Page 8 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

The run was supposed to be routine. A simple delivery for one of our legitimate businesses—auto parts heading up the coast. I'd made that route a hundred times. Knew every curve, every stretch where cops liked to hide, every shortcut if we needed one.

But I didn't know about the ambush.

Iron Serpents had been testing our territory for months. I knew they were getting bolder. I should have been more careful. Should have sent scouts ahead. Should have⁠—

The first shot took out Hammer's tire. The second clipped Rev's shoulder. By the time I realized what was happening, bullets were flying from both sides of the road and Marco was screaming my name.

I found him behind the overturned truck, bleeding out from a gut wound that no amount of pressure was going to stop. His hands were slick with it, trying to hold himself together, and when he saw my face, he knew.

"Don't." His voice was already fading. "Don't blame yourself, brother. This life... we knew the risks."

"Shut up." I was pressing my hands over his, both of us slippery with blood. "You're not dying. You hear me? You're not fucking dying."

But he was. We both knew it.

"Take care of Mara." His eyes found mine, urgent. "She's gonna need someone. Promise me."

"I promise. Marco, I⁠—"

"And Pope?" He grabbed my cut with what was left of his strength, pulling me closer. "Let yourself have something good for once. You deserve it. Even if you don't believe that."

I held him while he died. Felt the exact moment his body went still. And I didn't understand—couldn't understand—what he meant.

Let yourself have something good.

Marco knew. He knew I loved her. Somehow, some way, he'd figured it out—the thing I'd buried so deep I barely admitted it to myself. And his dying wish was to tell me I deserved happiness?

I've spent two years trying to convince myself those were the rambles of a dying man. Blood loss. Delirium. Anything but what they sounded like.

Permission.

The memorial starts at six.

I shower, shave, put on the cleanest clothes I own. The black button-down feels like armor. Like mourning. Like a lie.

Marco's Trattoria is packed by the time I arrive. Half the town has shown up to honor him—the men in their cuts, the women in black dresses, kids running between tables while their parents try to corral them. Candles flicker on every surface. Photos of Marco cover the walls, that same grin in every shot.

I spot the others immediately. Jax stands near the bar with Maddie, baby Emma asleep against his chest. Rev and Eden are tucked into a corner booth, his hand covering hers on the table. Doc leans against the wall with Rory beside him, little Luna clinging to his leg like he's the only safe thing in the room.

My brothers. My family. The people I'd die for.

And then I see her.

Mara moves through the crowd like water, greeting guests, accepting kind words, holding herself together with a grace that makes my chest ache. She's wearing black—a simple dress that hugs her curves and leaves her shoulders bare. Her dark hair is pinned up, exposing the line of her neck.

She's beautiful. She's always been beautiful. And I have no right to notice.

Our eyes meet across the room.

The kiss hangs between us, unspoken. Her lips part. My hands clench at my sides. For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then someone calls her name, and she turns away, and I can breathe again.

The eulogy is worse than I expected.

I stand at the front of the restaurant with Marco's photo behind me and a hundred pairs of eyes watching, and I try to find words for a man who was my brother in every way that mattered.

"Marco Deluca was the best of us."