“Yep, all the men you requested. Ten in total.” Cocking his head toward the door leading to the meeting room, Grasshopper added, “We’ve got your back on this, Kill. Everything’s in place.”

Nodding, I ran a hand through my hair. It hadn’t been easy and we still had much to do, but it was almost over. Once my father was dealt with, all I had to focus on was becoming the poster boy for world revolution. My eyes shot to the blown-up magazine covers. For years, Wallstreet had built my “brand.” Through TV and newspaper interviews, he’d ensured people with money and influence knew my name. So when the time came to call on their network, our message would spread far and wide.

I’m one of them through careful scripts and fabrication.

I snorted. To some, waging war on another Club would seem more than enough to stay occupied. But to me—it was nothing compared to our main strategy.

Only once it was executed could I relax and focus on getting rid of this motherfucking headache.

“Good. Let’s go.”

With a smirk, Grasshopper saved an email on his phone and shoved it into his pocket. “You’re the boss.”

Together, we strode across the common room. Grasshopper reached the door before me, twisting the knob and ushering me into the meeting.

Ten pairs of eyes met mine, including Matchsticks, Mo, Beetle, and a few other original members of Corrupts who were dead-fast and loyal to Wallstreet. These men I trusted and these were the ones who’d been carrying out my plans over the past few years, building up our reserves, planting doubt in our enemies, and arranging a worldwide takeover.

We weren’t after small control anymore. We were after global.

Mo stood up as I circled the table and took my seat. The gavel fit perfectly in my hand as Grasshopper took his place.

“All ready to begin, Kill. They’ve been debriefed on the upcoming meeting with Samson, and the majority know of what is expected of them tonight.”

Rolling my wrist, enjoying the weight of the tiny hammer giving me so much authority, I smiled. “Perfect.” Looking toward the men, I rapped the table and narrowed my eyes. “Let’s start.”

Grasshopper was the first to steal the floor. “I’ll go first.”

The men grinned, already knowing the order in which they’d go. It never deviated. We were all equals, but in Church we followed a hierarchy.

“I’ve been in touch with our other chapters in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New Mexico, and Arkansas. They’re all aware of what’s in the pipelines and ready to bowl into fucking town at the slightest request.”

“Did you ask them to come?” Mo asked.

Grasshopper shook his head. “I figure, with our reinforcements from Green Clovers up north, we should be sweet. They’ve proved themselves in the past and won’t fuck up an opportunity to shed their Irish authority and come into the Pure fold.”

This wasn’t news to me. Lucky himself had been in touch with me over the years. He’d been hankering for a challenge to prove himself worthy of wearing our patch. Word had got out that being a Pure meant wealth. Being a Pure meant safety, brotherhood, and living a long fucking life, rather than turf wars, discipline, and a one-way ticket to Hades.

Men were sick of being controlled by a drunken mob still living in Ireland. They wanted home roots. They wanted a faction large enough to spread out and grow.

It was a win-win.

“Mo, how’s it going with what I requested?” I looked to the messy blond biker who wore his battle scars like fucking jewelry. In the garish overhanging light, tiny silver scars glittered on his face, neck, and hands. They played peekaboo—almost invisible until illumination shone in just the right way.

It made him a scary motherfucker.

“I’ve got three back so far. That leaves one more. Seeing as that blonde bitch was killed back at Dagger Rose.”

My eyes widened. “Shit, I didn’t expect you to be so quick about it.”

He smirked. “I’m a fast worker, Prez. The three are still in our custody.”

“What? Here at the compound?”

Mo shook his head. “Nope. Got two in drug rehab and one is safe in a halfway house out of town. Thought I’d take the initiative ’cause that’s what you’d have done.”

Once again, Mo proved I had no reason to micromanage.

I leaned my elbows on the table and clasped my hands.

With all the carnage I planned, it was nice to have done a good tiding for once.

The women who’d been trafficked with Cleo when she first arrived had been reclaimed. Reclaimed and rejuvenated and heading back to health and normalcy—it was a damn sight better than being whores for men who didn’t fucking deserve them.

The girls had been “gifted” to other presidents in turn for their loyalty. It’d been Wallstreet’s idea: pussy and money—a fail-safe for fealty—but I hated that Cleo had seen me stoop so fucking low.

I didn’t trade in skin. I didn’t deal drugs. I didn’t sell guns. I wasn’t out to hurt anyone. I was out to reform the wrong and uphold justice. I couldn’t be such a goddamn hypocrite by selling women for my own purpose.

“Good to hear. Let me know when they’re detoxed. Need to know if we can do anything else.”

Mo raised an eyebrow. “Do more for them? Shit, Kill. You’ve given them a life they didn’t even have in the beginning. They were the ones who caught their idiotic asses with bikers and spread their whorish legs.”