Malice rides in and kills the engine of his Yamaha YZ450F. “You’re still here?”
“Dude,” I drawl. “I’ll haunt you even after I’m dead.”
Roswell, who is originally from—you guessed it, Brooklyn—laughs as he climbs on the back of his Kawasaki 450X. The twenty-three-year-old smooths his brown hair away from his face before pulling on his neon-green helmet.
Malice nails him with a glare. “I’d shut the fuck up if I were you.”
He and Malice are second cousins once removed or some such shit. They have one of those gigantic Italian families. The two are related on their mothers’ side after someone down the line severed ties with New York’s Giacomo crime family. So, now he’s here and, along with Angel, quickly rose in our ranks because, goddamn, they’re loyal.
Roswell flips off Malice. “Eat shit.”
Bravo.
Malice lifts a brow. I can tell my friend is impressed Roswell didn’t recoil from him like everyone else does.
I peel off my white-and-gray nylon jersey, but I’m still sweltering in a black tank top, white riding pants slung low, and black motocross boots. It’s June, it’s humid, and I need a blast of air conditioning right about now before I dissolve into a puddle. “Aw, look at you, standing up to Malice. What’s next, you going to sprout hair on your balls?”
“You can go fuck yourself, too, Jester,” Roswell snaps.
“No thanks. I’m sexed out after spending the night with Malice’s—”
Malice shuts me up good. This time, it’s with his helmet hitting me dead in the face. Angel lets out a hoot of laughter. Roswell gives Malice a round of applause. Malice swings himself off his bike and picks up his headgear. Inspects it. When he sees scuffed paint, he grunts, because after ricocheting off my head, it skidded across the concrete floor.
“You ruined the paint.”
I use my jersey to stem the flow of blood seeping from my nose. “Oh, I’m sorry, did my whole face get in the way of your precious helmet?”
“No, just your fucking mouth.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a jerkoff.”
“I expect a new helmet.” He turns to stalk out of the garage. “And an apology for talking shit about my mother. The woman is a saint.”
Okay, Malice got me there. He’s right about his mom. Raising hell as kids, we needed alibis about as frequently as we needed clean underwear. We could always count on Mrs. Moretti to be there in a pinch. We were her boys. Period and without question. When we boosted a car and Sheriff Warren came looking for us, Carmella Moretti swore we were with her the entire day. Whenever Havoc needed a parental figure, that woman stood in for his burnout of a mother. And when my parents died, she was the glue that held me together during those first few months when I wasn’t sure what was up and what was down.
Bloody as usual because I’m always irritating someone, I follow Malice out with Roswell and Angel’s laughter echoing behind us. No big deal, though, because payback is a bitch and I plan on making their lives hell for enjoying Malice’s moment of triumph.
Malice and I leave our gear with the bikes and cross the yard, our stiff riding boots kicking up dirt as we walk toward the sprawling gothic building. A concrete wall surrounds Sanctum, protecting everyone inside. The compound was the brainchild of the Unholy’s founding fathers, constructed before we were an itch in our father’s sacs. Before Moody was prez, and long before he passed the gavel to Crow. Those men, disgusted that Mayhem was being shit on by the government and tired of how the gangs picked the town clean, rose up and fought back. They demolished the old Walmart and, in the spirit of creating a haven, built a mini cathedral and christened it Sanctum. Goddamn Jones’s legacy endures in the stunning gothic design of our clubhouse. With its flying buttresses, arches, and stained-glass windows, Sanctum became the backbone of a dying town.
And no, I’m not blaspheming one of the founders. The man’s name who designed Sanctum was Goddamn Jones.
The red-light district came next, with Devil’s Den evolving into what it is today. One by one, adult establishments sprang up, each paying a cut of its profits to the Unholy for their protection against the surrounding gangs. Word spread, and now Mayhem is the depraved soul of Pennsylvania. To the governor, we’re the state’s greatest shame. To the adventurous, we’re a carnival of immorality, offering a taste of the taboo.
To those of us lucky enough to call Mayhem home, the town is a haven. An oasis in a world gone insane. So yeah, I get why Faith came back. I hoped she would, eventually. Someone like her, with her spirit? No way could she stay gone forever. I was just hoping for a few more years before my past smacked me in the face. But here she is, in all her stunning glory.
Because here I am, the piece of shit who did her dirty.
When Malice and I step inside Sanctum, I see Angel wasn’t wrong. Everyone is here, still waiting on Preacher. Wraith, the big bastard that he is, sits sprawled on a sofa with his nose buried in a Ken Follett book. Ever since Jamie came home, he’s taken up his old reading habit, which is good because he used to be a bookworm when we were kids. He didn’t think anyone noticed. We did. No clue why he felt the need to hide it from us, but whatever.
Havoc is at the bar in deep discussion with Flask, who is Sanctum’s resident den father—of sorts. The man got shot over a dozen times before the Unholy and the neighboring gang, the Berserkers, worked out a tentative peace treaty. The stubborn, grizzly old bastard refused to give the devil his due and die. Crow took him off street duty and gave him the honor of running Sanctum. It’s a job Flask takes seriously. He tries to keep us in line and maintains order in the clubhouse. He’s also the best damn bartender in all of Pennsylvania.
“Look who decided to grace us with their presence,” Ferryman grumbles as we enter Sanctum’s enormous main room.
Ferryman, the newest-minted enforcer, is a burly-ass sonofabitch. Only someone suicidal would get on his nasty side, but once he takes a liking to you, you made yourself a friend for life. He reminds me of a lovable Labrador trapped in a Cane Corso’s body.
I slide up next to him at the bar, order a Sam Adams from Flask, then give Ferryman my best grin. “Come on, admit it. You miss me when I’m not around. It’s okay, my dude. I’m here now.”
Ferryman shoves me, and because he’s a friggin’ ox, I stumble sideways, laughing as I avoid falling over a stool. “One day someone is going to fuck up your pretty face.”
