Page 49 of Monk

Roberts’ face went red.

“You think you’re untouchable?” he snapped. “You think you can just walk away and there won’t be consequences?”

“I think you’re full of shit,” I said flatly. “And I think you know it.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The engine rumbled between us, filling the silence, then Roberts’ expression shifted. Hardened. “Fine,” he said quietly. “If you won’t cooperate, maybe we need to take a closer look at Abigail’s situation.”

My entire body went rigid.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“I’m saying,” Roberts went on, his voice cold and deliberate, “that if you’re going to be reckless with your own life, we need tomake sure your sister is in a safe environment. We’ll review her paperwork. Make sure everything’s properly documented. Make sure you’re not a danger to her. And if we find discrepancies, we’ll remove her for her own safety.”

My vision went red. I was off the bike before I even realized I’d moved. My hand shot out, fisting in the front of Roberts’ shirt, as I walked him back before I slammed him against the hood of his sedan hard enough to rattle the metal. My forearm pinned him across the chest. My face was inches from his.

“You listen to me, you piece of shit,” I snarled, my voice shaking with rage I was barely holding in. “You go near my sister—so much aslookat her, talk to her, eventhinkabout her—and I will make you disappear. Do you understand me? I will put you in the fucking ground, and no one will ever find enough of you to bury.”

Roberts’ eyes widened, genuine fear flashing across his face.

Good. He should be afraid.

“You think I’m bluffing?” I continued, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You think I won’t do it? Try me, James. Fucking try me.”

Roberts’ hands came up, palms out, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“John—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

I held him there a few more seconds, long enough to let him feel the weight of it, long enough for him to see in my eyes that I meant every goddamn word. Then I shoved him off me hard enough that he stumbled and nearly went down. He caught himself against the car, chest heaving, face gone pale.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said, and now there was a hitch in his voice. “You think you can walk away from this? From me? I’ll go to Kansas. I’ll tell him everything. Your WITSEC status. Your history with the Feds. Your real name. All of it.I’ll burn your credibility with the club. You’ll be done, John. Finished.”

I stared at him for a long moment, then smiled.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

“Go ahead,” I said quietly. “I dare you. Tell Kansas everything. Tell him I’ve been in witness protection since I was a kid. Tell him my real name. Tell him about my father, my mother, all of it. I don’t give a fuck anymore, James. I’m done playing your games. Done being afraid. You want to burn me? Burn me. I’ll take my chances.”

Roberts’ mouth opened, then closed. He looked genuinely stunned.

I turned and walked back to my bike, swinging my leg over the seat. I revved the engine once, twice. The sound was loud and aggressive, echoing across the empty road. “Fuck off, James,” I said over my shoulder. “And stay the fuck away from my sister.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I twisted the throttle and tore out, gravel spraying behind me as the bike lunged back onto the asphalt. The engine roared. The wind hit my face like a slap.

I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw Roberts was still standing there, a dark silhouette against the fading light, his hands on his hips, watching me disappear into the distance.

I rode hard for another five minutes before I eased off the throttle, letting the bike settle into a steady cruising speed.

My hands were shaking.

Not from fear. From adrenaline. From rage. From the certainty that Roberts wasn’t going to let this die. Men like him never did. They pushed and pushed until they got what they wanted or until somebody made them stop. But that wasn’t what kept grinding at me.

What was eating at me was the question I couldn’t shake:

Why?Why was Roberts so desperate to keep me in WITSEC?

The original threats were gone. William Doherty—the man who killed my father and raped my mother—was dead. The old Golden Skulls’ guard who’d been hunting me was dead. The danger that put me into witness protection in the first place didn’t exist anymore. So why the fuck was Roberts still trying to drag me back? I’d been living openly at the clubhouse for years. Riding with the Diamondbacks. Wearing my cut. And nothing had happened. No attempts on my life. No threats. No danger.