“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, my head spinning, “Leo, that’s horrible. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I got even,” he says, “I decided when Emilia died that I was going to take those assholes down. They were part of a local gang. Way smaller operation than the Wraiths, not even a proper MC. Just a bunch of thugs. The police didn’t do shit after Emilia was found. So I became a prospect, got the strength of the Wraiths behind me, and took their asses out myself.”
“You...killed them?” I breathe.
“I got justice for my sister. I realized that the police, the legal system, they weren’t the good guys. Not by a long shot. It was the Wraiths who were really out to do what was right. We got the fuckers who killed my sister locked up,” Leo shrugs, “They may have gotten shanked on the inside.”
“By your orders?” I go on.
“Lots of questions tonight, huh?” he asks, “They killed my sister, Kelly. I don’t have an ounce of remorse about what happened to them. Someone has to dispense justice. It may as well be us.”
I stare across the table at Leo, trying to come to terms with what he’s just told me. If his beloved sister was abducted and killed, how could he do the same thing to Kassie? Then again, that might mean that he’s doing everything in his power to keep her safe while she’s in Wraith custody. The Nine have been playing it pretty cool about her being taken, probably not to upset me and Declan. But I have no idea how these situations usually pan out.
“I guess that’s what club life is like, huh?” I say, tentatively moving the conversation forward, “You do what you have to, to protect your family. Your own.”
“That’s right,” Leo says, taking a long sip of whiskey, “The Wraiths don’t have weak stomachs. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not going out of our way to kill people left and right, but we don’t cut much slack for other clubs who do us wrong.”
“No?” I press, hoping he’ll spill something about the Nine. For all his talk about the Wraiths being the good guys, I’d love to hear his justification for their recent bad behavior.
“You came at a good time, we’re in the middle of something with another club right now,” he says. “And you’re just the distraction I needed.”
Jackpot.
“What’s going on there?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on my whiskey glass.
“There’s this smaller club in Vegas that’s taken to talking shit about us,” Leo says, “But it goes deeper than that. We’ve always held the most territory in this region, and they’re trying to undermine that. For no reason other than their own greed and insecurity.”
“So, they’re just trying to fuck you for no reason?” I ask.
“Oh, they’ve been justifying it to themselves, claiming that we had something to do with the death of one of their members. But that’s absolute bullshit. That’s not how we do things.”
“Of course,” I say, my heart tightening at the mention of Sam.
“They’re actually saying that we ran him off the road during a race. Trying to poison all our other associations around these parts,” Leo growls, “We lost out on a huge deal just the other week because of them. Those fuckers are trying to mess with us, turn people against us. And that’s dangerous. One of us could end up getting seriously hurt, if people get the idea that we’re not to be trusted. I can handle missing out on some dough, it’s being accused of murdering another innocent outlaw that really gets me.”
“Isn’t innocent outlaw an oxymoron?” I try to kid.
“Not at all,” Leo says, deadly serious, “The guy who died, Sam, was a friend of mine. He was a great guy. I’d never hurt him. Shit, I was there when he had this accident. He was racing Tyke for the hell of it and lost control. So when these fuckers say that one of us killed Sam, they’re talking about me. And I just can’t abide that.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from spilling a thousand errant thoughts. Leo was there when Sam died? How did I not know this? How can I believe that the Wraiths didn’t hurt Sam if they’ve gone after other MC members in the past? How can I believe that they’re so innocent after what they did to Kassie and the rest of us? And why, despite all the evidence, does my heart still tell me I can trust Leo?
“Shit,” Leo grumbles, as his phone starts to vibrate on the table, breaking the tension of the moment, “I gotta take this—”
“You can get it,” I tell him, “I’m gonna run upstairs and get some sweats, if you don’t mind. I know the nothing-but-a-tee-shirt thing is working for you, but I’ve got goose bumps, all of a sudden...”
“Go for it,” he says, pushing himself up from the table. He walks quickly out of the kitchen, taking the call in the other room, out of earshot. I stare after him, amazed in the wake of his revelations.
Dazed, I pull myself up and pad up the wooden stairs, listening to the low rumble of Leo’s voice. All I’ve learned from our little conversation is that the Wraiths are really pissed about the Nine poking around after Sam’s death. Personally insulted. But something doesn’t quite make sense. The Nine say that they were only asking for details, not accusing or dragging the Wraiths’ name through the mud. Each club has claimed its innocence. So who, exactly, is telling the truth?
I find the door to Leo’s bedroom open at the top of the stairs. I take a deep breath and step into the sacred space. A huge king bed stands against the far wall, Spartan but sleek. A few plain pieces of light wooden furniture populate the rest of the space. This is the room of a private man, a humble man. There’s a long, low dresser against the wall, and I cross to it. A few framed pictures rest on the polished top, including a snapshot of a very familiar looking young woman and a little boy I’ve never seen.
With her straight dark hair and sad eyes, the girl has to be Emilia. But that must mean that the slight little boy with a mop of black hair is Leo himself. One look at the golden eyes is enough to confirm my guess. I can’t believe that he was ever so small. Or so happy.
Smiling sadly, I start pulling open dresser drawers, searching for bottoms I might be able to use. Most of Leo’s clothes will obviously be too big for me, but I don’t mind the excuse to take his things in my hands. I love looking at people’s clothes—it’s like archaeology. You can learn a lot about a person by the contents of their sock drawer. Maybe that’s just unabashed snooping, but hey—a girl’s gotta have her hobbies.