POV: Sophie
The clubhouse felt smaller lately. Not physically—no, it was the same worn leather couches, the same hum of low voices and the ever-present clink of glass bottles. But the air had changed, thickened with tension. The men were always in meetings, heads bent low over maps and plans, their faces set in grim lines. Razor and Skull hadn’t cracked a joke in days, and even Burn’s casual smirk had disappeared, replaced by something colder. Something harder.
It was the looming threat of La Morte Nera. The closer their retaliation came, the more the weight of it settled on us like a suffocating blanket.
I found myself pacing the hallways more, restlessness clawing at my insides. Every meeting the men held behind closed doors felt like another reminder that I was on the outside. It was
