It was my father. Hank.
I stared in absolute shock. He wasn't supposed to be here. He had told me yesterday he was going to a motorcycle rally two states away. I had tried calling him all afternoon, but his phone had gone straight to voicemail.
Hank didn't say a word. He simply stepped out of the shadows, the silver chains on his boots jingling faintly in the absolute quiet of the room. His eyes were locked dead onto Victoria Sterling.
Then, from the booth next to him, another man stood up. Massive, heavily tattooed, wearing the same leather cut.
Then another man stood up from a table near the bar.
Then two more from the center of the room.
All around the luxurious, high-society dining room, men in heavy leather and dark jackets began pushing back their chairs. Five. Ten. Fifteen. More than twenty of them, scattered strategically throughout the entire restaurant, rising in complete, synchronized silence.
They were the Iron Hounds. My father's motorcycle club.
The triumphant smirk on Victoria Sterling’s face vanished, replaced by a look of dawning, paralyzing horror as she realized that the people she thought were ordinary patrons were all turning to face her.
And for the first time in her pampered life, the Sterling name wasn't going to save her.
The silence in the dining room stretched so tight it felt like the air itself was about to snap. Nobody moved. The wealthy patrons in their silks and tuxedos sat frozen in their seats, their forks hovering halfway to their mouths, their eyes darting wildly between the towering men in leather who now commanded the room.
My father took a slow, deliberate step forward. His heavy boots crunched over a piece of broken glass. The sound was deafening.
"Dad..." I whispered, my voice breaking. I was still on my knees in the puddle of champagne, clutching my stomach.
Hank didn't look down at me yet. His gaze remained welded to Victoria. But two men from the closest table—Big John and Dutch, men I had known since I was a little girl in pigtails—stepped out from the surrounding crowd. They didn't rush. They moved with a terrifying calm, stepping around Marcus as if he were nothing but a piece of furniture.
Dutch knelt beside me, his massive tattooed hands surprisingly gentle as he reached out. "Easy now, little bird," he murmured, his deep voice a rumble in his chest. "We got you. Let's get you off the floor."
"The glass..." I stammered, wincing as a sharp pain radiated from my knee.
"I see it," Dutch said. He pulled a clean blue bandana from his back pocket and pressed it firmly against the cut on my leg while Big John gripped my arms, lifting my heavy, pregnant body effortlessly into a standing position. Big John didn't let go; he kept his massive frame positioned between me and the rest of the room, a human shield.
Marcus finally seemed to find his voice. His face was slick with terrified sweat. "What—what is the meaning of this? Security! Security, remove these men immediately!"
Four security guards stood by the main doors. They were big men, accustomed to tossing out overly drunk hedge fund managers. But as they looked at the twenty-plus battle-hardened bikers standing silently in the room, forming an impenetrable wall of leather, denim, and muscle, none of the guards moved a single inch.
Victoria took a frantic step backward, bumping into her chair. She was clutching her diamond bag so hard her manicured nails looked ready to snap. "Don't you come near me!" she shrieked at my father. "Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who my family is?"