The sky over Blackwater was stained with a sickly purple, like an open wound, when the sound of distant thunder began to echo. However, it wasn’t a rainstorm approaching, but the roar of dozens of engines that did not belong to the Leather Wolves. Helena was standing at the entrance to Dante’s workshop, having just confronted him in the library, when the asphalt started vibrating beneath her feet.“Get inside,” Dante ordered, his voice allowing no argument. The tone was dry, stripped of the tenderness he had shown moments before. “Now, Helena. Go to the office and don’t come out.”Before she could retort, the workshop yard was invaded by a horde of loud, chrome-plated motorcycles. They were the Iron Claws. They hadn’t come to talk; they had come to declare war. About twenty men, wearing grimy denim jackets and eyes bloodshot with fury, circled the area. Their leader, a man with disproportionately broad shoulders named Malphas, dismounted from his machine with a smile that revealed yel
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