Page 53 of Thunder

Then, with a mischievous glint returning to her eyes, she says, "So... does Marcus have a brother? And is he single?"

I burst out laughing, shaking my head. "You're incorrigible! Always looking for the next adventure."

She winks at me, raising her glass in a toast.

"To love, unexpected adventures, and...” Her eyes dart to my painting, which is less a painting and more a collection of paint splotches inelegantly arranged on canvas. “…abstract art."

I clink my glass with hers, a broad smile stretching across my face. "And to mornings like this, with friends like you."

As the sun climbs higher in the sky, I return to my canvas, adding the final touches to my 'abstract' painting. I infuse every brushstroke with emotion—love, hope, and newfound clarity. It might not be a masterpiece in the traditional sense, but it's a perfect reflection of this moment in time. I smile at my ‘masterpiece’ as we pack up for the return hike. The smudges, once sources of frustration, now seem just right.

Yes, things can get messy. Will get messy, even, especially dealing with everything going on at SSR and with the development, but even messy things can be beautiful.

“We can hang that up at the gallery,” Sera nudges me playfully. "Maybe Marcus will bid on it."

“You know,” I say, “He loves me so much, I bet he would. I bet he’d get in a bidding war just to buy it and hang it on the wall at his garage.”

Sera laughs. “Well then, that’s true love. Because, honestly, Lia, you’d have to be blind to appreciate that painting.”

“You bitch!” I playfully punch her in the shoulder. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Thunder

The night sky rumbles above me, the engine of my bike echoes like rolling thunder beneath me. The wind whips at my face, tugging at my beard as I weave through the winding streets. Neon signs flicker to life, splashing vibrant colors across the pavement. For a moment, I feel free—but that sensation is fleeting. My thoughts are a battlefield, waging war between light and shadow. Memories of Lia's touch—her skin warm and soft against mine, the way her laughter dances in the air—clash against the haunting image of Eileen confined to a hospital bed. The photograph in my pocket feels heavier with each passing moment, a symbol of the retribution I swore to deliver. An obligation. A promise. A hopeful murder.

"Keep your eyes on the road, dumbass," I mutter tomyself, tighteningmy grip on the handlebars as a passing car nearly swerves into my lane, separating my head from my body. My knuckles turn white as my jaw clenches. This isn't just about me, it’s about family, about keeping the people you love safe and earning them justice when anything threatens them; Bullet and Rook would do anything for their loves, Madison and Eliza. Our love for each other runs deep, forged by loyalty and trust. We'd all lay down our lives for each other without hesitation.

Now, our family’s grown.

Now, we have Striker; we have Natalie; we have Eileen; we have Lia. And all of them—all of us—are in danger because of the man in the photograph in my pocket.

As I navigate the labyrinth of streets, darkness swallows the city whole. The wind howls its mournful cry, echoing my internal struggle, and rain falls upon me. My heart pounds in my chest, driven by the relentless pursuit of vengeance. Each mile brings me closer to the answers I seek, the truth hidden within the shadows of Costa Oscura.

"Almost there. It’s almost time. Justice will be served," I vow, speeding through the night on my bike, the roar of the motorcycle drowning out the cacophony of thoughts within my head. The photograph burns like a brand, searing the weight of responsibility into my very soul. It won't be long now. Soon, I'll confront the poisoner who ruined Eileen's life, who dared to try to kill a member of my family.

Soon, I’ll have revenge.

Amidst the twilight cityscape, my eyes lock on the bar sign I've been hunting for. A dive bar near the development company's offices, just the place where a lowlife like the man who poisoned Eileen would hang out, probably where he sips bottom-shelf whiskey while planning which old lady he’s going to poison next.

I deftly park my motorcycle and march inside.

A gust of stale air greets me just inside the door. Inside, dim lights unveil an uninviting cross-section of society—exhausted office workers drowning their sorrows, hardened regulars clutching their beers as if they're lifelines. The air carries the heavy scents of better yesterdays: beer, fried food, and stale tobacco. It's grimy in here, filled with as many secrets as there are patrons.

My first inclination is to turn around; this place is too damn depressing and I feel like I need some damn Prozac just to step inside, but I also need answers, and I won't leave without them.

"Can I help you?" a gruff voice asks, pulling me from my thoughts. I turn to face the bartender. His eyes narrow as he takes in my appearance.

"Maybe. I'm looking for someone."

"Who?" he snorts, clearly unimpressed by my vague response. “Someone to give a damn? Because they don’t pay me enough to do that shit. If you need someone to ‘listen’ to you, you’ll have to wait till Cindy gets back. She’s in the alley with a customer right now.”

“Fuck, dude, how do you live with yourself, working here?”

“It’s a struggle,” he says, his voice cracking. “Every night,at the endof the shift, I put my gun in my mouth and I wonder if this will finally be the time where I have the courage to pull the trigger.”

“Shit, man, that’s dark. I wish I could help,” I say, thinking. Then I reach into my wallet and put a handful of twenties on the bar. “I’ll take a beer. Keep the change.”

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