Page 30 of O'Mega's Revenge
The room grew quiet.
“I know we got one candidate, Wolf here, but I was reminded that this needs to be a choice. Anyone else want to put their hat in?”
My brothers glanced at each other in confusion. Sprout, however watched Jackson. When no one spoke up, he cleared his throat. “Never stopped us before.”
Trust him to know the club’s history.
“What about you? Don’t you want to make your father proud?”
“My father’s dead. Ain’t nothing I can do about that.”
Shit. In all my dealings with Sprout, I’d never heard him talk like that. Serious as fuck and almost mean.
The tension spread through the ranks. Men shifted in their chairs. A cough and a mumbled apology. Through it, Sprout kept staring at Jackson. I glanced at my president, getting a read on his mood. And suddenly, it was clear what Nonno had said. Maybe not the exact words, but he’d put doubts in Jackson’s mind. About me, or about Jackson’s position with the National leadership, whatever it was, he was trying to walk a knife’s edge.
“It’s gotta be a unanimous vote, boss. You can always veto it.”
He broke eye contact with Sprout to look at me. “That I could.”
“It would make you look like an asshole if we all vote for Wolf,” Sprout observed.
A ghost of a smile crossed Jackson’s face. He schooled his expression quickly. “Okay, we fucking vote. Start it off, Sprout.”
“Wolf.”
His confidence in me was admirable. The men up and down the table followed in voice and spirit. Finally, Jackson pointed at me. “You’re turn, but before you say anything, I gotta tell you that Nonno hates your guts. And while I can look like an asshole if I veto this vote, you could pull your hat out.”
Fucker. Giving me both my own noose and wrapping it around my neck.
“Question for you before I say anything.” I waited for Jackson’s nod before continuing.
It gave me a moment to look up and down the table.
“Nonno doesn’t run the club. Sure, he is all but national president in every way, but he ain’t. So, I gotta ask, what does it gain him to divide us?”
One of Jackson’s brows lifted. Then he smiled. “We all know what he’d gain. In case anyone is curious, Hickey, what’s our balance sheet look like this month?”
“As in the exact amount?” He had a thing for details. It made him a great treasurer.
“Ballpark it. So, we all know what national gets if we dissolve.”
The last word made a ripple of protest go around the table, except Sprout. He sat back, crossed his arms, and his face twisted into a smug smile.
Hickey cleared his throat to talk over the noise. Jackson slammed his hand down hard, “Quiet.”
“Just a bit over six million in growth, with the properties and investments. That’s not including the petty cash fund.” Petty cash was a euphemism for the illegal money we had moving around. That was a good million and a half at any given time before this all started. But we were being more choosy about our activities now. Not being forced to deal with every bit of bullshit made it grow in value. Funny how that worked.
We’d been very busy in a year.
None of us were shocked by the number. In any other club, they’d probably give their nuts, firstborn, and maybe their favorite bike to be in our shoes. The strip club I managed pulled in a solid two-hundred grand a year, but that was gross, not net. There was overhead, upkeep, stock, and payroll that ate up a good bit. Hickey was doing much better with his investment in a web-cam subscription service. He was on track to pull in almost double that in net profit in a year.
Our little band was populated with near millionaires. Sprout was a certified one.
“Well, Wolf, are you going to pull your hat, or should I vote now?”
“It’s in your hands, boss.”
Sure, that was an asshole move, but if I didn’t flinch as a new Destroyer when my bike and seventeen grand were on the table with Nonno, there wasn’t hope for me now. Whatever the cards held, I didn’t care. Jackson knew vetoing his men’s votes would make him lose the faith of his men. If he voted yes, we’d be solid, but still catching grief from the vultures trying to get a piece of our fortune.
