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“Damn it,Mom,” I growled. “You know the rules. She has to make this decision herself.”
“Don’t you curse me, Montana Ethan Stone. I didn’t coerce her. I just talked to her. She chose all on her own. I was just helping.”
“And what about you four? What part did you morons play?”
“Nothing!”
“Just had some fun.”
“I spent time with my grandson.”
But when my eyes landed on Happy, the only Reject who was still an active member of the board, the fucker caved. “We may have also talked to her about what it means to be your ol’ lady.”
“I see,” I slowly said, trying desperately to rein in my temper.
I had my son in my arms, and didn’t want to upset him further, but these morons, while they had my best interest at heart, were pissing me off.
They knew the rules.
They were very clear.
No member of the club could interfere or persuade any potential ol’ lady. The decision had to be hers and hers alone. That’s why I stayed away from Tessa. I told her what I wanted and when she left, I planned on giving her all the time she needed.
“Son,” my mother whispered. “She decided. She chose you. She loves you. She wants to be with you. We just took her out to celebrate. I even took her to my tailor so we could get a head start on her new wardrobe.”
Shaking my head, I took a few deep breaths before I replied, “Tessa isn’t like you mom. She wasn’t raised around money. I don’t give a fuck what she wears. I never have. I won’t have you make her into something she’s not. And as for the meddling, you all broke a club cardinal rule, and you know it. I could have all of you stripped from the club.”
“Son,” my father gasped, sitting up straight.
Holding my hand out, I stopped him from saying anything more.
“No, dad, I’m the president of the Soulless Sinners. Not you. Me.”
“Son, Tessa loves you. I was just trying to help,” my mother replied.
“No, you meddled in my private life like you did with Kansas. Kansas may have allowed it, but I won’t. I’m sorry, mom, but you had no right.”
“I just want what’s best for you.”
“That’s for me to decide. Not you.”
My phone ringing halted the conversation. Connecting the call, Storm said, “You’re not going to like this, Prez. Her tracker pinpointed her in a warehouse near the north ports. Pier eighty-three. The warehouse is owned by Fedorov. It’s one of his whorehouses.”
Getting up, I handed my son back to my mother. “Call Malice and Payne. Tell them to meet me at the docks.”
“What are you going to do? This is Fedorov. That bastard doesn’t like us interfering in his businesses.”
“He should have thought about that before my woman landed in his lap. Call me with any updates.”
Hanging up the phone, I dialed another number.
“Son, what’s going on?” my father asked, getting to his feet, as did the Retirement Rejects.
“Montana Stone,” the gruff Russian bastard said nonchalantly, as if I was calling for the time. “What do I owe the pleasure?”
There was no love lost between me and Maxim Fedorov.
We tolerated each other.
