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Prologue

Bishop

This place is a dump.

The fifteen-story behemoth I just poured a lifetime’s savings into is a fucking dump. It looms against the bright cloudless sky of Reno, a canvas of decay. Rows upon rows of windows stare out of the weathered brickwork, like vacant eyes. Most of those windows are shattered or haphazardly boarded up. A thick, unruly carpet of weeds has choked out whatever grass used to grow here, and vines climb the brick like they’re trying to pull the place down.

And I’m pretty sure someone was killed in there.

I step over the old police tape and study the building. Marked by fading gang signs, profanity with terrible spelling and charming graffiti providing unhelpful lessons on various parts of the human body.

A faint, musty odor, which I figure is a mix of damp earth, stagnant water, and something that smells suspiciously close to decay, hangs heavy in the air.

“Suk my dik,” I read aloud, walking around the building and studying the chaotic tapestry of spray tags and symbols. The colors are faded, creating a mottled, almost bruised appearance.

It’s perfect.

Every inch of its rotten core is perfection. Somehow, I can overlook what would send most real estate developers running for the hills. All I can see when I look at it is the place I’m going to make my new home.

Away from Las Vegas.

Away from the legacy of Deacon Cassidy.

There is nothing left for me there anyway. The old man made it clear while he lived who his favorite son was, and he made damn sure dying didn’t change it.

My jaw clenches at the memory of his will—which I had been cut out of. Then there were the letters, three of them. Three sets of terms, written to put his sons at each other’s throats one last time from six feet under.

Elysium, a hotel casino I had dedicated my entire life to and poured sweat and blood into, went to Pope, along with the gavel and the Steel Sinners MC. Though he had to satisfy the terms our bastard of a father set for him.

Mine took ninety seconds to read, and I’ve never told a living soul what was on that page. Not Pope. Not Rook.

Deacon Cassidy locked me out of Vegas. So I’ll build something better…for me.

I push down the bitterness that rises in my throat, forcing it deep down where it’s lived for years. This moment isn’t about Deacon Cassidy or the twin he preferred. It’s not even about the Steel Sinners and the world I left behind in Las Vegas.

It’s about me and the life I am going to create in this place.

I shove my hands into my pockets and round the front of the building, ready to head inside when the hair at the back of my neck prickles. I turn just as I catch the distant rumble. Engines. Plural, a low, unmistakable growl rolling off the highway and swelling as it comes. That isn’t some guy taking the scenic route. That’s a pack. I pull out my gun, ready to defend this dump with my life.

There shouldn’t be any gangs or MCs in this area. I made damn sure of it when I bought this building. But fuck, did I miss something?

Would be fitting, wouldn’t it? To work this hard only to end up dying right when I’m about to get it all. But I’ll be damned if I don’t take these motherfuckers down with me.

So I brace for war, eyes narrowing on the headlights that cut through the air, and sure enough, the fuckers are headed toward me. I make out the glint of chrome, the dark silhouette of riders hunched over their machines, faces lost in the glare. My grip tightens on my gun, bracing for the inevitable, but then…I freeze. I’m stunned speechless as I make out the face of the first rider, the second, then the third. And slowly, all twenty of them.

My hand falls uselessly by my side as I watch the men approach before climbing off their bikes.

Rook walks toward me, a smirk playing on the edge of his mouth as he reads the clear shock written on my face. He doesn’t say a word and instead shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the building.

“It’s a dump,” my best friend echoes, using the same words I had when I first saw the building.

“Yeah, but it’s my dump,” I say, turning to look at the building as well. For a moment, we’re silent. “What are you doing here, Rook?”

“No beaches allowed ear,” he notes, reading out loud the graffiti next to the spray painting of a pair of well-endowed breasts. “You have to commend the artistry. Those are a nice pair of tits.” He laughs, then turns those dark, speculative eyes on me. “Is this the best Reno has to offer?”

“For me, yes.”

“Don’t you mean for us?”