Page 34 of Loki's Flame

“No. She doesn’t even know what we do outside of Ragnarök,” I said, a little pissed he brought her up.

“Yeah, but she ain’t stupid. She spent time with Piotr.” I'm sure she got the vibe he doesn’t work for a legit corporation,” Roar offered.

“Piotr would never tell her about business,” I seethed.

“We know that. What Roar means is she must have guessed we have a criminal element. She wrote a true crime novel. How will that work?” Bones said and I’m a little shocked that this is coming up.

“Why are you even bringing her into this?” I started pacing.

“Because you love her,” Taz said.

I started taking long drawn out breaths and clenched and unclenched my hands so that I wouldn’t destroy this room. The last thing I needed was for this to devolve into chaos.

“Let me put this as clearly as I can.” it's a genuine effort to control my voice because I want to shout, “this has absolutely nothing to do with Bridget. I don’t know where she and I stand at this moment outside of promising her I’d help with her revenge plot. Dealing with this theft has left a nasty taste in my mouth. I want us to perfect our game. Am I considering whether it's worth it to bother with guns? Fuck yeah, I am. I’ve never hurt for money. Also true, but you're my brothers and this isn’t a dictatorship. If we ever get fully out of guns, then we would pursue something else. I will never stand in the way of you earning. I’d rather dissolve the Valhalla Heathens than risk your livelihoods. And each of you knows how sacred I feel about this club.”

The room was silent as I let the words seep in. I did not know if Bridget would even accept our criminal sidelines, but I would not stop hoping. I’d never felt like this before and I didn’t want to lose it. The thought of it being gone made me edgy.

“Let’s vote,” Bones said. “All in favor of a break, say I.”

The room resounded in I’s. The motion carried, and I hit the gavel on the wood table. I no longer wanted to bring up Ivy’s situation with the musician. Maybe I’d go it alone with her.

“I think that’s enough for today.”

“Wait, what about Bridget’s job?” Taz asked.

“It was Marcel Louis or Tate, his manager, who gave her sister the drugs that led to her overdose. Bridget said she wants to kill the one responsible. I will go this one alone with her.”

“No, I’ll help,” Taz said.

“We all will, Prez,” Roar said.

“Fine, I want a strategy worked up. We’ll meet in the morning to go over it,” I said, and hit the gavel. I needed to get out of here and take a ride.

Chapter 27

Bridget Ivy

I sat on the couch in the dark living room, waiting for my prey to arrive. Loki was in the dining room. Taz was in the kitchen. They scattered the rest of his brothers around the property. Marcel Louis lived in a shotgun house in the Garden District. The walls decked out in different photographs from the road. I’d noticed when I looked around with the flashlight I’d carried in here. I was careful not to shine the light for long, as I didn’t want to draw attention from the street. It was a quiet side street, so I was hopeful no one was out and about at 1 am. Marcel was playing at one of the uptown clubs tonight.

A lump formed in my throat as the door handle jiggled as they inserted keys into the lock. The door swung open, and I patiently waited as they turned the hall light on and voices carried. Marcel had company, and I hoped it was Tate. Otherwise, his guest was going to get a rude awakening. Wrong place, wrong mother-fucking time.

“I thought I left the living room lamp on,” Marcel said as he moved toward the living room entryway.

“You always do,” Tate said from behind him. Tate was carrying a guitar case.

I clicked the switch on the lamp, illuminating the room. Both men stood shocked without speaking, taking in me sitting with my left leg crossed and the pistol resting on the top of my knee.

“What is the meaning of this? Who the fuck are you?” Marcel’s accent was getting more pronounced in his stress.

“That’s Bridget Walsh,” Tate said, quietly moving to stand beside Marcel. He lowered the guitar case by his side.

“Why don’t you have a seat so we can chat,” I said.

“Why do we need to talk with a gun?” Marcel asked.

“I’m about to explain that, Marcel,” I said sarcastically.

Tate moved, taking Marcel by the elbow so he’d move. Marcel seemed to glide over to the love seat and then sat heavily down. Tate went to the floral-patterned armchair sitting in the middle of both the red loveseat and couch. There was a cherry wood coffee table centering the furniture. The whole place had a dated feeling as if it hadn’t changed since the 1980s.

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