The world hadn’t stopped spinning—but it felt slower.
The blood had dried, but the smell of it still hung thick in the walls of the clubhouse.
The Sons won. But there were no cheers. No beers cracked open in triumph. No music blasting from speakers. Only silence, like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for something worse to come.
Sami sat on the floor in Ace’s room, knees pulled tight to her chest, tucked into the corner like she couldn’t stand the feel of furniture or bedsheets or anything soft. She needed the edge. She needed the cold of the floorboards to remind her she was real and still alive.
She’d heard them when they came back. The bikes rolling in. The sounds of boots dragging bodies. The ones who didn’t make it back. The scent of gasoline and gunpowder and pain.
