Page 39 of Sinner's Storm
“Fuck,” Malice growled, shaking his head.
“Exactly,” Sypher sneered. “Sit back down, Storm, because I’m not done yet.”
“Fucking hell.” I sighed, doing as he asked, bracing myself when Sypher slid a folder toward me.
My hands shook as I reached for the folder, only to still when Sypher spoke, “David and Donna Campbell didn’t just die in a house fire. George Stone ordered members of the Sinners’ Arizona Chapter to execute them after he learned a New York City reporter was going to run a story bringing up the arson and murder investigation of the five families. And just so you know, he also killed the reporter. She was seven months pregnant.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I muttered, leaning forward, holding my head in my hands as I tried to absorb everything.
“You know, I thought William Doherty was the sickest piece of shit on the planet, but I gotta say Storm, George Stone, is really living up to his vile reputation. He killed innocent people to further his agenda. Men, women, and children.”
“How sure are you?” Malice asked, unmoving.
“Very,” Sypher snapped. “Just like I’m fucking positive that the Society, the very organization the Golden Skulls fought against for years, and your current president and the Bratva helped to bring down, for years had a sleeper no one considered.”
“Who?” Malice growled.
“Your former president, George Stone.”
“Oh God.” I sighed, leaning back.
“I’ll kill him,” Malice growled, storming out of the penthouse. Even if I wanted to, there was no stopping Malice because if he didn’t kill George Stone, I would. The ramifications of his actions would be catastrophic if anyone found out. It was bad enough that Malice and I knew, but knowing that two brothers, sons of a former chapter president of the Golden Skulls, knew was bad.
Really fucking bad.
There was no fucking way Montana could sweep this shit under the rug. All the markers in the world wouldn’t stop Reaper when he learned the truth.
I refused to believe Montana would knowingly allow his father to live if he knew the whole truth of who his father was. Not after everything he did and particularly who the Society was. They were the most corrupt organization on the fucking planet, and that was saying something, considering some of the shit my club was involved with.
“Storm, you have a big fucking problem, because when Reaper learns that there is another Golden Legacy and if Montana knew about her and did nothing to protect her, Reaper is going to lose his shit and that’s not including what Solomon or Bullseye are going to do.”
“How long do I have before Reaper finds out?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Right now, he’s off the radar. Bullseye’s still in charge.”
“Any chance I can get you to sit on this for the time being?” I asked, then added, “I’m not asking you to squash it. I just need some time to figure out how to protect Delany and my daughter. At least give me that?”
“I’ll sit on it until Reaper’s back in the chair, but, Storm, you better fucking secure them fast, because Reaper won’t think twice before declaring war. And if you think your club has the upper hand because of all of your club chapters, trust me, you don’t. The Soulless Sinners won’t win. Because even the Devil cowers in fear when Reaper unleashes his demon.”
I nodded, saying nothing as Sypher gathered his laptop and left with his brother Ace, along with Matthew Law, trailing behind them, leaving me alone.
Sitting on the couch, nursing a glass of scotch, I sat in darkness watching the rain pelt the windows as my mind whirled with everything I’d just learned. No matter how many variables I came up with, it all ended with the club at war with the Golden Skulls. Too much bad blood had spilled. Tensions were already high between the two clubs. Especially after Montana and Maxim failed to keep their promise to Reaper. To make matters worse, when the board learned of another Stone betrayal, I wasn’t sure Montana would be able to talk the brothers off the ledge.
The first step to rectify this situation was for George Stone to die.
The sooner that happened, the faster the club could do damage control.
Reaching for my phone, I dialed a familiar number.
I knew he would be awake.
He always was.
When the call connected, I simply said, “We need to talk.”
An hour later, the elevator doors opened and in walked Mercy.
I said nothing as I let Mercy digest what Sypher told me. It was a hard pill to swallow, but as a brother affected by George Stone’s malevolent need to control the narrative, I knew Mercy would understand my reservations.