Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Torment
The first order of business was the patch-over.
I knew it would be. Montana had been stewing about it since the moment Reaper made the offer—no, the demand that we fold into the Golden Skulls. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a partnership. It was absorption. Assimilation. The end of the Soulless Sinners as we knew them.
And Montana wasn’t having it.
“I’m not giving up my fucking club,” Montana said, his voice low and dangerous. “Not to that shit-for-brains Reaper. Not to anyone.”
Mercy leaned forward, his expression carefully neutral.
“Montana, we’ve been over this. The patch-over isn’t about giving up the club.
It’s about survival. We don’t have the numbers to stand alone anymore.
Thanks to fucking Happy and your fucking brothers, we lost every fucking club but the Alabama Chapter.
The Death Dogs aren’t fucking around. They killed Malice. ”
“I know what we fucking lost.” Montana’s voice rose, sharp and cutting. “I was there, Mercy. I took a bullet. I watched Malice die. Don’t tell me what we lost.”
The room went silent.
Mercy didn’t flinch. He’d been Montana’s VP long enough to know when to push and when to back off. But he wasn’t backing off. Not yet.
“Then you know we can’t do this alone,” Mercy said quietly. “We need the Golden Skulls. We need their protection, their resources, their reach. Without them, we’re sitting ducks.”
“We’re not sitting ducks.” Montana’s hand slammed down on the table, the sound echoing through the boardroom like a gunshot. “We’re the Soulless Sinners. We’ve survived worse than this. We’ll survive this too.”
“Will we?” Mercy’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.
“Because right now, we’ve got two chapters left.
Two. New York and Alabama. That’s it. Everyone else has either sided with the Death Dogs or formed their own chapters.
We’re bleeding out, Montana. And if we don’t stop the bleeding soon, there won’t be anything left to save. ”
Montana’s jaw clenched, his eyes blazing.
“I’m not handing over my club to Reaper because he says so.
I don’t care how much that pissant annoys the fuck out of me.
This is my club. My family built it. I’ve bled for it.
And I’ll be damned if I let some other president slap his patch on my brothers and call it a fucking day. ”
I watched Montana carefully, noting the way his hands trembled slightly, the way his breathing was just a little too fast. He was in pain.
Physical pain from bullet wounds that were still healing.
But more than that, he was in emotional pain.
The kind that came from watching everything you’d built crumble around you and not being able to stop it.
Montana was a fighter. Always had been. But even fighters had limits.
And I wasn’t sure how much more he could take before he broke.
Mercy sighed, leaning back in his chair. He knew when he was fighting a losing battle. Montana wasn’t going to budge. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
“Fine,” Mercy said, his voice tight. “We’ll table the patch-over discussion for now. But we need to talk about the Death Dogs.”
That got everyone’s attention.
The Death Dogs were the reason we were in this mess.
They’d orchestrated the attack on Diamond Creek, killed Malice and killed Ghost, a brother in the Silver Shadows.
Thanks to Arizona, Montana’s brother, we nearly lost Montana.
It was a bloodbath that forced us into a corner we couldn’t fight our way out of. They were the enemy. The real enemy.
And every brother in this room wanted them dead.
Vicious spoke first, his voice cold and measured. “Last I heard, they took heavy losses in the Diamond Creek attack. Most of their leadership is either dead or in hiding. The survivors scattered. No one’s seen them in weeks.”
Fury nodded, his expression unreadable. “Which is good for us. Gives us time to regroup. Figure out what we’re doing. Handle what needs handling.”
“Handle what needs handling?” Payne’s voice was a low growl. “I say we go hunting. Track down every last one of those sick bastards and put bullets in their heads. They killed Malice. They deserve to die.”
Rage smirked, his eyes gleaming with something dark and violent. “I’m with Payne. Let’s go hunting. Make them pay for what they did.”
I listened, watching the brothers as they spoke. Payne and Rage were always the first to suggest violence. It was their default setting. When in doubt, kill someone. It was simple. Effective. And deeply satisfying for men like them.
But it wasn’t strategic.
I leaned back in my chair, my mind working through the logistics.
The Death Dogs had taken heavy losses, yes.
But they weren’t gone. Not completely. They were regrouping, licking their wounds, planning their next move.
And when they came back—and they would come back—they’d be smarter. More careful. More dangerous.
Going hunting sounded good in theory. But in practice, it was a waste of resources.
We didn’t have the manpower to track down scattered Death Dogs across multiple states.
We didn’t have the intel to know where they were hiding.
And we didn’t have the time to chase ghosts when we had bigger problems to deal with.
Like the patch-over. Like rebuilding what was left of the club. Like figuring out how to survive the next six months.
But I didn’t say any of that.
I just sat there, listening, watching, analyzing.
Because that was what I did. I observed. I processed. I waited for the right moment to speak.
And this wasn’t it.
Storm spoke up next, his voice calm and measured.
“The Death Dogs aren’t our biggest problem right now.
They’re scattered. Broken. They’ll come back eventually, but not anytime soon.
What we need to focus on is rebuilding. Strengthening what we have left.
Making sure we’re ready when they do come back. ”
“Rebuilding?” Montana’s voice was sharp. “We can’t rebuild if we’re patched over into the fucking Golden Skulls. We’ll be absorbed. Erased. The Soulless Sinners will cease to exist.”
“That’s not true,” Mercy said, his voice firm. “Reaper’s not trying to erase us. He’s trying to save us. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Montana’s eyes were hard. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like he’s trying to take over.”
“He’s trying to keep us alive,” Mercy shot back. “We are at war, Montana. The Death Dogs aren’t the only threat out there. There are other clubs, other enemies, other players in this game. And if we don’t have allies, we’re going to get crushed.”
Montana didn’t respond. He just sat there, his jaw clenched, his hands flat on the table.
I could see the war raging inside him. The part of him that knew Mercy was right. The part that understood the patch-over was the smart move, the strategic move, the move that would keep the club alive.
And the part of him that would rather die than give up control.
It was a battle he couldn’t win. Because both sides were right. And both sides were wrong.
The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive.
Then Montana spoke, his voice low and dangerous.
“Someone come up with a solution,” he said. “Before I really lose my fucking temper.”
It was almost funny. Montana was always angry about something. Always on the edge of losing his temper. The idea that he hadn’t really lost it yet was laughable.
But no one laughed.
Because we all knew what Montana was capable of when he truly lost control. And none of us wanted to be on the receiving end of that.
I sat quietly, my mind still working through the problem. The patch-over. The Death Dogs. The future of the club. There were no easy answers. No clean solutions. Just hard choices and uncertain outcomes.
But one thing was clear: we couldn’t keep going like this. Something had to give.
I just wasn’t sure what.
As the brothers continued to debate strategy and options, I found myself thinking about our allies. The Fedorov Bratva, specifically. We’d built a strong relationship with them over the years. They respected us. Trusted us. And more importantly, they owed us.
If the Death Dogs were stupid enough to ride all the way to New York City and attack our clubhouse, the Bratva would make sure they didn’t leave alive.
Hell, the Bratva alone would be enough to ensure our survival.
Add in the other alliances we’d cultivated—the Irish, the Italians, the other MCs in the area—and we were practically untouchable here.
The Death Dogs attacking us in New York would be suicide.
But as I looked around the table, I realized no one else was thinking about that. Not Montana. Not Mercy. Not any of the brothers.
They were too focused on the immediate threats. The Death Dogs. The patch-over. The loss of Malice.
They weren’t thinking strategically. They were thinking emotionally.
And emotional thinking got people killed.
I opened my mouth to say something, to point out the obvious, but Montana cut me off.
“I want a solution,” he said again, his voice rising.
“I want someone to tell me how we get out of this without losing everything we’ve built.
Because I’m not giving up my fucking club.
I’m not patching over. And I’m not sitting here waiting for the Death Dogs to come back and finish what they started. ”
The room fell silent again as Storm frowned across the table at Bane, who had his laptop open in front of him, his eyes fixed on the screen. “You gonna stop staring at that laptop?”
Bane shut the screen with a sharp click. “Yeah.”
The second he shut it, his phone rang. The sound cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and jarring.
Everyone turned to look at him when Montana’s eyes narrowed. “You gonna answer that?”
Bane glanced at the screen, then looked up at Montana with a smirk. He held up his middle finger in a lazy, deliberate gesture.
“Yeah, I’m gonna answer it,” Bane said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because unlike you, I know how to multitask.”
Montana’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything. He just glared at Bane, his hands curling into fists on the table.
Bane answered the call, his expression shifting from amused to serious in an instant.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice clipped. “What’ve you got?”
I watched him, curious. Bane didn’t usually take calls during board meetings. Whatever this was, it had to be important.
Bane listened for a moment, his eyes flicking around the room before landing on me.
My stomach tightened.
Why the fuck was he looking at me?
“Yeah,” Bane said into the phone, his gaze still locked on mine. “Overnight me the DNA and I’ll run it through the club database. I should have an answer within a few minutes if he matches.”
He ended the call and set his phone down on the table, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Montana leaned forward. “Who the fuck was that?”
Bane didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, grinning, shaking his head like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world.
Then he looked at me.
Really looked at me.
And I knew, in that moment, that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was going to change everything.
“Out of all the brothers in this club,” Bane said slowly, his voice laced with amusement, “I thought you would be the one to wrap up before fucking a club whore.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I sat up straighter, my mind racing, trying to process what he’d just said.
Wrap up. Club whore.
What the fuck was he talking about?
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.
Bane’s grin widened. “That was King. From the Silver Shadows. Seems one of their club whores is pregnant. And she’s not sure who the father is. But she’s narrowed it down to a few possibilities.”
My blood ran cold.
No.
No, no, no.
“And?” Montana’s voice was hard, impatient. “What the fuck does that have to do with us?”
Bane’s eyes never left mine. “One of the possibilities is a Soulless Sinner. A brother who spent some time in Diamond Creek a few months back. King wants to run a DNA test to confirm paternity.”
The room went silent.
Every eye in the boardroom turned to me.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t process what I was hearing.
A club whore. Pregnant. Diamond Creek.
Brandy.
It had to be Brandy.
“Torment?” Mercy’s voice was careful, measured. “You got something you want to tell us?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
Because I didn’t know what to say.
I’d been careful. Always careful. I never fucked without protection. Never took risks. Never let my guard down.
But Brandy...
Fuck.
Brandy.
“I...” I started, then stopped, my mind spinning.
Bane leaned back in his chair, his grin fading into something more serious. “King is over-nighting a DNA sample. I’ll run it through our records, see if the DNA matches up with yours. If it does...”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t have to.
If it matched, I was the father.
And if I was the father, this wasn’t just my problem anymore.
It was club business.
Montana’s eyes were on me now, sharp and assessing. “You fuck a club whore in Diamond Creek?”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“Without protection?”
“No. I used protection. Every time.”
“Then how the fuck is she pregnant?”
“I don’t know.” My voice was tight, strained. “Protection fails sometimes. It’s not foolproof.”
Montana’s expression darkened. “And you didn’t think to mention this before now?”
“There was nothing to mention,” I shot back. “It was casual. Physical. Nothing more. I didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“Well, you know now,” Bane said, his voice flat. “And if that kid is yours, you’ve got a problem.”