Chapter Twenty-Four
SIN
After leaving Elizabeth with Ro and the girls, the Chapel smells like coffee and leather when I push through the door.
Ghost is already here, hunched over his laptop with a toothpick between his teeth.
Nitro sprawls in one of the chairs, looking like he hasn’t slept, and Bear sits at the table, his massive frame making the chair look like a damn child’s toy.
“Morning, Pres,” Ghost says without looking up. “Got some intel on the Alliance movements. They’ve been quiet since New Year’s. Too quiet.”
I drop into my chair at the head of the table, pulling out my poker chip, letting it move between my fingers. “What kind of quiet?”
“The kind that means they’re planning something,” Nitro grumbles. “I don’t like it. We should hit them first, before they—”
“We hold,” I say firmly, flipping the chip with my thumb. “We’re not starting a war we can’t control. What else?”
Ghost finally looks up, his expression serious. “Captain Rourke’s been making moves. Meeting with Alliance leadership. Whatever they’re planning, it involves him.”
The chip pauses mid-turn. “How solid is this intel?”
“Solid enough. Got surveillance photos, time stamps, the works. Want me to send them to your cell?”
“Do it.” I lean back, letting the chip resume its rhythm. “What about the McClane operation? Bear, where are we?”
Bear’s rumble fills the Chapel. “On schedule. The gold shipment moves next week. Got our buyers lined up, routes planned. Should be clean.”
“Should be isn’t good enough,” I say, my eyes on the chip as it glides across my knuckles. “I want confirmation on every detail. This operation can’t have any loose ends.”
“Already on it, Pres,” Bear assures me. “We’ll be solid.”
We run through the rest of the club business—security protocols, financial reports, supply chain issues. The weight of leadership settles on my shoulders like it always does, that constant pressure of keeping all the pieces moving, all the players in line, all my brothers safe.
I’m always thinking ahead. It’s how I’ve survived this long. It’s how the club has thrived under my leadership. But lately, there’s been a wild card in play, and she’s just outside those Chapel doors, her presence like a magnet pulling me to her.
“Pres?” Nitro’s voice draws me back. “You good?”
I realize I’ve been staring at the poker chip, frozen in my palm. “Yeah. Fine. We done here?”
The brothers exchange glances, but they know better than to push. “Yeah, we’re done,” Ghost says carefully. “Unless there’s something else?”
“Dismissed.” I stand, pocketing the chip. “Keep me updated on Rourke. Any movement, I want to know immediately.”
They file out, leaving me alone in the Chapel. I sink back into my chair, pulling out the chip again and setting it on the table. The morning light coming through the window makes it glow, and for a moment, I’m eight years old again, sitting on a worn-out couch with caramel candies and hope.
The door opens, and I look up expecting one of my brothers.
But it’s Elizabeth.
Wearing one of my T-shirts, her hair messy from sleep and our many rounds of crazy fucking. She looks beautiful and dangerous, and everything I should stay away from.
But I can’t.
“Hey,” she says softly, closing the door behind her. “The guys said you were in here, and I could come in.”
“Just finishing up some business.” I watch as she moves toward me, her eyes catching on the poker chip sitting on the table between us.
She sits in the chair beside me, her gaze fixed on the chip. “That chip,” she says after a moment. “You’re always flipping it. I’ve been watching you, and it’s… it’s not about gambling, is it? It means something.”
My jaw tightens. I’ve shared my body with this woman, let her into my bed, into my space. But sharing my past? That’s a whole different level of vulnerability, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
But when I look at her, when I see the genuine curiosity in her eyes, the care—I find myself wanting to tell her. Wanting her to know this piece of me that I’ve never shared with anyone.
Not even Rebekka.
“It’s not about gambling,” I finally say, my voice rough. I reach for the chip, letting it move between my fingers in that familiar rhythm. “It’s about… hope, I guess. Or it was.”
She waits, doesn’t push. Just sits there with those eyes that see too much, making me want to give her everything.
I take a breath and start talking. “I was eight years old,” I begin, the words coming harder than expected.
“My mother came home one night with this bag of caramel candies. Wasn’t my birthday, wasn’t any special occasion.
Just one of those rare times when she hit a little luck at the slots.
” The memory plays out in my mind like an old film, grainy but vivid.
“She sat down on our beat-up couch, lit a cigarette, and told me I was her good luck charm. Then she pulled this chip out of her pocket.” I hold it up, the red and white stripes catching the light.
“Said she was giving it to me instead of cashing it in. Told me I was worth more than what it could buy.”
Elizabeth’s eyes soften, and I see her hand move like she wants to reach for me, but she doesn’t. She just listens.
“We sat there together,” I continue, the poker chip moving between my fingers like it’s keeping time with the memory.
“Eating those caramel candies one by one, watching some old sitcom on TV. She laughed at the jokes. Her laugh was kind of unsteady, but it was real. For that one night, everything felt… okay. Like maybe things would be all right.” I pause, swallowing hard against the tightness in my throat.
“Now, whenever I see caramel candy or flip this chip, I remember that night. It’s a reminder that even in the hardest times, there were glimpses of something good. Something worth holding onto.”
“Sin…” Elizabeth’s voice is gentle, careful. “What happened to her?”
And here’s the hard part. The part I’ve buried so deep that sometimes I can almost pretend it didn’t happen.
“She had a gambling addiction,” I say, my voice flat, emotionless, a defense mechanism I learned young.
“Bad enough that it put us both in danger. By the time I was thirteen, things had gotten worse. She borrowed money from the wrong people, kept chasing that win that would fix everything.” The chip pauses in my palm, and I stare at it like it might have the answers I’ve been looking for all these years.
“I came home from school one day to find our apartment ransacked. She was there, bruised, terrified. The collectors had come. A few months after that, I came home and she was just… gone. No note, no sign of a struggle. Just emptiness.”
Elizabeth’s hand finally reaches out, covering mine where it holds the chip. The touch grounds me, keeps me from drowning in memories that have razor-sharp teeth.
“I survived on the streets,” I continue, needing to get it all out now that I’ve started.
“Abandoned buildings, couches of people who took pity on me, anywhere I could crash. I learned to be invisible, to slip through the cracks. Eventually, I heard whispers. Some of the older street kids… they knew things.” My hand tightens around the chip, Elizabeth’s warmth the only thing keeping me steady.
“My mother had been caught trying to flee town. The Hidden Hand Alliance picked her up. They said…” I have to force the words out. “They said they dumped her in the desert. A warning to anyone else thinking of running from their debts.”
“Oh God, Sin.” Elizabeth’s voice breaks, and I see tears in her eyes. For me. For the kid I was. For the mother I lost.
“I never got to say goodbye,” I say, and for the first time in years, I let myself feel the full weight of that. “Never got to tell her I understood, that I didn’t blame her, that I—” I cut myself off, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
“That’s why you rose up in the club,” Elizabeth says softly, understanding dawning in her eyes. “Why you became president. Why you protect the vulnerable.”
“I couldn’t save her,” I admit, the words like razors.
“But I can make damn sure no one else gets that kind of power over me or anyone I care about. The club gave me family, gave me purpose. And I’ve built it into something strong enough that we don’t have to be victims anymore.
Especially to assholes like the Alliance who don’t care about breaking up families or hurting innocent people. ”
We sit in silence for a moment, my confession hanging in the air between us.
Then Elizabeth asks, so gently it almost breaks me, “What was her name?”
My voice comes out rough, weighted with decades of grief and loss. “Maria. Maria Moretti.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I press on before I lose my nerve. “And mine is Diesel. Diesel Moretti.” I manage a bitter smile.
Something flashes across Elizabeth’s face. Surprise? Recognition? But it’s gone before I can identify it, replaced by something that looks like understanding mixed with…
Is that guilt?
“Diesel,” she says, testing the name on her tongue. “I like it. It suits the boy who survived. Who built something from nothing.”
“Got the nickname ‘Sinister’ when I was eleven for being a scheming little bastard. Eventually, it just became Sin.”
She exhales, pulling me close, and I let her. Let myself lean into her warmth, her acceptance of all my broken pieces. “I’m sorry you went through that,” she whispers against my skin, her hand on mine. “Sorry you lost your mother that way.”
“It was a long time ago,” I say, falling back on old defenses.
“Doesn’t make it hurt less.”
She’s right. It doesn’t.
We sit together in comfortable silence, her presence somehow making the memories less sharp, less jagged. For the first time in my life, I’ve let someone see the scared kid underneath all the armor, and she hasn’t run.
Elizabeth’s hand stills over mine, warm and steady, grounding me in ways I don’t know how to handle. For years, this room has been nothing but business. Brothers. Orders. War. Now it feels different. Feels like her.
She says my name, soft. But it hits like a sledgehammer. “Diesel.”
Christ. The sound of it in her mouth is a knife and a balm at the same time. Nobody says that name. Nobody is allowed to. But from her lips, it doesn’t feel weak, it feels like she sees me.
All of me.
Something inside me snaps. I reach for her, cupping her face, dragging her mouth to mine. The kiss is brutal, too hard, but she doesn’t flinch. She takes it. Gives it back. Her fingers fist in my cut, pulling me closer until she’s nearly in my lap.
Her lips taste like fire and danger, like everything I should push away. My hand slides down her neck, gripping, owning, but when my thumb brushes her pulse, it slams into me—fast, frantic, matching mine.
This isn’t just lust.
It’s something else.
Something that could wreck me.
Something that could ruin me.
She gasps into my mouth, and I press her back into the chair, my body braced over hers. The urge to take it further roars in my blood, to push her knees apart, to take her right here against the table where I run my club. Claim her in the one place no one’s ever seen me vulnerable.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
And I won’t.
Not now.
Not after spilling everything I’ve buried.
I tear my mouth from hers, resting my forehead against hers, breathing like I’ve gone a round in the cage. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, lips kiss-bruised. She’s so goddamn beautiful it hurts.
“This is dangerous,” I rasp, my voice rough. “You and me in this room. I start something here, I won’t be able to stop it.”
Her hand slides up to the back of my neck, holding me there. “Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”
Fuck. Those words. That look. It’s almost my undoing.
I close my eyes, fighting for control, every muscle taut with restraint. “Not here, wildcat. Not in the Chapel. This place… it’s the only ground I keep clean.”
She studies me, searching, then nods, lips parting like she understands, even if she doesn’t like it.
I kiss her once more. Slower, deeper, with everything I can’t say, everything I am still hiding, before I pull back and force myself into the chair again. My chip sits on the table between us, glowing in the light, a reminder of everything I did lay bare.
Elizabeth leans back, watching me, her expression unreadable. But her presence fills the room, and for the first time in years, the Chapel doesn’t feel like a war room.
It feels like a fucking confessional.
And I know I’m in more damn trouble than I’ve ever been. Because Elizabeth could very well be my fucking downfall.
And I’m about to let her.