Page 8

Fury

That weekend at the Gentlemen’s Club,

Ignoring the buzzing in my pocket for what felt like the hundredth time, I sat at the table next to Montana; Mercy was on his other side. Malice found himself a dark corner to brood in, while Payne stood behind us, flipping his switchblade around. The clank and grinding of metal was getting on my last nerve when my phone buzzed again.

“Payne, put that blade away before I shove it up your ass,” Montana sneered, then looked at me and asked, “And who the fuck keeps calling you?”

Groaning, I replied, “My mom.”

“What the hell does she want?”

“She wants me to bring the girls to her house for Thanksgiving. Apparently, she’s hosting the entire family this year and I haven’t RSVP’d.”

“Dude, Thanksgiving is this coming Thursday,” Payne stated.

Sighing, I rubbed the back of my neck and admitted, “I know. All I wanted to do was spend a quiet day with my girls and binge watch crap on TV while ordering takeout.”

“Then tell her to fuck off.”

Turning, we all glared at Malice.

“I know you didn’t just tell me to tell my mother to fuck off.”

The grumpy bastard didn’t reply as he shrugged his shoulders.

Ignoring the fucker, I turned back around and added, “Plus, then there is Linsey.”

“What’s she got to do with this?” Payne asked.

“She’s got the whole day planned, and my girls are all she has left of her sister. Plus, she’s pregnant again and I don’t want to upset her.”

“Gonna piss off one of them, brother.” Mercy snickered.

“That’s why I’m ignoring my phone,” I grumbled as the door opened and Illyria walked in, looking flustered.

“Your guests are here,” she snipped.

Sitting up straighter, I didn’t get the chance to ask as Montana beat me to it. “Everything okay, beautiful?”

“I hate out-of-towners,” was all she said when Braesal O’Malley, the head of the Irish Mafia of Massachusetts, walked in as if he owned the place, along with four of his brethren. The man was not what I expected. Standing close to six and a half feet tall with broad shoulders, Braesal O’Malley exuded a dominant presence, with a hint of superiority. However, it was the telltale smirk that alluded to a penchant for deviance and mayhem as he surveyed the room.

“Do I need to be in here?” Illyria huffed.

“No. I’ve got this,” Montana growled, never taking his eyes off the Irish fucker, whose eyes wandered to Illyria’s backside when she exited the room.

“You keep looking at her like that and her husband will remove your eyes before he guts you,” Prez stated, getting the man’s attention.

“She’s a beautiful woman.”

“She’s untouchable.”

Unbuttoning his black wool coat, the head of the Irish Mob took a seat, taking his damn time as he removed his leather gloves.

I wasn’t sure what his play was, but if O’Malley was testing the fucking waters, I was about to drown the fucker myself. I absolutely fucking hated games, and this fucker looked like that was all he cared about. Scanning the room, his cold, dead eyes stopped at me.

He frowned.

“Have we met before?”

Refusing to move an inch, I politely replied, “Not that I am aware of.”

“You look familiar to me,” Braesal simply said, cocking his head a fraction of an inch before adding, “Doesn’t he, Tyran?”

The man standing directly behind O’Malley grinned. “Oh yeah, boss. He’s definitely got some fuckin’ Irish in him.”

“What is your name?”

“None of your fucking business,” Montana clipped. “You asked for this meeting. Now, why am I here?”

O’Malley said nothing as the man sitting next to him slid a folder across the table toward us.

None of us moved.

“What’s that?”

“Received that shit last month. Word on the street is, everyone is receiving those. I don’t like threats.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Montana grinned.

O’Malley sighed. “Fucking bikers. Not happy unless you’re threatening people.”

“Haven’t threatened shit yet. So, get to the fucking point, and fast.”

“We traced the IP address to your club.”

Fuck .

This was fucking bad. If the table learned that someone within the Soulless Sinners sent out those fucking ghost files, they could censure the club, or worse, demand a change in leadership. If that were to happen, Montana would start a war, pitting the Biker Federation against the entire underground.

It would be a bloodbath.

My fucking gut told me Shame sent those files out when Vicious and I found his apartment, but without knowing his true endgame, I refused to throw a dead man under the proverbial bus.

“Maybe I should take this matter to Reaper and the Golden Skulls, since you can’t seem to be bothered?”

“Oh shit,” I cursed, shaking my head.

Mercy took a deep breath but stayed silent. Not even Payne or Malice moved, but when Montana sat forward and let out the breath he’d been holding, I knew the fucker was about to spew something that would have disastrous consequences.

“That pussy club belongs to me. They do what I tell them. As for Reaper, that motherfucker doesn’t do shit without my permission, so if you’ve got something to say, I suggest you say it or get the fuck out of my city.”

And just like that, Montana pitted the Soulless Sinners against the Golden Skulls. Our club was now on a war footing, because when Reaper learned what Montana just said, he would go ballistic. It was bad enough the table was aware of the rumors of trouble between the clubs, but for Montana to flat-out admit to another organization that the Golden Skulls were under his control was tantamount to a declaration of war.

This was not fucking good.

O’Malley sat back in his chair and smirked. “So, the rumors are true then, the clubs are related.”

Montana refused to take the bait and asked, “Why are you really here, O’Malley?”

Sighing, the Irish Mafia head stated, “I’m in town looking for a family member of mine. Nolan Kelley.”

“Haven’t seen him in months.”

“That’s disappointing,” O’Malley happily conceded. “Because I heard that one of your men has been having regular meetings with him. Goes by the name Shame.”

I stiffened. I knew from the documents I found in Shame’s apartment, that my brother had his hand in a lot of pots. He kept meticulous records, and one of those documented his meetings with Nolan Kelley. Though Vicious and I were still piecing everything together, we hadn’t investigated shit.

“Shame ain’t talking since he died last March.”

“Pity,” the man sighed, getting to his feet, buttoning his coat, then asked, “Just out of curiosity, does the name Thena Hartly mean anything to you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because there is a bounty out for her. Ten million to the man who can acquire her and deliver her alive.”

“Who posted the bounty?” Mercy asked, speaking up.

“The table.” O’Malley smiled. “It seems whoever this woman is, the table has questions they want answered.”

With that, the fucker swept out of the room, leaving all of us reeling and Montana ready to commit murder.

“Are you fucking crazy, Montana?” Mercy seethed the second the Irish fucker left. “O’Malley runs the east coast Irish Mafia. His fucking aunt married Sean Buchanon, Brian Buchanon’s dad. Casper O’Malley groomed them both to lead the motherfucking IRA, and Brian just happens to sit at the fucking table, and for added shits and giggles, Brian Buchanon is related by marriage to the Valentinetti’s, and he’s also Massacre and Player’s uncle on their father’s side. Braesal O’Malley doesn’t do shit in the States without talking to Brian first. That man is fucking dangerous, and you just admitted to controlling Reaper and the Golden Skulls!”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because I don’t think you realize the shitstorm you’ve just created, and before you even ask, there is no fucking way I can put that genie back in the bottle. Once Reaper learns what you’ve said, he will demand retribution. The Soulless Sinners have no alliance, no allegiance to the Golden Skulls. Hell, Montana, not even a few months ago, you said in front of both clubs that you didn’t care, had no intention of claiming the Golden Skulls. Reaper will not let this slide, brother.”

Hanging his head, Montana asked, “What’s he gonna demand?”

“Bare minimum,” Mercy fumed. “Two, maybe three clubs, a public apology, and possibly your seat at the fucking table.”

“Unless you agree to his demand and allow Vicious dual membership,” I added cautiously. “Look, Montana, I get it. You fucking hate Reaper and want nothing to do with him, but, brother, you just wrote a fucking check you can’t cash. Payback is coming. Just swallow your pride and agree to Reaper’s terms. With Vicious living in the city and sitting in our boardroom, you can control the narrative.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Then you’re fucked,” I stated, getting to my feet. “I got love for you and this club, but I will not sit around and watch you single-handedly destroy it because you can’t control your temper or ego. I know you’ve got a lot going on, but, brother, you are digging your grave faster than we can save you.”

“What if I patch them over?”

Looking at the man as if he had lost his fucking mind, I scoffed. “Were you not listening? There is no fucking way Reaper will agree to that. He fucking hates you more than you hate him, especially after that shit fiasco with the blood pact you and Fedorov made. You’re lucky he hasn’t killed you.”

Jumping in, Mercy added, “You’re not getting the gravity of this situation, Montana. There is nothing, not one damn thing you can do that will appease Reaper. You want to save the club, then agree to dual membership and pray Reaper’s in a good fucking mood.”