Chapter 4
Phil

"Phil?"
When I cracked open my eye, Marzia stood before me, clutching two bags with Ride, the name of her biker store, written on the front. Felix leaned against the door frame, quietly watching, taking in the scene before him.
After my shower, I'd dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, then slumped down in my chair. I must've fallen asleep. I turned my attention to Jane Doe.
Still the same.
"Are you okay, Phil." Marzia's voice pulled me around, her brows drawn down tight.
I nodded and said, "You good with cleaning her up? Felix explain?"
Marzia edged closer, light honey colored hair down, dressed in tight black jeans and a black Hangmen tank, her leather vest reading Property of Felix on the back.

She stopped at the side of the bed and caressed the bitch's head. My body froze, my stomach churning with possessiveness. I didn't like anyone but me touching her. Suddenly felt like ripping Marzia's arm out of its socket.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I had to stop myself from tackling Marzia out of the way.
What the fuck, man? Get it the fuck together! I told myself.
Marzia fixed her hazel eyes on me. She saw the conflict in my fucking psycho glare. I was sure of it. "She's beautiful." Her forehead lined. "She just turned up out nowhere, injured?"
Jerking my chin, I ordered Felix to split. He nodded, pulled the door shut, and I stood against the wall and said, "She turned up bleeding, dying and covered in dirt. She needs cleaning. Not gonna do it. I only trust you. That's why you're here. She can't leave yet. Too many Feds on our backs. Need to find out who the fuck she is and why she's here."

I could see the questions swirling in her hazel eyes, but she knew not to dig. Marzia: best of all the old ladies. Knew when to shut her fucking mouth, unlike most of the sluts who littered the bar.
"I'll clean her, change the sheets, and get her some clothes. I'll call you when I'm done if you'd like."
Tipping my chin in agreement, I left Marzia with Jane Doe, her eyes burning holes in my back. I headed to the lounge, signaling to PJ to join me.
PJ tore himself away from Tiff and Jules sucking on each other's tits, giving the boys a porn floorshow, and he followed me into my office.

"S'up, Phil? The bitch good?" PJ asked, shutting the door.
Shrugging, I sat down behind my desk. "Still not sure. Marzia's cleaning."
He slapped a hand on my shoulder without saying a word and sat down. "You wanna talk?"
"Stays between us, right?" "Right." I paused, gathering my suspicions.
"We have a rat."
PJ froze and spoke through gritted teeth. "You certain?"
I threw him a single nod. "That or a covert agent maybe?"
"Shit." Nothing a brother hates more than a rat. "You're always right over shit like this, just like your old man was, born intuition. Any guess who?"

"Not yet. Some fucker told the mystery supplier about the Commi deal, no two ways about it." I took a deep breath, loosening my throat.
"Just have to work out who and why and then send them to the boatman."
"Plan?"
"Not yet. Gonna see how it plays out. But I'm watching." PJ stood, pacing.
"Who'd do it? I trust every one of these brothers, every single one. It's got to be a groupie or a nomad. Shit!"
I stared out the small window and shrugged. He could be right. Something just didn't feel right. Something big was going down.

PJ swiveled his chair away from my desk and sat on it backward, arms resting on the backrest. "You and I never would rat. Felix, Shaun, Mark and Jack—in for life, no question."
"Jack Harries? You certain?" I asked.
PJ shook his head. "Not a chance he's the rat. He's got no family but us. Best damn rider we got. Does anything asked, always stitching us up after fights, works next to me in deals, goes on any run given, never questions shit. He doesn't deserve our doubt just because he's young or that he's quiet. You're only twenty-eight, brother, twenty-seven when you got Prez. No one questioned your age. Brother may only be twenty-two but was recruited just before twenty and been a fucking golden asset ever since."

I jerked my chin.
Point made.
PJ kept going. "Jack Howard—lifer. Tom—loyal as fuck. That only leaves Ben, who we both know is fucking psycho. The only thing keeping him from murdering a packed mall on a Saturday is his love for this club. Only leaves Tyler or the new hang arounds. They have no intel. Never get word on details. Brothers are good with Tyler, wanna patch him in soon." He shook his head and hit the back of the chair in frustration. "FUCK! Who could it be? Has to be the Feds or some cunt—tapping cells or using hidden surveillance."

For once, I didn't give a fuck about any of it. My mind was back in my room with Jane Doe.
A hand slammed on my desktop. "Phil! Christ, man. Get it the fuck together!" PJ was scowling right in my face.
My eyes narrowed and he tried to hide his flinch. "Don't. First and only fucking warning." I said.
He pushed out his palms and backed the hell off. "Fine. Look, your head's not straight with the bitch here. Let me do some groundwork, set some feelers out under the radar. Keep it just between us."
I exhaled. "Yeah. Need to know who's new to running guns in England."
Standing up, I walked to the door, turning back to say, "Going back to my place. Marzia should be done by now. Not waiting all fucking night."
Heading through the lounge, around the back of the compound, I climbed the stairs and knocked at my door. Pushing it open, I saw Marzia was in my bathroom, washing her hands. She looked up as I walked in.

"You done?" I asked.
"She's clean. I'll bring clothes tomorrow after my shift at the store, she's got on a robe for now." Walking beside the bed, she looked up at me, shaking her head. "She's slim, Phil. Too slim if you ask me. The girl doesn't eat anything by the looks of her."
I finally let myself check out the bitch on the bed. Damn. She knocked the breath right out of me: smooth complexion, freshly washed and dried brown hair free of blood and dirt.
Hell. It had to be her…
Marzia gathered her things. With a small smile, she paused to say, "She looks like Snow White, Phil. Dark hair, pale skin, red lips. She's stunning, not a scratch of makeup, but still looks like that. Not fair! No wonder the club sluts are whining about you keeping her back here to yourself. They have nothing on her."

I released a pent-up sigh.
Snow. Fuckin'. White.
I could feel Marzia looking at me funny, her hands twisting together as I stared in a damn trance at the bed. Her gaze dropped, nerves pulsing from her awkwardness.
Frowning, I asked "What?"
Marzia closed her eyes briefly and opened them on a sigh.
"She has a lot of scars on her body, Phil" I stilled, heart pumping, rage building, and asked,
"Where?"

But Marzia's eyes were fixed on the bed. Spinning her around by her arm, I demanded, "Where?"
"Mostly her back. Look like pretty severe lash marks. They go from side to side like someone's whipped her good. But…who would do that? Who gets lashed nowadays?"
I raised a questioning eyebrow as Marzia's gaze saddened.
"Has some on her inner thighs too. Look like old cuts, blade marks…or…something worse." She didn't go further, letting the implication hang in the air.

Fuck. Marzia walked toward the door, laying a hand on my rigid arm as she passed. "I hope she pulls through, Phil. Looks like she deserves a better life than the one she has."
I couldn't respond. Couldn't think. Scars on her fucking inner thighs…
I sat on the chair next to the bed, watching the bitch's chest rise and fall. I leaned in, took a deep breath, working my throat like hell to manage a whisper.
"If you can hear me, pull through. Wake the fuck up. I've been waiting on you coming back to me for fifteen fucking years. No dying on me now, you hear me?"