Devil Dogs Motorcycle Club Novelas e Histórias

Chuckling, I turn my head when the bike comes to a stop next to my car, and watch as Devin removes his black helmet. Devin Devlin, the asshole who hates his name even though it’s feared throughout Ireland. He’s shorter than both Kaz and I, but the fucker is lethal; there’s no empathy behind those green eyes of his. Where Kaz and I are reserved, Dev is the feral one and where Kaz is the silent, broody type, Dev doesn’t give a shit. He’s a fucking honey badger on crack. Like walking up to me right now, punching me in the fucking ribs, and embracing me — if that’s not a brother, what is.

I'd been so careful for months, and now everything was ruined in one moment of mechanical failure. Then I heard the sound that made my blood run cold, the deep rumble of multiple motorcycles approaching. Heavy bikes. Harleys, from the sound of them. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as five riders rolled into the circle of light cast by the spectators' headlights. The lead rider dismounted with predatory grace. Even in the dim light, I recognized him. Everyone in Coldwater knew Dax Steele. Six-foot-three of leather-clad muscle, dark hair pulled back in a knot, and eyes that could cut through steel. The Vice President of the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club.

She was his heart and soul, and once she was gone, he went off the rails, eventually ending up in prison. My uncle and Crow went to Portland as planned, but it seemed they had vastly different ideas of what a motorcycle club should look like. Crow stayed with the Dogs of Fire, and over time, became the club’s national president, and my older brother Hatch currently serves under him. For the most part, the Dogs have always been a clean club, consisting of mostly business owners, and ex-military types. They had very few local troubles and a good relationship with law enforcement.

Rose? “Yes, Damon Debrassy is the current leader of the Downtown Devils. They are another elite gang, like the Westside Thorns, but one we have always been in opposition to,” he explained further, including a long list of past sins. “Slavery, gambling, prostitution, gambling…Some of their past members were spies for the German forces during WWII,” he shook his head. Wait, what? “Like actual Nazis,” I shook my head. “You’re saying…”

I just like the tradition of it. I look up just as Rocket is coming towards me and I smile. “ You ready to show these bitches what a Devil is made of?” she asks. I laugh “ Rocket, you know I’m not Devil.” She gets down on her knees in front of me. “ My favorite Pixie, I may have not ever said this. And it is clearly overdue. You may not wear the kutte which is a shame because you looked hot as hell in it. And you may not have the ink but you my girl are a Devil at heart. You are in the Devil family for life. The bond we have with you is stronger than any ol’e lady. It is in your blood the same as it is Casper’s. Now you get that cute ass out there and show them what you are made of.” Rocket

My ribs screamed with every breath—courtesy of Derek's boots three nights ago in that motel parking lot outside Tucson. "You cannot run forever, Jenna," he had said, his voice cold as winter. "I will find you again." But I had run. Again. A rumble split the air. Deep. Mechanical. The kind that made your bones vibrate. I lifted my head and saw them. Six motorcycles rolling down Main Street like they owned it. Leather. Chrome. The devil's head patch on their backs—red eyes, fangs bared. Devil's Reign MC. My blood turned to ice.

"I need to ask something." I look around and find only the two of us in the hall with no sign of Harley or Mom. Rose pushes me to sit on the single-seater while she sits on the other, facing me with an evil look in her eyes. She keeps smiling and it makes me suspicious enough to keep a straight face. Rose asking me for something never ends well — for me. "What happened?" "The Devils are hosting a concert at the Margarita Club at Silver Lake. I want to go." My lips purse at her request. The Devils are a band of four extremely rowdy boys in their early twenties who are gaining popularity among youngsters with their heinous songs and concerts which they host mostly at cheap bars.

“Of course. My apologies. Welcome to the family, Mrs Moretti.” He bowed his head and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. I waited until he was gone to ask Luca about him. “Who was that?” “Viktor Volkov.” Luca said, watching the man’s retreating form with an intense gaze. “Alpha of the Eastern Ridge pack. He’s an ally, for now.” “For now?” I asked with a frown. “In our world, alliances are seasonal.” He turned to me, his expression hardening. “Come, the guests are leaving, we need to go.”

Virender replied. 'The Devils' was founded by Myra's father, Arvind Singhania. It was an organization that helped the country's higher authorities or people to gather information. Anyone can place their order on their site, and it depended on whether they want to take that mission or not. Their technology was significantly advanced, and it was very famous among the country's higher authorities and the riches. Until now, other than a few people, no one could find out about the people who worked in that Organization and who its boss was. Still, everyone feared them. They feared the information they gathered, which no one could get. No one wanted to offend them because of the information they h

The crimes the people have done for me are beyond lifting and just brushing it under a rug as nothing happened and of course, dear Angelo was being a fucking airhead and accepted the offer. This brings us here. A pissed-off boss and idiotic bastard paying for being a rat and a dumb worthless piece of shit. We are collectively known as the French Mob and singularly known as Les beaux voyous. One of the important rules that comes with working with me. Is that rats like Angelo will get punished for their sins. If anyone ever tries to double cross me they better make sure I never find out or they will fucking regret it.