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Prologue
The Assignment
Poppy
The bass from the main room vibrates through the walls before I even reach my father’s office.
The clubhouse never really sleeps. It dozes. One eye open while keeping one hand on a weapon. This is survival.
Prospects hustle down the corridors carrying crates of ammunition instead of beer. A mechanic curses at an engine out back, and someone laughs—a sharp, mean sound that ends almost as quickly as it begins. I can hear one of the men fucking a club whore, her moans loud and fake as they filter through the clubhouse.
Home. The word tastes like blood and gasoline.
I hook my thumbs into the pockets of my oversized black hoodie and ignore the stares that follow me. Not because I’m Samuel Anderson’s daughter. Nobody here knows that, not even because I’m a woman.
But because I’m patched. The only woman ever to wear Forsaken Saints colors. Hell, the only patched female in a 1% club that I know of. I remember the name of every single man who said I would never earn these colors. I also know that none of them says it anymore.
I stop outside the office door, and the brass plate reads one word: PRESIDENT
“You look terrible,” I announce as I step inside. I don’t even bother to knock, knowing it will piss off the man inside.
Samuel doesn’t raise his head. “You look late.”
“I was five minutes early.”
“You were expected ten minutes ago.”
“So ... late by your standards?”
He signs the final page in front of him before placing the pen down with military precision. Everything about him is precise. Cold and unforgiving. The kind of discipline that leaves no room for mistakes or softness.
His desk is immaculate, and his black shirt has no wrinkles. Even the gold ring bearing the Forsaken Saints’ crest gleams as though someone polishes it hourly.
People think fear is what built this club. They’re wrong, discipline did. Fear simply keeps it standing.
His hazel eyes settle on me. “You find everything amusing.”
“I find you easy to irritate,” I counter with a smirk.
“Mission accomplished.” He levels me with a look that is supposed to remind me not to push his buttons.
“Usually.” I don’t give a single flying fuck about his warnings. He doesn’t scare me, not anymore.
His jaw tightens, and I take the marginal victory. I savor it. Small victories are rare here.
“Sit.” His command is clear, but I’m not his damn dog.
“I like standing.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
Of course he fucking wasn’t. I drop into the leather chair opposite him, slouching just enough to annoy him a little more. His gaze flicks over me, taking in my biker boots, black jeans, and the oversized hoodie hiding ink that stretches from my shoulder to my wrist. To anyone passing by, I probably look like the kind of girl who says “sorry” when someone else crushes her toes. Soft, forgettable, safe. And that’s the point. People lower their guard around harmless things. My father taught me that before he taught me to shoot.
He opens a thick burgundy file. “The cartel has become impatient.”
“They usually are.” I hate that we need to have this obvious conversation.
“Our current routes aren’t moving enough product.”
