Page 17 of Sinner’s Torment

Mercy leaned back in his chair, his expression grim, resigned. “We’re spread too thin, Torment. We don’t have the numbers to fight a war on multiple fronts. If the Death Dogs hit us again⁠—”

“They will.” My voice was flat, certain.

“I know.” He met my eyes, and I saw the weight he was carrying, the burden of leadership. “That’s what tonight’s about. Figuring out what the fuck we do next. How we survive. How we fight back.”

Before I could respond, a voice boomed through the clubhouse, loud enough to rattle the walls and shake the foundation.

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID, BANE. I’M FINE.”

Mercy and I exchanged a look, a silent communication that came from years of brotherhood.

“Here we go,” Mercy muttered, pushing to his feet with a groan.

I followed him out of the office and down the hallway toward the main room, my pulse quickening. Montana’s voice grew louder with every step, punctuated by Bane’s equally loud protests and what sounded like Tessa’s quieter attempts at mediation.

“YOU’RE NOT FINE, YOU STUBBORN ASSHOLE. YOU JUST GOT OUT OF THE HOSPITAL. YOU SHOULD BE IN BED, NOT CALLING CHURCH.”

“I’LL BE IN BED WHEN I’M DEAD. UNTIL THEN, I’VE GOT A CLUB TO RUN.”

We rounded the corner just in time to see Bane and Tessa half-carrying, half-dragging Montana through the front door like he was a sack of stubborn, ornery potatoes. Montana looked like hell—pale as a ghost, gaunt like he’d lost twenty pounds, moving like every step cost him everything he had. But his eyes were sharp, blazing with determination, his jaw set in that familiar stubborn line, and his voice was strong enough to wake the dead in three counties.

He was pissed. And determined. A dangerous combination in the best of times; potentially lethal now.

“Need a hand?” Mercy called out, his tone somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“What we need,” Bane snapped, his patience clearly worn to nothing, “is for this idiot to get back in the fucking car and go home.”

“Not happening.” Montana’s voice was a growl, low and threatening. “We’ve got business to handle. Important business.”

Tessa looked exhausted, completely drained. She’d been by Montana’s side since the attack, barely sleeping, barely eating, holding him together through sheer force of will and love. Now she just looked done, like she’d reached the end of her rope. “He won’t listen,” she said, her voice tight with frustration and fear. “I tried. Bane tried. The doctors tried. He doesn’t care.”

“Damn right I don’t care.” Montana shook off Bane’s grip with more force than necessary and straightened, wincing but refusing to show weakness, refusing to let anyone see how much it cost him. “I’ve got brothers to lead. A club to protect. I’m not sitting on my ass while everything falls apart around us.”

I moved to his other side, offering support without making it obvious, slipping my shoulder under his arm. Montana hated being coddled, hated looking weak. But he also wasn’t stupid enough to refuse help when he genuinely needed it, when pride could actually kill him.

“Boardroom,” I said quietly, keeping my voice low and calm.

He nodded once, sharp and decisive, and together—Mercy on one side, me on the other—we guided him down the hallway. Bane followed close behind, still muttering under his breath about stubborn bastards and death wishes and brothers who didn’t know when to quit. Tessa trailed behind us, her expression a mix of frustration, resignation, and bone-deep worry.

We got Montana into the boardroom and settled him into his chair at the head of the table, the president’s chair. He sank into it with a barely audible grunt, his face going a shade paler, sweat beading on his forehead. But he didn’t complain. Didn’t ask for water or painkillers or a moment to catch his breath and recover.

He just sat there, waiting, gathering his strength.

The others started arriving a few minutes later, filtering in one by one.

Vicious and Fury came in together, both looking like they’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. Vicious’ jaw was tight, his eyes hard as flint. Fury’s expression was unreadable, carefully blank, but I could see the tension in the way he held himself—coiled tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

Neither of them said a word. They just took their seats and waited, faces impassive.

Payne and Rage entered next, silent as ghosts, moving like shadows. Payne’s face was a mask, giving nothing away, every emotion locked down tight. Rage looked like he was barely holding it together, like he was one wrong word away from exploding, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white. They sat down without acknowledging anyone, their presence heavy and oppressive, filling the room with unspoken tension.

Storm walked in a few minutes later with Shame trailing behind him like a lost puppy. Storm moved with his usual easy confidence, that natural swagger he’d always had, but I could see the strain around his eyes, the cracks in his armor. Shame looked worse—hollow, haunted, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it was crushing him inch by inch.

The room filled slowly, each brother taking their place around the table in their designated spots. The silence was thick, suffocating, pressing down on all of us. No one spoke. No one made eye contact. We just sat there in the oppressive quiet, waiting for Montana to start, waiting for him to tell us what came next.

Pippen sat quietly in his chair at the far end of the table.

Somehow, he’d slipped in without me noticing. The club was scattered, broken, held together by mere threads. This was our reality now.