Why did this shit have to happen in almost identical fashion? The King’s Men couldn’t possibly have fucking known…could they? I mean, could they really fucking have known that that happened? They seemed to knowevery goddamn thingabout us. For fuck’s sake, King knew my real name!
It was fucking enraging and terrifying. If knowledge was power, they had a whole lot fucking more knowledge than we did. We didn’t even know King’s real name.
I took a breath. I couldn’t bring my mother back. Though obviously nature, not King, had taken her life, there was no point in trying to avenge her death. It was a battle I would never win.
But this one…
If my father still lived, we could avenge his injuries together. If he died, then King and everyone in that fucking MC would be two steps behind him.
And it was up to me, almost certainly either way, to make it happen.
I’d wanted to be in charge? Well, fate had given me the fucking keys to the club. Now it was my job to prove I knew what I was doing and not fuck it up beyond any hope.
I kept moving through the house. By the time I got upstairs, it was more of the same. Shit thrown everywhere. Anything with glass shattered. Anything with wood splintered. It was going to cost a fucking fortune just to fix everything; I really hoped that my father wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t worry about money, ever.
And then my phone buzzed. I nearly dropped the damn thing hurrying to pick it up. It was Spawn.
“Satan’s at the hospital. He’s alive. But in a coma.”
Fuck.
Well, I guess it was kind of good news to say he was alive. But functionally, he was dead to the club for now.
“Did they say when he’ll wake up?”
“No, they don’t know. He’s suffered internal bleeding.”
“Will he wake up?”
I held my breath. Spawn asked someone off the phone. I heard a distant “yes” and let my breath go.
“The nurse says it’s likely; they just don’t know when.”
Likely. Don’t know when.
In other words, we couldn’t plan for my father’s return. This wasn’t just that I was in charge for a few days. This was me being in charge indefinitely.
And then I remembered King’s call and how he said we had until Sunday night. Well, it was Friday afternoon. So that gave us, what, just under sixty hours?
Sixty hours to determine the fate of the club.
“What should we do? You’re in charge now, Sonny.”
It was as much a welcome start as possible. If Spawn recognized my leadership without hesitation, so would the rest of the club. But appearances didn’t mean shit in such a limited window.
“Get Lane, Cole, and Brock back over to the clubhouse on the dot,” I said. “Get some club members and some prospects to watch over my father, and you come back as well.”
“But your father—”
It was one of the few times I felt like I heard genuine concern in Spawn’s voice when it came to club matters. If that didn’t express the seriousness of the situation, not a goddamn thing would.
“The only thing we can do for him right now is wait, pray, and avenge him,” I said. “Two club members can watch him just as effectively as you can, Spawn. The King’s Men are getting more aggressive, but they aren’t stupid. They won’t openly attack a hospital wing to kill him.”
I hope.
I really fucking hope.
They’d probably just pay off a nurse to do something.
