “That’s fine.”

Ian debated on donning his jacket again, but ultimately decided his rolled-up shirtsleeves might make a better impression. He smoothed his shirtfront, flicked his hair back over his shoulders, lifted his chin, and strode into the other room, Alec a half-step behind.

The two Dogs who stood in the center of the room weren’t flying colors of any kind – no cuts, no Lean Dogs printed on their hoodies – but there could be no mistaking they belonged to an MC. From the frayed hems of their jeans, to their wallet chains, to the strong builds hidden under sweatshirts, to the sun and wind lines on their faces. They looked keenly out of place in the middle of the sumptuous suite, and Ian found that a comfort.

They turned as Ian entered, and aside from the common MC characteristics, they couldn’t have been more different. The one on the left was young, mid-twenties at most, his hair a riot of windblown strawberry-blond curls. Big blue eyes and a boyish face, a generous smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Ian hadn’t a clue how someone so guileless and, well,cutehad managed to patch into the club. None of Ghost’s boys looked this innocent.

By contrast, the man on the right had dark eyes, a hawkish face, Roman nose, and thick, jet-black hair. He looked markedly Italian, and had a distinct air of authority about him. Ian knew who he was without an introduction.

“Good evening, gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Ian said, putting on his formal voice.

“You Shaman?” the young one asked.

“I am. This is my husband, Alec.” At his gesture, Alec stepped forward, and Ian waited for some outward sign of surprise or disgust. None came.

The dark-haired man extended a hand which Ian took in a firm shake. “I’m Maverick, New York president. This pain in the ass is Pongo.”

“Hey!” the boy protested.

“Pongo?” Alec asked, as he shook both their hands in turn after Ian. “As in…the dalmatian?”

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