Sinner’s Redemption by Rebecca Joyce

Chapter One

Montana

The wind blew against the harbor as the smell of rotting death surrounded me. Straddling my bike, I watched as the Port Authority Harbor Police dredged the murky water the of Hudson River. They had been at it all day. I knew they wouldn’t find shit. All this crap because of a tip. A tip that came from inside my club. That meant I had a fucking rat.

I fucking hated rats. Rats were like the plague. Once it started, it wouldn’t stop until it infected everything. The only way to stop the destruction was to find the culprit and eradicate it. That was exactly what I planned to do.

Reaching into my cut for my pack of cigarettes, divers come up from the polluted water empty-handed, again. I could have told them they were looking in the wrong place. But I wasn’t going to. Wasn’t going to do their job for them. Lighting my cigarette, I took a long drag and watched the red cherry burn the rich tobacco as my lungs absorbed the smoke. Any other night I’d be balls deep in a hot pussy. Not tonight. Tonight, I was making sure that no one ever found what I hid. As far as I was concerned, he was on his way to becoming fertilizer.

“It’s taken care of,” my brother said, as I watched the divers sink beneath the dark murky water once more.

I sighed. It was done. Taking another drag, I flicked my cigarette towards the pier and watched as the water snuffed it out. What was another cigarette butt in an already polluted water way? Reaching for my helmet, I put it on, then started my bike.

“Clubhouse?”

I said nothing as I revved my engine, pulled away and never looked back. That was one thing my brothers could count on. I never looked back. The past was the past. That would never change. I looked toward the future and what it would bring. That was what I cared about. That and the Soulless Sinners M.C.

Riding into the night, the city was alive tonight.

As it always was.

New York City.

My city.

God, I loved this place. My city had everything. From culture to historical beauty to the dregs of society. Most people turned a blind eye to the latter. All of it, crammed into a place no bigger than a shoe box. But this city was my home, and I loved every fucking inch of it. My city was the mecca, the breeding ground of everything good and evil in this world. And I was smack dab in the middle of it.

Born and raised in the Big Apple, I straddled two worlds. The one I was born into and the one I chose to live in. One aboundedwith fancy dinners, social niceties and money. The other, well, it was nothing like the other. My family wasn’t like most families. Oh, I had parents and siblings, even a sprinkling of cousins running about, but that wasn’t what made us different.

It all started with a man called Gregory Stone. Hewasn’t originally from New York City. He was a simple country boy with big dreams. Dreams that brought him all the way from Nebraska to New York. That’s when shit went sideways, of sorts. Not even in the city a week, my great- grandfather met a woman named Ophelia Sumner and instantly fell in love.

His first mistake.

The second was trying to prove his worth. Ophelia was the daughter of a wealthy business tycoon, Franklin Sumner. He came from what the New York Society liked to call Old Money. The problem? Ophelia’s father refused to let his daughter marry hillbilly trash with no breeding. Now, great- grandpaunderstood that the only way he was going to marry Ophelia was to prove to her father that he could provide a living accustomed to the one she lived.

Great-grandfather scrimped and saved every dime he could over the next year, knowing no matter how hard he worked, he would never have the funds to satisfy Franklin Sumner. That was when he met a man named Anthony Romano, an up-and-coming mobster. The two men formed a friendship of sorts and in the months that followed, both men made a name for themselves. Another year passed and when Great-grandfather arrived at Sumner’s home in a limousine, wearing an expensively tailored suit, carrying a bag full of money and demanding Ophelia’s hand, Sumner laughed in his face.

Well, that pissed him off.

Now, family lore asserted that Great-granddad Gregory asked his good pal Anthony for a favor because six months later, ol’ Greg was married and Franklin Sumner was dead. The friendship between Anthony and Gregory lasted until Anthony’s death one summer in the early fifties. My great granddad passed only days later.

As for my family, well, Great granddad took his relationship with Anthony and the money he made and invested in it, creating a multi-billion dollar a year industry that my family still controlled today. The business that started it all, well, that was a well-guarded family secret.

On the outside, my family came from money, was part of New York’s Social elite, the high muckety-muck of polish and sophistication. On the down-low, Great-granddad was the patriarch of the Soulless Sinner M.C. Handed down from father to son over the generations, I became the president when Mom threatened to divorce Dad if he didn’t retire from the club. It wasn’t that Mom didn’t like the club life, she just wanted to spend time with Dad with no distractions. So, Dad was now ensconced in the company’s high rise building doing paperwork and shit while I ran the club.

I took over the club eight years ago when Dad officially retired from his patch. Fucker still showed up all the time and even rode with us occasionally. It didn’t matter what Mom said or did. She could put Dad in a fancy suit and plant his ass in an office, but when those pipes sounded, my father was like the rest of us - needing the freedom of the open road and a finely tuned machine between our legs. Nothing compared to riding a motorcycle as the wind whipped around us. Freedom. Plain and simple.

Fuck the suits.

Fuck the fancy house.

Fuck the family company.

Give me my bike, my club brothers and an open road any day.

The clubhouse was in the warehouse district close to the Port Authority. Perfect location if you asked me. Plus, having a biker club close to a police station was like giving ‘Johnny Law’ a slap in the face. Fuckers couldn’t do shit about us and they realized it. With easy access through air, sea and land, my area of NYC looked shady as shit but there was no crime, no threat to me or mine and it was safe to walk the street at night.

Motto number one: Never shit where you sleep.

The Soulless Sinners may be one of the most feared motorcycle clubs, but we were still a club. We stayed true to our beliefs that men were men. Fuck with us and we will fuck you so hard your grandchildren will feel it. None of us played games with the club. The club wasn’t some pussy-bitch weekend getaway. Never was and never would be. We played the game by our rules and if anyone thought to fuck us in the ass, we rammed a pole up theirs. Most clubs were under the misapprehension that the Soulless Sinners were a one-percenter club, wrought with guns, drugs and skin trade. Fuckers would shit their pants if they knew the truth.

No, the Soulless Sinners were unlike anything any club had ever seen.

Motto number two: Looks can be deceiving.

On the outside, a Soulless Sinner looked like any other Joe Schmuckatelli on the damn street. Every brother owned their own business and contributed to society in their own way. While a few wore suits, the majority dressed casually. To the unsuspecting eye, my brothers were just everyday Joes. Only that was the farthest thing from the truth. Unlike most of the weak pussy fuckers in this town, the one thing that made my brothers stand out was the brand on their backs. Under those fancy, high priced clothes, the brothers bore the brand of who they truly were. A Soulless Sinner.

Like the brothers, our clubhouse didn’t look like much, just a raggedy, run-down warehouse that had seen better days.

A football field long, the clubhouse was more than a clubhouse. It was a home away from home. Yes, we still had the main recreational room with a bar, pool tables and other forms of enjoyment for brothers to pass the time. There were also offices for the officers and the boardroom where we held club meetings or church, as other clubs called it. There were rooms for the brothers and visitors as well as a large kitchen where a hired staff of four cooked anything we wanted. The booze was plentiful and the bitches were hot. Everything a brother could want.

Another thing about the Soulless Sinners, the National Chapter didn’t wear colors. Unlike the rest of the clubs scattered around the world who wore the cut to tell everyone where their allegiance lay, the National Chapter, the one I ruled, the brothers wore the brand of their commitment on their backs because that’s where I put it.

Coming to a stop, I backed my bike in my spot and cut the engine. Removing my helmet, I could hear the thumping, pounding music coming from inside. It was just another typical day for a Soulless Sinner. When the work was done, it was time to play.

Proceeding into the clubhouse, I looked around to find brothers milling around playing pool, drinking, throwing darts or feeling up their piece of the week. Just another hump day for the club.

God, I loved this place.

Taking off my leather gloves, I shucked my jacket, handing it to a prospect. I didn’t need to tell the fucker what to do with it. He fucking knew.

“Where’s Mercy?”

“In his office, Prez,” the prospect informed, before scurrying away. Grabbing a beer from the bar, I walked off in search of my V.P., Caleb ‘Mercy’ Davenport, owner and operator of the largest construction firm in the city. Mercy built high sky rise buildings that many visitors to my city oohed and aahed over. The man was always in demand, but he ran his business like I ran my club. With an iron fist. Mercy did nothing he didn’t want to do. When he made a decision, it was game over. As the prospect said, I found Mercy in his office, sitting at his desk typing away into his computer. Not bothering to knock, I walked in and made myself comfortable.

“Gonna go blind staring at that fucking thing.”

“City Hall wants the bid in before midnight. Don’t trust anyone else to do it.”

“How many jobs you got going now?”

“Three,” Mercy sighed. “I get this one and I will fill the company’s quota for the year.”

Shaking my head, I knew not to argue with the fucker. Mercy was one of the most determined, committed and biggest overachievers I knew. More importantly, I fucking appreciated him. Bastard didn’t comprehend the meaning of quit.

“Douche canoe’s taken care of.”

“About time. Did you call Kali and give her the good news?”

“Payne will take care of it.” Swallowing another long pull of my beer, I noticed the framed picture Mercy had on his desk. Reaching for it, I picked it up and smiled. “She’s gotten big. How old is Sophia now?”

“Almost six.”

Returning the frame back to where I found it, I cautiously asked, “How’s Largo?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“She still not talking?”

“Nope.”

Out of all the brothers, Mercy was the only one who had a wife and a kid. Well, had being the relevant word. Mercy’s wife, Largo, left him two years ago for no apparent reason. One day she was here, the next she was gone. None of us understood why. Before we could even find out what made Largo do a runner, she served Mercy with divorce papers and that was all she wrote. Now, Mercy saw his daughter every other weekend and for two weeks in the summer.

“She still living in that shitty apartment near Chinatown?”

Mercy sighed, looking from the computer at me. “Yeah. I’ve tried to talk her into moving into a safer area, even offered to put her up in an apartment in one of my buildings, but she refused. Won’t even take alimony. The courts had to order her to take the child support.”

“Makes no sense, brother.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. One minute I’m happily married, the next I’m living alone wondering what the fuck I did wrong. I miss my kid. My wife isn’t saying shit and the more I think about it, the more pissed off I get. So, no Montana. I haven’t talked to Largo,” Mercy almost shouted, before turning back to his computer. Knowing he wasn’t going to say anything more, I got to my feet.

“Boardroom in fifteen, brother.”

Mercy muttered something as I walked out of his office and bumped into Storm. “Sorry, Montana.”

“No problem. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

Two doors down, I walked in behind Storm, shutting the door behind me.

“What’s up?” Jason ‘Storm’ Calloway, the club treasurer, questioned as he took a seat behind his desk. Storm was the president of Calloway Investments, one of the city’s top investment firms. Storm inherited the company after his father and uncle died in one of the towers on that shitty September day. Resting against the wall, I looked at all the remembrances Storm had around him. From pictures to a piece of rubble, Storm refused to forget what he lost that day. While we all lost something, Storm lost half of his family. Not only his father and uncle, but a good portion of his family. Unlike his father and uncle, most of the Calloway Clan, as they liked to call themselves, were firefighters. Storm himself was gearing up to train to become just that when the world changed. Instead of following his dream, he took over his father’s company and never looked back. Storm was also one of the biggest adrenaline junkies I knew and a brother I could count on in a heartbeat.

“You investigated Largo when she left, right?”

“Yes.”

“Find anything suspicious?”

Storm leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Not a damn thing. The woman was clean. Like squeaky clean. No outstanding debt. She hardly ever drank. Didn’t gamble. Had no dick on the side. Piece was clean, Prez.”

“Then what happened?”

“No clue. It’s a fucking mystery. You’re asking, Mercy is asking. Hell, brother, the whole fucking club wants answers. The only one who can answer them isn’t saying shit. All of us have tried. Even Malice, who doesn’t like anyone, tried to reach out to her.”

“Gut’s telling me something isn’t right. She had known that piece since she was in high school. Ain’t like her to change personalities. Know anyone we can trust to farm this out too? I want answers.”

“I can get Pippen on it.”

“The prospect?”

Storm chuckled, nodding. “Yeah Prez. The kid is a whiz with computers. His company just got a contract with several investigative firms to upgrade their programs and shit. If anyone can find anything, Pippen is the one you need to ask.”

I liked that idea.

Keep shit in house.

If the prospect was as good as Storm said, the kid would be an asset when it came time to brand him over into the club. “Get with him after the board meeting tonight. Let him know the score and for the love of God, don’t tell Mercy.”

Walking away from Storm’s office, I headed for the boardroom. While most clubs called their sanctuaries church, ours was the boardroom. Unlike most clubs, the brothers of the Soulless Sinners Motorcycle Club were, in fact, businessmen. Each brother owned and operated their own business and, as such, our church was called the boardroom. Same rules applied, just a different name.

Strolling into the boardroom, I left the door open, knowing that the officers wouldn’t be far behind. Grabbing my seat at the head of the table, I watched as my officers walked in.

The boardroom was for officers only.

No one, and I mean no one, fucked with that rule.

I dealt with anything concerning another brother, either in my office or with one of the other officers, in the main rec room. There were no secrets in my club. I told my brothers what they needed to know and nothing more. They didn’t like it. I’d be more than happy to peel the brand from their backs before I slit their throats.

Seeing the door close, I looked around the table and sighed. “Where the fuck is Malice?”

“It’s Wednesday, Prez,” Payne said, as if that explained his missing counterpart. Malice and Payne were the club’s enforcers. Both men put the fear of God into anyone who dared fuck with the club. Malice more so than Payne. While Payne was more diplomatic, Malice preferred the kick ass first approach. To make matters worse, Malice was the only Soulless Sinner who was a devout Catholic. Brother never missed mass.

“Fine,” I moaned. “You can catch up with him later. Anyone got any shit that needs to be discussed before we get down to business?”

When no one said a word, I brought the meeting to order.

The meeting didn’t last long and before I knew it, I pulled up to the keypad and I punched in a code before watching as my security gates lifted. Rolling forward, I pulled into a parking spot and killed my engine. Taking off my helmet, I hung it from one of my bars, then slid off my bike.

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.

Malice rolled his shoulder and groaned. “Just came to give Montana some news.”

My father’s head swiveled to mine. His eyebrow shot up, questioning. “Trouble?”

“All good, Dad.”

“Perfect!” Mom smiled, rubbing her hands together as she turned to head to the dining room. “Then let’s eat, boys. I’ve got so much to tell you both.”

Malice looked at me, scowling. “Get me the fuck out of here.”

Shaking my head, I grinned. “No can-do, brother. Mom already saw you. You are stuck.”

“I fucking hate you.”

Laughing, I walked with Malice into the dining room as mom talked a mile a minute.