Page 23 of Sinner’s Torment

I sat there, frozen in my chair, my mind still trying to process what was happening. The words weren’t quite sinking in, like they were bouncing off some protective barrier my brain had thrown up.

Brandy. Pregnant. Mine.

Maybe.

Probably.

Fuck.

Montana was still going, his voice rising with every word, each syllable like a hammer blow. “Do you have any idea what this means? Do you? This isn’t just your problem anymore. This is club business. Club. Business. Which means I have to deal with it. Mercy has to deal with it. The entire fucking charter has to deal with it. We all have to deal with the fallout from your inability to keep your dick in your pants.”

“Montana—” I started, my voice catching in my throat, but he cut me off before I could get another word out.

“Don’t.” His eyes were blazing with a fury I’d never seen before, practically burning holes through me. “Don’t fucking talk right now. I can’t even look at you.” He turned his head away sharply, his jaw working like he was chewing on nails.

Bane stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the polished hardwood floor, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. The screech seemed to hang in the air for a moment, making everyone in the room wince.

Montana’s head snapped toward him with predatory speed. “Where the fuck are you going?” His voice was low, dangerous, barely controlled.

Bane didn’t answer. He didn’t even acknowledge the question. He just walked toward the door with deliberate steps, his broad shoulders shaking in a way that seemed almost... odd. Wrong, even.

Then he started laughing.

Not a chuckle. Not a smirk. Not even a nervous giggle. Full-on, uncontrollable laughter that erupted from deep in his chest and echoed through the boardroom like a goddamn symphony of chaos. It bounced off the walls, filling every corner of the space, completely shattering whatever remained of the professional atmosphere.

“Bane!” Montana roared, shooting up from his seat, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “Get your ass back here! Right fucking now!”

But Bane was already out the door, his laughter only getting louder and more manic as he went, trailing behind him like smoke from a wildfire. It faded down the hallway, leaving nothing but stunned silence in its wake.

The door slammed shut with a resounding bang that made several people jump.

Montana turned back to me slowly, his movements measured and controlled in a way that was somehow more terrifying than his earlier outburst. His jaw was clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack under the pressure. A vein pulsed visibly in his temple. “Unbelievable.” The word came out quiet, deadly. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Mercy leaned forward, his expression serious, his tattooed forearms resting on the scarred wooden table between us. The weight of his gaze made it clear this wasn’t just a casual conversation. “Alright. Let’s talk about what this means.”

“What it means?” Montana’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. He slammed his beer bottle down on the table hard enough to make it rattle. “It means Torment fucked up. Plain and simple.”

“It means,” Mercy said calmly, his tone measured and deliberate as he shot Montana a warning look, “that we need to follow club protocol. This is a paternity issue involving a club whore from an allied MC. That makes it complicated. More complicated than your average baby mama drama.”

“Complicated,” Montana repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s one word for it.”

Mercy ignored him, keeping his focus trained on me. “According to club rules, if a brother fathers a child with a club whore, he’s responsible for that child. Financially, at minimum. If he wants to claim the kid, step up and be a father, he can. If he doesn’t, he still pays support. No exceptions. No walking away clean.”

I stared at him, my mind racing, trying to process everything he was laying out. “I don’t even know if it’s mine.”

“That’s what the DNA test is for,” Mercy said, his voice steady and patient. “But if it comes back positive, you’re on the hook. Period. And since this involves the Silver Shadows, we need to handle it carefully. Real carefully. King’s already involved. That means this is inter-club business now. We can’t just ignore it or sweep it under the rug.”

“I’m not ignoring it,” I said, my voice tight with frustration as I ran a hand through my hair. “I just found out about it five minutes ago. Give me a second to fucking breathe.”

“And now you know,” Mercy said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact. “So we deal with it. We handle this like we handle everything else—methodically and smart. Step one: confirm paternity. Get a test done, make sure we’re dealing in facts, not assumptions. Step two: figure out what you want to do. What kind of father you want to be, if that’s what this turns out to be. Step three: communicate with King and the Silver Shadows. We need to loop them in before this becomes a bigger issue than it already is. Step four: handle the fallout, whatever that looks like.”

“Fallout,” I repeated, the word tasting bitter in my mouth, like ash and regret mixed together.

“Yeah, fallout,” Mercy said, his expression darkening slightly. “Because this isn’t just about you and some girl you hooked up with. This is about alliances. About respect. About how we handle our business and our responsibilities. If we fuck this up, if we handle this wrong, it reflects on the entire club. Every single one of us.”

Montana leaned back in his chair, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his eyes still blazing with barely contained anger. “Great. Just fucking great. This is exactly what we need right now.”

Payne and Rage were grinning like a couple of idiots.