Page 52 of Sinner’s Torment

Held me back while Stone coughed blood and begged for mercy he didn’t deserve.

And then I made my choice.

I walked to the bar where my cut hung on its designated hook. Pulled it down. Stared at the patches I’d earned through blood and loyalty and sacrifice. Then I’d walked outside, took out my lighter, and set the son of a bitch on fire. I watched it burn while my so-called brothers stood in shocked silence.

Watched the leather curl and blacken and turn to ash.

When it was done, I left. Went to a tattoo artist I knew. Spent six hours in the chair while he blacked out every piece of Silver Shadows ink on my body—the club logo, the chapter designation, the memorial pieces for fallen brothers.

All of it.

Gone.

Covered in solid black like a funeral shroud.

And then I disappeared. Moved to Connecticut. Met Hannah through a friend of a friend, took her name when we married, and started over from nothing.

I built this life. This good life.

And I’d thought I was done.

Thirty-three years. That was how long I’d been building this life—since 1992, when I walked out of that prison at thirty years old with nothing but rage and a ledger. I was thirty-seven when Brandy was born, and I’d spent every single day since then trying to be the man she deserved, the father who’d never let the darkness touch her. Now I was sixty-three, my body aching in ways it never used to, my knees reminding me of every year I’d spent away from the life I’d sworn to leave behind. And despite all that time, despite all that distance, despite every precaution I’d taken to keep my daughter safe from the world I’d escaped—they’d still found her. They’d still marked her. They’d still made her theirs.

Thought I’d left that world behind forever.

But I was wrong.

Because they’d touched my daughter.

My baby girl.

The wild child who’d inherited my spirit and my stubbornness, and my complete inability to do anything halfway. The little girl who used to climb trees and skin her knees and come home covered in mud with the biggest smile on her face.

They’d taken her. Used her. Turned her into a club whore.

And now she was pregnant and terrified and broken in ways I couldn’t fix with a hug and a bandage.

The rage that had been simmering since I saw that tattoo on her shoulder exploded into something cold and focused, and absolutely lethal.

I reached for the saddlebag on the bike, my hands steady despite the fury coursing through my veins.

The leather was stiff with age; the zipper was corroded. I had to force it open, the metal teeth grinding in protest.

Inside, wrapped in an oil-stained cloth, was the ledger.

I pulled it out carefully, unwrapping it like a sacred relic. Like some weapon I’d been saving for exactly this moment.

The leather cover was worn smooth, the pages yellowed with age. But the information inside was still good. Still relevant. Still damning.

Names. Dates. Transactions. Deals that would put half of the Silver Shadows’ leadership in federal prison for the rest of their lives.

I’d kept it as insurance. As proof. As the one piece of leverage I had if they ever came for me or my family.

And now I was going to use it.

Not for blackmail. Not for negotiation.

For justice.