Page 4 of Sinner's Redemption

I owned the whole corner building of my private piece of heaven in New York City. With Central Park in my front yard, my home was strategically located close to all the amenities. I may be a biker, but thanks to my parents, I had some expensive needs. Mainly the coffee shop that was a block away. Fuck me, they made the best damn coffee in the city.

“Montana.”

Jumping, I turned and sighed. “Jesus Christ, Mrs. Alice. Give a man a heart attack, why don’t ya?”

“Watch that mouth, boy. I can still put you across my knee. Now, hurry and change. Your mother and father have arrived for dinner.”

“Shit. That’s tonight?”

Mrs. Alice grimaced menacingly, stepping forward. There wasn’t a memory I had that I couldn’t remember Mrs. Alice in. The woman had been around long before I was even born. The granddaughter of the original housekeeper, Mrs. Alice, came with the house. The stubborn woman refused to retire and did whatever the hell she wanted. Grinning, I held up my hands in surrender. “Alright. I’ll be good. I promise.”

“See that you do. Also, Mr. Malice is waiting for you in the kitchen.”

Unzipping my black leather jacket, I hurried up the stairs to find Malice, my enforcer, pacing in the kitchen. Malice was a big motherfucker. Covered in tattoos up to his neck, the man looked intimidating on a good day. Standing close to seven feet tall, the man terrified people just by looking at them. Malice wasn’t someone to cross. What made him even more dangerous was the fact that Malice owned and operated a business that catered to the safety and well-being of children. Fucker had a soft spot for them, and God help anyone who fucked with a kid when Malice was around.

Removing my gloves, I shucked off my jacket and walked in.

“How was mass tonight?”

“I said my Hail Marys. That’s not why I’m, here.”

“Okay?”

“Found the narc.”

“What narc?” I asked as I walked over to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. The smell of dinner looming around had my stomach growling. It was a long night, and I just wanted to eat and go to bed. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with anymore club shit tonight. Whatever it was, it could wait.

“The one who tipped off the cops.”

“Okay?” I questioned, not really understanding how this was important. When it came to Malice, I knew nothing until he informed me what my alibi was and what it was going to cost me to clean up.

“Bitch won’t be a problem.”

Well, that wasn’t something I was expecting. There was no need to ask for clarification. I already knew what he did, and I also knew they would never find the body. It also explained his absence at the board meeting tonight. It wasn’t because it was Wednesday Mass, that was a given. It was because of what he did. I could always count on Malice to efficiently dispose of a problem. Brother did his job extremely well, too well for my liking. The brother was proficient and fast.

“Malice!” my mother squealed in delight as she rushed forward, giving the big man a hug. My mom was a small woman. Barely five-foot five. Still stunningly beautiful at sixty-two. None of that plastic shit, either. Mom was the real deal, and when people saw her, they took notice.

I chuckled as I watched Malice flinch.

Unlike most of the brothers, Malice didn’t like being touched. Mom didn’t give a shit. She was a hugger, and my brothers all knew it, so they sucked it up and let her do what she wanted. “I didn’t know Montana invited you to dinner.”

Malice paled, shaking his head. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, you must stay. George, look. Malice is here.”

Fuck me.

Groaning, I kept my fucking mouth shut as my father barreled into the kitchen, grinning like a loon. “Malice, my boy!”

My father may be knocking on seventy, but the big fucker was still in the prime of his life. Standing over six-foot six, my dad wasn’t some slouch either. Bastard worked out every day and mom made damn sure he ate well. According to Dad, sitting behind a desk was making him soft. Could have fooled me.

“Prez.”

I chuckled at that.

It didn’t matter that my dad didn’t wear the brand anymore. All the brothers still called him Prez. Fucker hadn’t held that title in eight years and yet he was still ‘Prez’.

“What’s doin’ boy?” my father said, slapping Malice on the back, making him wince. Yeah, my father still had a mean slap. I watched many times as my father could knock a fucker to his knees with one of those love taps.