Good.
They'll need to.
The clubhouse itself is a converted warehouse, massive and industrial, but there's something almost reverent about how it's been transformed.
The oak doors are reinforced with steel plates disguised as decorative panels, carved with Norse designs—runes, serpents, ravens.
Odin's symbols.
Valhalla imagery.
I know enough about MC culture to understand that these clubs aren't just criminal organizations.
They're families. Brotherhoods.
Built on loyalty and blood and a code that outsiders don't get to question.
The Brotherhood operates similarly.
Different gods, same devotion.
Inside, the warehouse bones are still visible—high ceilings with exposed beams, concrete floors polished to a shine—but it's been made into something like a home.
Leather furniture is scattered in conversation areas.
A professional-grade bar along one wall.
Pool tables, dartboards, a massive TV showing a football game with the sound off.
The walls are covered with club history—photos of members, newspaper clippings, a Raiders of Valhalla patch that must be six feet across.
Norse imagery everywhere.
Ravens. Wolves. Odin's eye.
These men have built their identity around Viking mythology, around the promise of Valhalla—the warrior's paradise, earned through battle and blood.
I can respect that.
What I can't respect is the way every eye in the room turns to Dalla when she walks in.
And then turns to me.
Assessing. Suspicious. Hostile.
I'm an outsider.
Brotherhood, not MC.
Different organization, different code, different loyalties.
And I'm standing next to their president's daughter like I have a right to be there.
Some of the younger ones—prospects, judging by the lack of patches—straighten up when they see her.
One of them, a massive blond built like a Viking himself, breaks into a grin. "Holy shit. Dalla?"
"Bjorn." She closes the distance and lets him pull her into a bear hug that lifts her feet off the ground. "Still ugly, I see."
