Page 44 of Sinful
Stop.
I grab my cut, shrug it on. The leather settles familiar across my shoulders, the Shotgun Saints patches a reminder of who I represent.
The meeting's at ten which means I've got an hour to get my head straight.
The clubhouse is already buzzing when I head downstairs.
Members moving with purpose, phones ringing, the kind of controlled chaos that happens before important shit goes down.
I catch pieces of conversation as I pass—weapons inventory, perimeter checks, someone arguing about the best route to wherever Los Coyotes are holding their prisoners.
The chapel is on the main floor, down the hall from the main room.
Heavy oak door, reinforced. Norse carvings all over it, that Viking aesthetic they've built their identity around. Runes and ravens and warrior shit.
Inside, it's surprisingly professional.
Long table, leather chairs, flags on the wall—American, Florida, the Raiders of Valhalla patch blown up to poster size. A projector screen at one end, clearly used for presentations.
Their table is carved with Nordic symbols as well. I heard Magnus carves wood, so likely he designed this piece.
These boys run tight.
Runes is already there, talking quietly with Fenrir, the VP.
Silver hair, sharp eyes, the kind of guy who's seen everything and survived it all.
A third man sits at the far end.
Younger than Runes and Fenrir, maybe late forties, with the build of someone who's spent serious time in prison.
Covered in ink, scarred knuckles, dead eyes that match mine.
Damon. Reapers Rejects MC, Las Vegas charter.
"Bravos." Runes nods at me. "Coffee's there if you want it. We're waiting on a few more people, then we'll start."
I pour myself a cup—black, strong enough to strip paint—and take a seat halfway down the table.
Neutral territory. Not presuming to sit at the head, but not relegating myself to the foot either.
Damon eyes me across the table. "Heard good things about you. Phantom's got a reputation for choosing his people well."
"Phantom's got a reputation for a lot of things," I say evenly.
Damon's mouth quirks. "That he does. Especially with Runes here."
Runes's jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait. "Ancient history. We're here for Los Coyotes, not to rehash old shit."
"Agreed," I say.
The door opens again.
A woman enters—late forties, beautiful in that way that says she was stunning twenty years ago and time hasn't changed that much.
Dark hair starting to silver, lines around her eyes that speak to worry more than age.
She's carrying herself with the kind of exhausted grace that comes from holding it together by sheer force of will.
