Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 169013 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169013 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
How easy it was to slide into the life. A pit of corruption that sucked him right to the bottom of the barrel.
Years had passed in a blur of greed and iniquity.
Running drugs and weapons. Killing. Stealing and maiming.
Guilt ate at his insides with every passing day. Gnawing away at any remnants of humanity that remained.
He might have completely lost himself, but that one purpose remained the same—seeking revenge for his mother’s death.
He’d watched and listened for years. Desperate to pick up on any trace of the men who’d slain his mother. Ones he was sure had taken her out for the simple fact she was standing there.
Their intent to get rid of him, too, believing they’d been exposed.
When he finally got ahold of them, they were going to wish that they had.
His Harley chugged low as he pulled up in front of the dive in one of the most dangerous areas in LA.
A pack of his brothers’ bikes were already parked facing out on the street.
A row of gleaming, malicious metal beneath the vapid city lights.
He did the same, using his boots to propel himself backward before he killed the engine and kicked the stand.
He swung off and strode through the doors into the mayhem of Iron Owls’s reign.
Heavy metal music screamed, flashes of light shearing through the smoky dimness that held to the rest of the room.
An army of men donning their cuts, drinking straight from the bottle, snorting piles of coke while others shot up in the corners.
Any women there were considered fair game. Ripe for the taking. Laid out in every erotic position.
Splayed across the bar top.
Stripped and legs spread on a chair.
Tits spilling out onto tabletops while Silas’s brothers took turns fucking them from behind.
That was unless they had a property patch on their backs, then that became a whole different story.
It was ludicrous to him. That an Owl would take a woman and tie her to this disgusting life. They might have chosen it, but if they really cared about someone? Would they really drag them into this?
But Silas figured most of them didn’t give two real fucks about anything. Only themselves and what they could pillage and thieve. Their women mere possessions.
Silas kept the three people in the world he actually cared about far away from this.
His stomach twisted at the thought of Meems, Elena, and Brody. His grandmother’s pleading eyes haunting him every fucking time he walked out the door.
She’d never given up in her begging him to change. Continually told him he was so much better than the life he was living.
But he wasn’t.
He deserved this hell.
A few Owls clapped him on the back as he shouldered through the pack, and he slipped onto an empty stool at the bar.
The old bartender behind it lifted his chin in question.
“Old-fashioned,” he grunted.
“You got a preference of whiskey?”
“Maker’s is fine.”
The guy whipped it up and slid it in front of him, and he tossed him a twenty for a tip.
Brought the tumbler to his lips and took a sip.
Relishing the burn, aching for a fire when every fucking thing inside him had gone cold.
The energy shifted when the door swung open, and every eye in the place turned as Trent Lawson strode through.
Their vice president whose mere presence commanded respect.
Things had gotten a little weird as of late. A new tension sliding into the club. There was a rumor that there was some beef between Cutter, their president, and Trent and Jud, who were his sons. Only thing he knew was Cutter was a fucking psychopath, so he couldn’t imagine there was any true affection between any of them.
Not that it was any of Silas’s business, though he felt a whole lot more loyalty and trust toward Trent than he ever would for Cutter.
He turned and took another sip of his old-fashioned when that same ferocity rolled up behind him.
He shifted to find Trent standing there.
“Can I get a word with you?”
Silas’s chest tightened at Trent’s tone.
Not in fear.
But because of the urgency laced in the words.
“Of course.”
He slipped off the stool and followed Trent into the darkened hall that led to some Owl offices at the back.
Trent stopped halfway down and turned to him. He peered over Silas’s shoulder to ensure they were out of earshot before he muttered, “Might have something for you.”
Silas’s dead heart gave an erratic beat. “What kind of something?”
Trent licked his lips, more agitated than he should be. “Cutter made connections with some runners. Up in Northern California and extending into Southern Oregon.”
Silas’s blood careened, and he swallowed around the dark thrill that surged through him.
“They’ve been in the game for at least seven years,” Trent continued. “Not a huge organization. Mostly feeding heroin into small towns through their channels, though they’re looking to expand, which was why the deal was made with Cutter.”