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“Can I shove my nuts in a jar of fire ants instead?” Massi shoots over his shoulder as he heads out the front door.

About fifty motorcycles are lining the street outside the shabby standalone building set off the road and surrounded by heavy gravel. Rock music blares through the open double doors and several windows and a large verandah attached to the front of the building is full of men and women wearing leather and smoking cigarettes.

We idle on the other side of the road watching the door through tinted windows. There is no sign of Billy or his one-handed buddies outside. Would’ve been a massive stroke of luck if they had been lounging around out the front, but we are going to have to brave the bourbon fumes to check if they’re inside.

“Let’s get this over with,” I grumble to Massi who is shoving a handgun into the back of his pants. He nods and we step out of the car at the same time.

We have barely taken two steps across the road when the attention of everyone hanging out the front of the bar zeroes in on us.

“Did the temperature just drop by like 20 degrees?” Massi murmurs.

The hostility is palpable. Frosty is an understatement.

The crowd is shifting; men in Satan’s Sons cuts move forward to create a barrier between us and the entrance to the bar.

“What brings a pair of Marinos to our neck of the woods,” a short, stocky biker asks, his tone leaving us under no illusions about how unwelcome we are.

“Looking for Billy,” I bark. My stance is wide and confident. I stare each of the bikers down without a flicker of doubt in my expression.

Looks are exchanged between the leather-clad men and whispers ripple through the gathered crowd.

“He ain’t here,” the stocky spokesman replies.

“You know where I can find him?”

“Nope,” he pronounces the word with a pop. “If you see him, remind him he is on borrowed time.”

“He’s not a Son anymore?”

“He’s a traitor!” a man shouts from somewhere in the crowd.

So he has gone rogue. Him and his little posse.

This doesn’t get us any closer to finding Francesca though. We need to find out where he would take her. If it is even him.

“Ned here?”

“Nah, but I am,” a deep, raspy voice replies. It comes from a tall lean biker, his blonde hair pulled back into a bun, tattoos creeping up his muscular neck. “I’m Billy’s brother.”

“Giovanna, Massimo,” I introduce us. “Your name is?”

“Dutch.”

“Reckon we can have a chat without the audience?” I look pointedly at the rubberneckers.

“Fuck off back inside,” Dutch rasps and immediately everyone moves back inside or onto the verandah.

“What does the mafia want with my brother?” he asks once the three of us stand alone on the gravel path.

I pause. It isn’t in my nature to disclose weakness to anyone. Telling bikers that one of our women has been taken is an admission of utter failure. But I will swallow my pride if it means getting a step closer to finding Francesca.

“My brother’s fiance has been taken. We think Billy might know where she is.”

He frowns. “What would he want with her?”

“He and two other bikers threatened her at work a while ago. They said they were paid to rough her up. We figure that he may have been paid to take her too.”

“Hmmm,” Dutch runs a hand over his stubbled jaw, contemplating his next words carefully. “I know you catch up with Uncle Ned and he considers you an ally…Billy… he and a few of his mates…they’ve gone rogue. Not surprised they’ve been acting as mercenaries.”