Page 19 of Sinner’s Torment

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.”