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“All right, now that everyone’s here I need you to listen up,” he begins, hands planted firmly on the table before him. “The person who owns these brothels is Philomena Bernard—the wife of Lunatic. And if that name doesn’t mean shit to you, let me remind you: Lunatic was the identical twin brother to Rage, the former Prez of the Demons of Hell MC.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd, but Damon’s glare silences it quickly.
My mind races, sifting through fragmented memories and rumors that have circulated around the club for years.
Rage and Lunatic—names spoken in hushed tones, stories veiled in secrecy and bloodshed.
“Yeah, we killed Lunatic many years ago because we thought he was Rage,” Damon continues, his voice dropping a notch. “And now, his widow owns those brothels that are screwing us over. This isn’t just business anymore. She’s made it personal.”
I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling in.
The stakes have just gotten higher, and the line between duty and danger has never been clearer.
The question bursts out of me before I can stop it, my voice echoing louder than intended in the tense silence of the room. “Is she trying to get back at us for killing him?”
Damon’s eyes snap to mine, a flicker of approval crossing his face. “Yeah, Spark,” he says, nodding gravely. “We think she is. Philomena’s trying to fuck us over monetarily first.”
A murmur ripples through the prospects, but it’s Turmoil who raises his hand, the tattoos on his knuckles stark against his skin. “What’s the plan then, Prez?”
Dixon steps forward, taking the cue.
His presence commands attention, his gaze as sharp as ever. “First, we ramp up our marketing,” he announces, his tone brokering no argument. “Plaster the girls all over Vegas, wherever we can. We need to remind people why our brothels are the best in town.”
“Got it,” Turmoil mutters, scribbling notes on his phone.
“But that’s not enough,” Dixon continues, his eyes narrowing. “We’re also going to dig into Philomena Bernard. Find out everything there is to know about her. She’s a British billionaire who married Lunatic—there’s gotta be dirt somewhere, and we’re gonna find it.”
The tension in the room thickens as we absorb the weight of those words.
My mind races, piecing together the fragments of this new threat.
The stakes have never been higher, and the line between business and personal vendettas has officially blurred.
“All right,” Damon concludes, his voice a low growl. “You know what you need to do. Now get to work.”
Boots scuffle against the worn hardwood floor as patches and prospects alike disperse to their tasks.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, my mind awhirl with questions that refuse to settle.
How the hell does a guy like Lunatic end up with a billionaire wife?
The image of Lunatic’s rough, scarred face contrasts sharply with what I imagine Philomena Bernard must be like—polished, elegant, untouchable.
It doesn’t add up.
Outside, the cool Halloween air is a welcome change from the stifling tension inside.
The yard around the clubhouse now looks festive as all hell.
The club’s having our annual Halloween party tonight, but I’m really hoping that we can all take a break and relax a bit.
Shit’s been getting crazy for a while, and we need to take a load off.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zoe
I take one last look in the mirror, adjusting the gold headpiece resting delicately on my long, ombre locks.
