The Pit Stop had never felt so damn quiet.
The neon sign outside still glowed through the blinds, a muted red that bled across the scarred wood of the long table. The jukebox was off, the bar empty. Just leather, smoke, and the weight of two clubs staring each other down.
Silas shifted in his chair, shoulders tight. He should’ve been focused on the table, on the business at hand, but his mind kept dragging him back to Sage. She was home, safe, but every time he blinked he still saw the bruises mottling her skin, the fire in her eyes dimmed by pain. He clenched his jaw, forced the image away. This was club business. And club business didn’t wait, no matter how hard his chest ached to be anywhere else.
On the Sons’ side sat Jack at the head, Paul just to his right, Brick and Owen filling
