Page 96 of Massacre
“And like I told Mr. Buchanon, it wasn’t his choice to make,” Declan said, walking past King to hand off some paperwork to another deputy. “I have no choice here, King. He killed a man in broad daylight in front of the entire fucking town. Everyone saw him pull the trigger.”
“He didn’t kill him.”
And just like that, the station went deathly quiet.
“What the fuck did you just say?” Declan sneered, looking at Romeo, who pushed off the wall to stand next to me. Reaching for my hand, he gripped it firmly and quickly whispered, “It’s going to be alright, Amber. I promise,” before he looked at Declan and reiterated, “I said, Massacre didn’t kill him.”
“Bullshit,” Dec scoffed. “We all saw him fire his gun and seconds later Mr. Scott’s brain was splattered all over Main Street.”
Romeo stood firm. “Check his gun.”
King strode over, getting in Romeo’s face. “What the fuck did you do?”
“Wasn’t me, Prez. I’m innocent.”
King growled as I watched a deputy hand Declan an evidence bag with Massacre’s gun in it. Taking it out of the bag, Declan removed the clip but said nothing before putting it back into the bag. Walking over to the phone, he picked it up and made a call. Icouldn’t hear what he was saying, nor did I want to. All I wanted was to see Massacre and to make sure he was okay.
“I know you know something, Romeo, and when we get back to the clubhouse, you better spill your fucking guts before I borrow one of Reaper’s blades and remove them myself.”
The next several minutes passed in a blur of anxious silence, punctuated only by the low hum of radios and the shuffling of boots across the station floor. I barely registered Declan’s terse orders or the tension radiating from King, whose stare burned holes in Romeo’s calm mask. The world beyond the station faded; all that mattered was the truth—hidden, uncertain, yet waiting to collide with the lies that had already rooted themselves deep in the town’s gossip.
Eventually, Declan emerged from his office with King, his jaw set and eyes hard as steel. “Amber,” King called, voice clipped. I braced myself and followed him down the narrow corridor, past curious glances and whispered speculation, until we reached the back door. There, the sunrise cast thin gold bars across the concrete, smearing long shadows that seemed to clutch at my legs.
He handed me a folded piece of paper, his expression unreadable. “You need to go home. I’ll call when I know more.”
“Please, King—” I started, but he shook his head, already closing the distance back to the chaos inside. “Archie. Make sure Amber gets home safe.”
“Come on, Amber,” the sweet prospect muttered. “There isn’t anything more you can do here. Let Prez handle it.”
Left with little choice, I stepped outside into the cool morning, my mind hovering somewhere between desperation and relief. My heart pounded with every unanswered question, every memory of Massacre’s crooked smile, his gentle ways, and even his snarky attitude. Somehow, he had become my home, my safe harbor in ways I’d never imagined possible.
Turning away from the station, I pulled my jacket tighter as Archie led me to his bike. Everything inside me demanded I stay just in case he needed me. I hated the thought of relaxing at the clubhouse while his life hung in limbo. I wanted to stay with him, support him in any way I could, but even I knew there was nothing I could do.
By the time we reached the gates, the morning sun painted the clubhouse with hope and nostalgia—a bittersweet reminder that sometimes, goodbyes came too soon, and the meaning of family was forged in fire, not blood.
I barely made it inside the clubhouse when Player rushed over to me, hugging me tightly. “Are you okay?”
Slowly shaking my head, I looked at the man who looked so much like Massacre and tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m going to lose him, Player. I just got him, and now I’m losing him.”
“You will not lose him,” a handsome man wearing an expensive tailored suit said as he walked over. “If there is anything that can be done, we will figure it out. You just have to wait and give us time.”
“Amber.” Player smiled. “I’d like you to meet my cousin Lorenzo Valentinetti.”
“I saw you once,” I whispered, moving closer to Player. “In Chicago. I was working at a coffee shop near the harbor. You and Massacre came in with a few other men.”
The handsome man groaned. “God, I would give anything for a cup of coffee from Fratelli’s Delicatessen. You remember the Danishes Vito used to make, Reggie? No place better on Earth.”
“Amber?” Haizley whispered, walking over. “Why don’t you come sit with us, honey?”
Nodding, I let her lead me over to one of the couches where most of the women sat. Taking a seat next to Sam, I didn’t stop her when she reached over and took my hand.
“Just breathe, Amber. Everything will be okay.”
Shaking my head, I let my unshed tears fall. “You don’t know that, Sam. You didn’t see what I saw.”
The hours stretched into eternity as I sat surrounded by quiet voices and the soft touch of friends. My hands trembled despite the warmth of Sam’s grip, my mind replaying every haunting moment. Somewhere in the background, the muffled thrum of motorcycles and laughter filtered in from outside, echoes of life carrying on as if nothing had shattered.
Haizley pressed a steaming mug into my hands, the rich aroma of coffee barely cutting through the ache in my chest. I met her gentle eyes, searching for reassurance, but all I found was a reflection of my own fear. We sat together, the silence heavy and sacred, broken only by the occasional hiccup of my sobs.
