Page 5 of Resurfaced Passion

Scary smart.

Terrifyingly psychotic.

And then the guy took care of abandoned kittens all hours of the day and night. Total fucking conundrum.

“I don’t think it’s Brex we need to worry about. Did you really think Grigori would leave because you told him to?”

Rider side eyed Reaper while he shoved the collected money into the wall safe to his right. “There was a better chance of Preacher sprouting a pair of tits, brother. This way we drain his funds and he thinks I’ve grown soft.”

Rider issued the underboss with a notice to fuck off six months ago.

It was a fake courtesy.

As he said, none of theSoulsthought he’d heed the warning.

But other plans had always been simmering in the background. When crossed, Rider was a vengeful fucker and it was no longer just about killing Grigori. Prez wanted to ruin the man personally first.

Between Hawk and Lawless and their set of skills for murder, they’d easily dispatched with most of Grigori’s subordinates. That really upset the Russian guy.

Lawless wasn’t the only smart one in the club who could read. Reaper had done his research when he’d needed to.

Being from the farming lands in the back of beyond in New Zealand and not giving a shit about any mafia, Reaper hadn’t really known about their organization and how big it really was until they’d started being a nuisance in Armado Springs.

Unlike theCosa Nostra, the Italian strain of mafia, the Russians didn’t have family ties. They recruited criminals, mostly right out of prison. Men with no scruples whatsoever for doing appalling shit. As for loyalty? TheSoulshad literally watched Grigori shoot one of his own in the head without remorse that time he’d taken Grinder.

And that’s where all the current shitstorm began. No one was allowed to disrespect theSoulsthat way.

Trying to unravel from a business connection with that organization was the same as trying to clean honey off skin with a blade of grass but Rider had always planned the long revenge in mind when he’d set out to ruin Grigori. The second in command, or whatever they called it in Russia, was a thorn in the side for Reaper’s MC president, but it was nothing Rider couldn’t handle.

“We stopped him dealing his dope, he took a major hit when we blew up his import cargo tanks. If he wants to suck Brex’s dick, he can. His days are numbered.”

Reaper nodded silently, hands down in his pockets.

He’d never wanted to rise in the ranks of theSouls, though they’d saved him in a lot of ways, more ways than he could say. Sometimes he didn’t feel part of the club camaraderie because he was always straining to be somewhere else.

He liked the boys. He’d go all in for any of them, no question about it.

But at the end of the day when things circled back to the very beginning, his priority wasn’t the Renegade Souls. It was only his job. A place to hang and to breathe and he’d made life-long friends he gave a shit about; he was loyal to the man who had taken him on, no questions asked.

But the thing about priorities was, there always came a day when it was time to choose. His choices were never in question. He had one priority.

Then.

Now.

Always.

“Said we should’ve just killed him that day he swaggered into town, didn’t I?” The VP croaked quietly with his eyes remained shut.

“Have you been awake this whole time?” Questioned Rider.

“I heard about the cocksucker Brex, if that’s what you’re asking.” Two pale blue eyes, cold as ice, opened slowly and pierced Reaper with a glance. He didn’t move any part of his upper body, just made sure his daughter was still sleeping on his chest and dropped his feet to the floor.

It was still weird to see Hawk with a kid and how effortlessly he’d slipped into the role of being a father. He often strode into the clubhouse with her strapped on his chest since he shared the child minding with his wife when she worked in her home office. A ghoul of a scary man dressed head to toe in black, a beard that made him look more bushman than human, and then a bundle in pink sleeping on his chest.

At the sound of his voice, his pudgy gray dog yapped from under Hawk’s chair. Reaper hadn’t noticed the French bulldog until now. Now it danced around Hawk’s legs for attention, then trotted over to Reaper who went down to his haunches and gave the girl a good scratch behind her ears leaving her in a state of rapture.

“If that thing pisses in my office you’re cleanin’ it,” Rider warned Hawk, who fired back in his cold tone. “She won’t piss. I trained her. But if she does then a prospect will clean it.”

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