Page 46

Danny

Soulless Sinners’ clubhouse.

“What do you mean, you won’t fucking help me?!” My words ripped from my throat, a raw, guttural sound that echoed in the dimly lit clubhouse, the stale scent of cheap whiskey and fear clinging to the air like a shroud.

The tension in the clubhouse was suffocating, a thick, stifling cloud that pressed down on my chest and made each breath a labor. The scent of leather, sweat, and smoke mingled in the air, a potent reminder of where I was and the stakes at play. My fists clenched at my sides, knuckles white with the force of my grip, as I locked eyes with the towering figure of Mercy.

I could feel the weight of the stares from the other club members, their expressions a mix of curiosity, concern, and barely concealed aggression. The room seemed to vibrate with the collective energy, a powder keg of emotions waiting for a spark. And here I was, the lit match poised to ignite it all.

“Sypher.” Jingles’ voice cut through the oppressive silence, a barely audible murmur that still carried the weight of a command. “You need to back down.”

But I couldn’t, not now, not after everything I’d gone through. What we’d gone through. There was no fucking way I was giving up now.

I stepped forward, my gaze never wavering from Mercy’s. His face, a mask of rigid control, hinted at the storm that raged beneath the surface. I knew I was walking a fine line, but I had no choice. Dante’s future, our future, depended on this.

Mercy’s perfectly sculpted face, usually a mask of serene composure, twisted with a barely concealed irritation. His annoyance was a physical thing, a palpable wave washing over me, hot and prickly.

Like I gave a single goddamn fuck.

He wasn’t my VP.

“Sypher, easy, brother.” Jingles’ warning was a low, soothing rumble, a stark contrast to the tempest brewing inside me. The weight of his hand on my shoulder felt like a lead weight, anchoring me to the ground. “You can’t talk to a VP like that.”

“The fuck I can’t!” My words were a venomous hiss, tasting like bile and rage in my mouth. The throbbing in my temples mirrored the frantic beat of my heart. “This club, the entire fucking underworld, owes me, and I intend to collect every single goddamn cent, with interest.”

Mercy’s composure shattered. He lunged, a viper striking, his eyes blazing with a furious, incandescent light. Raw animal fury radiated from him. “We owe you nothing! Because of you and the goddamned Golden Skulls, the underworld is a bloodbath! The clubs are fractured, splintered, warring. There’s no law, only chaos, only blood.” His voice cracked with the force of his anger; a low growl vibrated in his chest, resonating through the floor. “This club has lost everything! All of our clubs have scattered. Gone! I can’t go home to my wife and daughter for fear that I will lead someone to them. Instead, we are holed up here like fucking pussies, waiting for the next shoe to drop. So, no! The Soulless Sinners don’t owe you shit!”

A stiff hand clamped down on my arm, stopping me before I could close the distance, the steel of Ghost’s grip biting into my flesh. His silence, a chilling presence, spoke volumes. The taste of blood filled my mouth—mine, a small cut from his grip. My fury, however, remained undimmed, a burning ember in the heart of the storm.

My eyes narrowed, locking with Mercy’s, the air between us electric with animosity. I could feel Jingles’ hand, heavy with warning, on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off. The air was thick with tension, the silence a deafening roar. I took a step forward, my voice low and dangerous. “You think I wanted any of this? Someone had to try and stop that bitch. She is a cancer, infecting everything. I did what no one else had the guts to do. And now, I’ll be damned if I let Dante slip through my fingers because his fucking club is too fucking chickenshit to do anything to save him!”

My words hung in the air, heavy and menacing.

Mercy’s eyes flickered, his anger warring with a hint of uncertainty. “You may have rid us of the Trick Pony, but at what cost? The clubs are in ruins, and innocent lives are being lost in the crossfire. You may have your reasons, Sypher, but sometimes, the price is too high.” His voice had lost its edge. His fury dissipated into a weary resignation.

I felt a twinge of something, remorse, perhaps, but it was quickly snuffed out by my burning need to find Dante. “He’s at Sinclair’s place, Mercy. He’s there right now, and God only knows what Sinclair is doing to him.”

“Sinclair won’t hurt the intern,” Malice casually said, sitting at the end on the bar, eating a green apple. “He raised that kid. Thinks of him as his own son.”

My eyes darted to Malice. The casual ease in his voice grated against my already frayed nerves. “Raised him, did he?” My voice was a harsh bark, cutting through the stagnant air. “Then why was Dante scared? Why did he ask Bane to contact you?”

Malice took another bite of his apple, the crunch echoing in the silence. “Dante’s not scared. He’s playing the game.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “A game? This isn’t a game, Malice!”

“Yes, it is.” Valhalla sighed, walking down the stairs with Bane at her side as she looked at all of us. “It’s always about the game.”

“What are you talking about, Val?” Mercy asked.

“From the moment Jane allowed us to escape, and she gave Sinclair the clue.”

“What clue?” Malice frowned.

Val looked at the grumpy enforcer and clearly said, “A clue to find his son.”

“That’s what you stole from him,” I gasped, shaking my head. “That’s why he’s willing to tear Dante apart. He’s going to use your son to save his.”

“He can fucking try,” Bane growled.

“I didn’t take shit,” Val said, taking a seat at the bar.

“What did the clue say?” I asked, not really caring one way or another, but if it helped me free Dante from that bastard, then I was willing to try anything.

“It was a picture taken in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1995.”

“Of what?” Mercy asked, annoyed.

“A baby boy with a café au lait birthmark. It’s French for coffee with milk. The birthmarks are oval shaped and light tan to dark brown. In the picture Jane gave Sinclair, it was on the baby’s right hip.”

“So, it could be anyone?” I asked.

Val nodded. “Which is why I never looked for the kid. Besides, he’s better off not knowing. No one wants Crispin Sinclair as a father.”

Shaking my head, I groaned. “Son of a bitch. This game has nothing to do with finding the kid. It has to do with you taking the only thing Sinclair had of value. He was never going to look for his son. He fucking knew the kid was better off without him. But that picture. It was his last vestige of his humanity.” Looking at Val, I asked, “Where is the picture?”

Val’s eyes flickered with frustration. “I didn’t take it. I swear.”

“Then who did?” I pressed, my voice sharp and insistent.

“Sinclair probably hid it himself,” Val muttered. “Or one of the others took it. He’s paranoid enough to have kept it under lock and key. The man is a master at deception.”

Mercy scoffed, the sound filled with disdain. “So we’re chasing ghosts. Fantastic.”

“Mercy, stop being a fucking pussy. You know you’re gonna help,” Malice groaned, getting to his feet and stretching his arms over his chest. “Not like we got anything else to do.”