Chapter Three
Pee Wee
Climbing out of my truck, I headed for the clubhouse entrance, rolling my shoulders to relieve some of the tension.
Denali hadn’t said what he wanted when he called, but from his tone, whatever was going on wasn’t good.
The common room was quiet as I walked through, just a couple prospects cleaning up and Zeus behind the bar. I made my way down the hall to Denali’s office, knocked once, and went inside.
He was sitting behind his desk reading something on his phone, and looked up when I came in .
“What’s so important?” I asked, dropping into the chair across from him.
Denali sighed, setting his phone down. “You remember Ronan McGregor?”
My brow furrowed. I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d heard it before. “Sounds familiar. Why?”
Denali arched his brow. “Mafia. New York. Ringing any bells?”
I felt my brows hit my hairline. Fuck. I knew exactly who he was talking about.
Ronan McGregor was the leader of the Irish fucking mafia.
The El Capi-tan. The big boss. Ronan was THE shot caller.
All the Irish families in North America answered to him.
The only thing keeping him on a leash was the families he answered to in Ireland.
“Yeah. I know who he is. Who doesn’t?” More importantly, why were we talking about him?
“He’s here.”
“Here?” I glanced over my shoulder.
“In St. Louis, motherfucker.” He sighed. “Not in the fucking clubhouse.”
“Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know? You said he was here,” I growled back.
Jesus, he was in a ripe fucking mood. He needed to get laid, then maybe he wouldn’t be such a fucking bear all the damn time.
After his divorce, he swore off women. Couldn’t really blame him.
His wife had been the bitch of all fucking bitches.
She never gave a fuck about him. All she wanted was the clout of being a biker’s ol’ lady.
It didn’t stick, though. She ended up running off with some doctor who’d been in town for a medical conference.
A few weeks later, Prez got divorce papers in the mail, and the rest is as they say—history.
“So…” I rolled my shoulders. “Why is he in St. Louis?”
Denali ran a tattooed hand through his hair. “Fuck if I know. My best guess? It has something to do with Frankie Fish being gone.”
I snorted. “That fucker’s not gone. He’s dead.” And good fucking riddance. Frankie attacked McKenna and Demi, Klutch’s ol’ lady, last year. No way in hell were we letting that shit slide. You didn’t touch a hair on a Bastard’s woman and get to keep breathing, especially if that woman was mine.
Denali shrugged. “You and I know that, but McGregor doesn’t. Titan’s seeing if he can find anything on the web that might give us an idea what the fuck the Irish mob is really up to. ”
Titan was our resident hacker. He’d done some shit while serving for Uncle Sam that had left a bad taste in his mouth.
They’d tried to get him back, but he no longer trusted the government.
He didn’t want anything to do with them, no matter how much money they tried to throw at him.
It sucked for them, but it was great for us. Especially now.
“If there’s anything to be found, Titan will find it.”
Denali blew out a heavy breath. “Yeah. Hopefully, before he gets here.”
My brows snapped together. “Before who gets here? McGregor?”
Denali nodded. “Yeah. He asked for a sit-down.”
A sit-down? Who the fuck did he think he was? Tony Montana from Scarface? “When’s he supposed to be here?”
Denali picked up his phone and glanced at the time. “In an hour or so. That’s why I called you.”
I nodded. “You call Beast and Yukon?” If McGregor was coming to the clubhouse, he wasn’t coming alone. No fucking way. He’d be heavily protected. He was too important in his world.
“Yep. They’re on their way, too. I called everyone in.”
That was good.
“Are you still in contact with the Devils Creed?” I wondered out loud .
Years ago, when we wore the Renegade Bastards patch, the Devils Creed MC was an ally to the club. However, once Rogue lived up to his name and got the club tied up with Valenciaga and sex trafficking, the Devils Creed cut ties.
“Haven’t talked to Banner or Ghost in years.” Banner and Ghost were blood brothers who took over the DCMC when their father stepped down.
I was pulled from my thoughts of the New York club by the sudden pounding on the office door.
“Yeah?” Denali called out.
The door opened, and in strolled Yukon with a serious look on his face. “Everyone’s here, Prez.”
“Thanks,” Denali said, climbing to his feet. Following suit, I got up and headed into the chapel behind him.
Once everyone was seated, prez called the meeting to order. Instantly, the room went quiet, and all eyes turned to him.
Denali ran a hand over his short, dark hair and began explaining that Ronan McGregor was in St. Louis and was on his way to the clubhouse.
Beast’s brows snapped together. “What the fuck for?”
“No fucking clue,” Denali said, shaking his head. “ Like I told Pee Wee,” he gestured to me. “My best guess is he’s looking to expand farther into the West.”
“Now what?” Undertaker asked.
Denali sighed. “Now we go have a beer until he gets here.” With that, Denali banged the gavel, ending church, and everyone headed out to the common room to wait for Ronan to arrive.
Following behind Undertaker, I pushed up to the bar and Zeus, the prospect manning it, set a cold Miller Lite in front of me.
I tipped my head in thanks, then lifted the bottle to my lips and took a long pull.
As I set it back down on the bar top, the phone behind the bar rang, and Zeus answered it.
I watched as he nodded along to whatever was being said on the other end, before hanging up and walking to the other side of the bar where Denali was seated.
Zeus relayed whatever the caller said.
Denali nodded, then stood, his eyes coming to me. “He’s here.”
I drained my beer and stood.
Show time.
McGregor strolled in through the front door like he didn’t have a fucking care in the world. He was about six feet tall with broad shoulders and shaggy, dark auburn hair. Next through the door were a half dozen guards in expensive suits, armed to the teeth.
Denali offered McGregor his hand, then motioned to a table in the corner.
Reaching over the bar top, I snagged a bottle of bourbon and three glasses, then joined Prez and McGregor at the table, setting the bottle of Jim in the center.
“So,” Denali prompted as he reached for the bottle. “What can we do for you, Mr. McGregor?”
Ronan smirked, watching as a finger of liquor was poured into each glass. “Right to the point,” he said, the brogue of his voice thick.
I crossed my arms over my chest. Irish fucking prick. Mob fuckers were all the same. Big egos and small dicks.
Like he was able to read my mind, McGregor’s smile grew. “Aye,” he said, accepting the glass from Denali. “I’ve looked into yer’ club. Yer’ an extension of the Saints.”
Denali nodded even though it wasn’t a question.
“I’m not looking to start a war with ye’ lads.”
I arched a brow. “Then what the fuck are you doing in our city?”
“Expanding. Since yeh’ took out Frankie Fish, his organization is crumbling from the inside out. ”
Keeping my expression neutral, I turned to Denali. He was questioning the same thing I was. How the fuck did Ronan McGregor know we took out Frankie?
Ronan chuckled, his eyes gleaming. He was gloating because he thought he had something on us.
“Don’t worry, fellas. Yer’ secret’s safe with me. I’d have ended the fecker too if he put his hand on my woman.” Ronan swung an accusing gaze my way.
Fuck.
He had to know about McKenna.
I started to get up because fuck that, if he thought he was going to come in here and hint that he knew who and what we were, he was sadly fucking mistaken.
We wouldn’t take that kind of disrespect from anyone.
Including him. If he wanted to make threats, he’d be the next body we put through the incinerator at Eternal Peace.
Realizing the sleeping bear he’d awoken, Ronan held up a hand. “No need to see red, Mr. Reid. Wasn’t threatening yer’ lass.”
“Pee Wee,” Denali warned.
“Coming into our house and making threats is a very unwise move,” I growled, trying to rein in my temper as I sat back down.
If it were possible, Ronan’s smile got even bigger. “I feckin’ like ye’, lad. ”
“Can’t say the feeling’s mutual.”
Ronan waved me off. “Ye’ will. Ye’ will.”
“Great. How about you cut to the chase and tell us what the fuck you want?” Denali was getting tired of the bullshit.
Ronan started again, “I’ve done my digging and don’t want a war with the Bastard Saints.” His face changed. “But Valenciaga and anyone doing business with that Geebag are out. I’m an equal opportunist when it comes to making money, but the skin trade is where I draw a line.”
“That we have in common,” Denali agreed. “Women and children are off limits, but that still doesn’t explain what you want from us.”
Ronan grinned, and he turned his eyes to me again. “I want to do business with the Bastard Saints. And I have fighters who need a match.”
Denali visibly relaxed. A fight with the Irish mob wasn’t something we had the time or manpower for.
But it still begs the question, why did Ronan want to do business with us?
He had his hand in fucking everything. Racketeering, chop shops, illegal gambling, manufacturing meth, the list went on and on. Hell, he even had shot callers in every prison across the US. Locked up or not, prisoners needed their fix, which meant there was money to be made.
“Not sure how we can help you?” I grunted.
“Red Bliss,” was his reply.
Red Bliss was a pure cut of heroin that the Saints flew into Miami from Thailand. We’d been cutting and distributing it to the West Coast for the last year.
Denali’s brows went up. “You want to buy our product?”
“Yes.” McGregor nodded, taking a sip of his bourbon. “Yer’ connections have the purest cut in North America, and I’m not looking to reinvent the wheel. I might as well get it straight from you and avoid the risks.”
He wasn’t wrong about the risks.
“How much are you looking for?” Denali asked.
“Twenty keys to start,” Ronan answered. “If the quality is what I’ve heard, we’ll up the order to fifty per month.”
That was a big fucking order. A lot of money on the table.
“We can do that,” Denali said with a nod.
“As for the fighters...” Ronan turned to look at me. “I hear ye’ run quite the operation.”
I held his stare. The Underground spoke for itself .
His lips twitched. “I have fighters. Good ones. They need matches.”
“Are you saying you want us to book your fighters?” I raised an eyebrow.
Ronan’s Irish accent thickened as he leaned forward. “I’m saying I’ve got a proposition. You book my fighters, we split the earnings fifty-fifty, and I guarantee they’ll draw crowds like you’ve never seen.”
I exchanged a look with Denali. We were always looking for new blood for the Arena. The crowds loved fresh meat.
“How good are they?” I asked.
“The best,” Ronan said with a confident smile. “Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”
“I’d need to see them fight first,” I said.
“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Denali cleared his throat. “Let’s focus on the Red Bliss first. That’s a solid deal we can both benefit from. If that goes well, we can explore the fighting arrangement.”
McGregor nodded, seeming pleased. “Fair enough.”
As they discussed the details of the heroin deal, I nursed my bourbon, my thoughts drifting to McKenna.
I didn’t like that McGregor knew about her.
“And one more thing,” Ronan said, bringing me back to the conversation. “I’ll be moving some of my people to town. Setting up operations.”
“Not a problem,” Denali said. “As long as you respect our territory and our businesses.”
“Of course.” Ronan raised his glass. “To new partnerships.”