Page 20 of Sinner’s Torment

“He’s trying to keep us alive,” Mercy shot back. “We are at war, Montana. The Death Dogs aren’t the only threat out there. There are other clubs, other enemies, other players in this game. And if we don’t have allies, we’re going to get crushed.”

Montana didn’t respond. He just sat there, his jaw clenched, his hands flat on the table.

I could see the war raging inside him. The part of him that knew Mercy was right. The part that understood the patch-over was the smart move, the strategic move, the move that would keep the club alive.

And the part of him that would rather die than give up control.

It was a battle he couldn’t win. Because both sides were right. And both sides were wrong.

The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive.

Then Montana spoke, his voice low and dangerous.

“Someone come up with a solution,” he said. “Before I really lose my fucking temper.”

It was almost funny. Montana was always angry about something. Always on the edge of losing his temper. The idea that he hadn’t really lost it yet was laughable.

But no one laughed.

Because we all knew what Montana was capable of when he truly lost control. And none of us wanted to be on the receiving end of that.

I sat quietly, my mind still working through the problem. The patch-over. The Death Dogs. The future of the club. There were no easy answers. No clean solutions. Just hard choices and uncertain outcomes.

But one thing was clear: we couldn’t keep going like this. Something had to give.

I just wasn’t sure what.

As the brothers continued to debate strategy and options, I found myself thinking about our allies. The Fedorov Bratva, specifically. We’d built a strong relationship with them over the years. They respected us. Trusted us. And more importantly, they owed us.

If the Death Dogs were stupid enough to ride all the way to New York City and attack our clubhouse, the Bratva would make sure they didn’t leave alive. Hell, the Bratva alone would be enough to ensure our survival. Add in the other alliances we’d cultivated—the Irish, the Italians, the other MCs in the area—and we were practically untouchable here.

The Death Dogs attacking us in New York would be suicide.

But as I looked around the table, I realized no one else was thinking about that. Not Montana. Not Mercy. Not any of the brothers.

They were too focused on the immediate threats. The Death Dogs. The patch-over. The loss of Malice.

They weren’t thinking strategically. They were thinking emotionally.

And emotional thinking got people killed.

I opened my mouth to say something, to point out the obvious, but Montana cut me off.

“I want a solution,” he said again, his voice rising. “I want someone to tell me how we get out of this without losing everything we’ve built. Because I’m not giving up my fucking club. I’m not patching over. And I’m not sitting here waiting for the Death Dogs to come back and finish what they started.”

The room fell silent again as Storm frowned across the table at Bane, who had his laptop open in front of him, his eyes fixed on the screen. “You gonna stop staring at that laptop?”

Bane shut the screen with a sharp click. “Yeah.”

The second he shut it, his phone rang. The sound cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and jarring.

Everyone turned to look at him when Montana’s eyes narrowed. “You gonna answer that?”

Bane glanced at the screen, then looked up at Montana with a smirk. He held up his middle finger in a lazy, deliberate gesture.

“Yeah, I’m gonna answer it,” Bane said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because unlike you, I know how to multitask.”

Montana’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything. He just glared at Bane, his hands curling into fists on the table.