Page 18 of Sinner’s Torment

This was what we had left.

Montana looked around the table slowly, his gaze sharp despite the pain I knew he was in, taking in each face. He took his time, meeting each brother’s eyes in turn, assessing, calculating, reading the room like he always did.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said, his voice rough but steady, commanding attention. “And not a lot of time to do it. So let’s get down to business.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension ratcheting up another notch.

“Where the fuck is Silver?” Montana barked.

“She didn’t come back from Nebraska,” Mercy answered. “She disappeared after Malice died.”

“Find her,” he growled.

Montana shifted in his chair, and I knew this was it. The moment we’d all been dreading. The moment we’d have to face the brutal reality of what we’d become and decide what came next, what we were willing to fight for.

Montana leaned forward slowly, wincing slightly, his hands flat on the table in front of him.

“The Soulless Sinners are at a crossroads,” he said, his voice carrying weight, authority. “We’ve lost brothers. Good men. We’ve lost chapters. Territory we built over decades. We’ve been forced into a patch-over we didn’t want, didn’t ask for. And now we’re sitting here, wondering if we’re going to survive the next month, the next week, maybe even the next day.”

No one argued. No one protested. Because it was the truth, harsh and undeniable.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Montana continued, his voice gaining strength. “We’re going to figure out how to stay alive. How to protect what’s left of this club. How to keep our brothers safe. And how to make sure the Death Dogs pay for what they did to us, to our family.”

His eyes swept the room again, hard and unyielding, burning with determination.

“This is our club. Our family. Our brotherhood. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone take it from us without a fight.”

The silence that followed was absolute, deafening.

Then, slowly, one by one, the brothers nodded in agreement, resolve hardening on every face.

We were ready.

Ready to fight. Ready to survive. Ready to do whatever it took, pay whatever price was necessary.

Montana sat back in his chair carefully, his expression grim but determined, steel in his eyes.

“Let’s get to work.”

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.