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Chapter One
Montana
The wind blew against the harbor as the smell of rotting death surrounded me. Straddling my bike, I watched as the Port Authority Harbor Police dredged the murky water the of Hudson River. They had been at it all day. I knew they wouldn’t find shit. All this crap because of a tip. A tip that came from inside my club. That meant I had a fucking rat.
I fucking hated rats. Rats were like the plague. Once it started, it wouldn’t stop until it infected everything. The only way to stop the destruction was to find the culprit and eradicate it. That was exactly what I planned to do.
Reaching into my cut for my pack of cigarettes, divers come up from the polluted water empty-handed, again. I could have told them they were looking in the wrong place. But I wasn’t going to. Wasn’t going to do their job for them. Lighting my cigarette, I took a long drag and watched the red cherry burn the rich tobacco as my lungs absorbed the smoke. Any other night I’d be balls deep in a hot pussy. Not tonight. Tonight, I was making sure that no one ever found what I hid. As far as I was concerned, he was on his way to becoming fertilizer.
“It’s taken care of,” my brother said, as I watched the divers sink beneath the dark murky water once more.
I sighed. It was done. Taking another drag, I flicked my cigarette towards the pier and watched as the water snuffed it out. What was another cigarette butt in an already polluted water way? Reaching for my helmet, I put it on, then started my bike.
“Clubhouse?”
I said nothing as I revved my engine, pulled away and never looked back. That was one thing my brothers could count on. I never looked back. The past was the past. That would never change. I looked toward the future and what it would bring. That was what I cared about. That and the Soulless Sinners M.C.
Riding into the night, the city was alive tonight.
As it always was.
New York City.
My city.
God, I loved this place. My city had everything. From culture to historical beauty to the dregs of society. Most people turned a blind eye to the latter. All of it, crammed into a place no bigger than a shoe box. But this city was my home, and I loved every fucking inch of it. My city was the mecca, the breeding ground of everything good and evil in this world. And I was smack dab in the middle of it.
Born and raised in the Big Apple, I straddled two worlds. The one I was born into and the one I chose to live in. One aboundedwith fancy dinners, social niceties and money. The other, well, it was nothing like the other. My family wasn’t like most families. Oh, I had parents and siblings, even a sprinkling of cousins running about, but that wasn’t what made us different.
It all started with a man called Gregory Stone. Hewasn’t originally from New York City. He was a simple country boy with big dreams. Dreams that brought him all the way from Nebraska to New York. That’s when shit went sideways, of sorts. Not even in the city a week, my great- grandfather met a woman named Ophelia Sumner and instantly fell in love.
His first mistake.
The second was trying to prove his worth. Ophelia was the daughter of a wealthy business tycoon, Franklin Sumner. He came from what the New York Society liked to call Old Money. The problem? Ophelia’s father refused to let his daughter marry hillbilly trash with no breeding. Now, great- grandpaunderstood that the only way he was going to marry Ophelia was to prove to her father that he could provide a living accustomed to the one she lived.
Great-grandfather scrimped and saved every dime he could over the next year, knowing no matter how hard he worked, he would never have the funds to satisfy Franklin Sumner. That was when he met a man named Anthony Romano, an up-and-coming mobster. The two men formed a friendship of sorts and in the months that followed, both men made a name for themselves. Another year passed and when Great-grandfather arrived at Sumner’s home in a limousine, wearing an expensively tailored suit, carrying a bag full of money and demanding Ophelia’s hand, Sumner laughed in his face.
Well, that pissed him off.
Now, family lore asserted that Great-granddad Gregory asked his good pal Anthony for a favor because six months later, ol’ Greg was married and Franklin Sumner was dead. The friendship between Anthony and Gregory lasted until Anthony’s death one summer in the early fifties. My great granddad passed only days later.
As for my family, well, Great granddad took his relationship with Anthony and the money he made and invested in it, creating a multi-billion dollar a year industry that my family still controlled today. The business that started it all, well, that was a well-guarded family secret.
On the outside, my family came from money, was part of New York’s Social elite, the high muckety-muck of polish and sophistication. On the down-low, Great-granddad was the patriarch of the Soulless Sinner M.C. Handed down from father to son over the generations, I became the president when Mom threatened to divorce Dad if he didn’t retire from the club. It wasn’t that Mom didn’t like the club life, she just wanted to spend time with Dad with no distractions. So, Dad was now ensconced in the company’s high rise building doing paperwork and shit while I ran the club.
I took over the club eight years ago when Dad officially retired from his patch. Fucker still showed up all the time and even rode with us occasionally. It didn’t matter what Mom said or did. She could put Dad in a fancy suit and plant his ass in an office, but when those pipes sounded, my father was like the rest of us - needing the freedom of the open road and a finely tuned machine between our legs. Nothing compared to riding a motorcycle as the wind whipped around us. Freedom. Plain and simple.
Fuck the suits.
Fuck the fancy house.
Fuck the family company.
Give me my bike, my club brothers and an open road any day.
The clubhouse was in the warehouse district close to the Port Authority. Perfect location if you asked me. Plus, having a biker club close to a police station was like giving ‘Johnny Law’a slap in the face. Fuckers couldn’t do shit about us and they realized it. With easy access through air, sea and land, my area of NYC looked shady as shit but there was no crime, no threat to me or mine and it was safe to walk the street at night.
Motto number one: Never shit where you sleep.
