Page 13 of Heat (The Royal HArlots MC, Quebec City-Canada #1)

Chapter Twelve

Diamond stood alongside Nova, eyes scanning the crowd, posture relaxed but alert. The roar of engines cut through the noise of the rally, drawing a smirk to her lips. The Harlots from Northern Ontario had arrived—right on time.

The rally was loud, packed, and chaotic—but that made it perfect.

No one questioned who talked to who in a crowd like this.

It was just another gathering of bikers, full of smoke, beer, and music.

No one would look twice at a few women slipping into a closed-door meeting.

What looked like a reunion was really business. And business needed to be handled.

As the Northern girls rolled in, Diamond and Nova pushed through the sea of leather and steel, making their way to the row of bikes just pulling in. Shark was the first off, grinning, followed closely by Sting, who tugged off her helmet and flashed Diamond a sharp smile.

“About damn time,” Diamond said, stepping in for a fist bump that turned into a solid hug.

“Traffic was shit,” Shark replied, clapping Nova on the back.

It was all quick embraces, smirks, and nods. Familiar faces. Shared loyalty. Chapters coming together like pieces of a whole. No drama. No power struggle. Just mutual respect and the unspoken understanding that when the Harlots met like this, something bigger was always brewing.

Some of the other girls from the Quebec City Chapter sauntered up, drawn by the sound of engines and the familiar faces gathering.

A few had beers in hand, others passed around a joint, laughter trailing behind them like perfume.

Their energy was wild and unbothered. Every single one of them carried the same fire behind their eyes.

There was no need for introductions. These were sisters, bonded not just by leather and patches, but by the miles they’d ridden and the shit they’d survived.

Music thumped in the background, and for a moment, it felt like the chaos of the rally faded around them. They talked, laughed, flicked ash from cigarettes, and swapped stories from the road. It looked casual. Easy. Like any group of women having a good time.

But under it all, there was a current of purpose—because they didn’t come here just to party.

Diamond had asked Teller for the use of a private room. Somewhere quiet, tucked away from the noise and the curious eyes, so the two chapters could hold church and handle their business. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask what it was about, though she could see the curiosity flicker behind his eyes.

Still, he didn’t push. Just gave a quick nod and motioned for her to follow.

She respected that about him. Teller might be a nosy bastard, but he knew when to back off and when to respect the sanctity of club affairs. Especially when it came to the Harlots.

He led her through the back hallways of the clubhouse, the sound of the rally fading with every step, until he stopped in front of a heavy door. “It’s all yours,” he said, pulling it open.

Diamond gave him a single nod, her expression unreadable. “Appreciate it.”

He lingered for a second, like he wanted to say more, then thought better of it and walked off.

Inside, the room was closed off, windowless, and quiet. A long table sat at the center with enough chairs in the room to seat both chapters. Diamond stepped in first, holding the door as the Northern girls filed in behind her chapter.

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the sounds of the rally outside. Inside the room, the air shifted—focused, tight, serious. No one needed to be told to sit up straight or drop the grins. They already knew this wasn’t about club business. This was about something bigger.

Diamond stood at the head of the table, hands braced against the wood, her expression unreadable but charged. Nova sat beside her, flipping open a folder thick with notes and photos.

“Alright,” Diamond began, voice steady. “We’ve got a woman ready to move. The situation’s gotten worse. Last incident, she barely made it out without broken ribs. She’s not waiting for another chance. She’s ready.”

The women around the table listened in silence. No interruptions. No distractions.

“This is a two-chapter job,” Diamond continued. “Shark, you’re doing the pickup. She’s near Barrie. She’ll have what little she can carry. She trusts no one but us.”

Shark nodded from the other end of the table, already taking notes. “When?”

“Next week,” Nova said, tapping the map inside the folder. “You’ll move them straight to Port Dover. We’ll take the hand-off at the rally.”

Diamond pointed at the red-lined route. “From Dover, we’re heading back to Quebec City and will leave from there. It’s a clean shot south into New York. We’ve got a secure overnight lined up near Albany. After that, we move west. No cuts, no detours.”

“And the endgame?” Sting asked.

“Last leg is by air,” Nova said. “Private flight, small-town airstrip. From there, they land in a new state and go dark. New name, new life.”

Silence settled in again, heavy but electric.

“What about the husband?” Domino asked, her voice low.

“He doesn’t know she’s running,” Diamond said. “But if he catches wind? You don’t engage unless you have to. We’re not giving him a reason to think his suspicions are warranted.”

“But if it’s between him and her—” Shark started.

“Then you do what you need to do,” Diamond cut in, eyes locked on hers. “And you ride like hell afterward.”

No one questioned it. No one hesitated.

“We’re not just moving her,” Nova added. “We’re giving her a second chance. And we don’t get second chances wrong.”

Shark leaned back in her chair, rolling her shoulder. “We’ll get her there.”

Diamond gave one firm nod. “Now, let’s have some damn fun.”

After church wrapped, the tension in the room eased—but the bond between the women only tightened.

Both chapters stuck around, shoulders dropping and voices rising as they shifted into something more casual.

Orders were placed, laughter broke out, and soon the long meeting table was lined with takeout containers, paper plates, and half-empty pitchers of beer.

The Montreal Chapter’s club girls filtered in and out, balancing trays of wings, fries, and loaded nachos, dropping off fresh pitchers without missing a beat.

They knew better than to linger. This wasn’t just a party.

This was sisterhood cooling down after business.

Still, Diamond couldn’t help but smirk as one of the girls strutted in wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top that had long since given up on covering anything.

“If we had a bar, a pole, and a stage,” Diamond muttered to Nova, who was mid-sip of her beer, “we’d have a damn strip club running in here by now.”

Nova laughed, low and dry. “Give it an hour. Someone’s gonna start dancing on the table.”

“Bet you five bucks it’s Sting.”

They both turned just in time to see Sting toss back a shot someone had handed her and slam the glass down with a grin. The room erupted in cheers.

Diamond leaned back in her chair, content for the moment. Business was handled. Plans were in motion. And for now, for just a little while, they could breathe.

The road would be waiting. But tonight, the Harlots celebrated their own way—loud, loyal, and unapologetically wild.

Wouldn’t be the last time a church hall was violated in a clubhouse.