Throne of Scars (Lost Kings MC 20)

Whatever bullshit was going on at the clubhouse has evaporated. Murphy and Teller remain stone-faced and silent as they fall in behind Rock. I follow behind Dex.

We enter what seems to be a hallway behind the kitchen. Hot stuffy air presses on my skin and the scent of grease and onions permeates the area.

“Grinder.” Loco sticks out his hand. “Good to see ya again, Mr. Savage.”

“I heard you wanted me here.”

“I sure did.”

Now that we’re all inside, Rock slips off his shades and gives Loco a slow once-over. “No suit today?”

Seems like our first clue that things are about to get messy.

“This is dress-down day here at the diner.” Loco sweeps his hand over his black baggy cargo jeans and long, plain black T-shirt. Pristine white sneakers peek out from under the hem of his pants.

“So, what are we doing here, Loco?” Rock asks. “I know you didn’t gather all of us here for the Monday night meatloaf special.”

“Actually, our meatloaf is the best in the Capital Region,” Loco says in an offended tone. “I’ll send you home with a to-go bag if you want.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“I’ll take a burger to go.” Wrath elbows Rock. “The burgers are good here.”

Rock glares at him but Loco lights up at the compliment. “Thank you, Wrath. I’ll let our cook know you appreciate his creations.”

“He was singing the praises of your burgers all afternoon,” Murphy says with a straight face.

“Yeah?” Loco’s eyes dart between Murphy and Wrath like one of them’s yanking his chain.

“True story.” Wrath pats his gut.

“Why don’t you come visit more often, then?” Loco asks. “I’ll comp you a burger or two any time you want, Mr. Wrath.”

Rock sighs. Loudly.

“Right, right, follow me.” Loco taps a series of numbers into a keypad. The silver door to our right slides open. I study the mechanism as we pass through.

“Interesting lock.”

“State of the art. You’ll understand why in a second.”

He leads us to a narrow set of metal stairs. The metallic thud of our boots follows down into what feels like a meat locker. At the bottom of the stairs, Loco pauses and flicks a row of switches. Blinding lights flash on, illuminating the basement. It’s not a meat locker, just a damn cold room—in temperature and feeling.

The floor, walls, and even the damn ceiling are covered in gleaming black tile. Pipes run overhead, grates in the floor for drains. Fanciest damn murder room I’ve ever seen.

The six of us stand there expressionless but I feel the waves of what the fuck rolling off my brothers.

Maybe it’s all the glossy black tile, but the room seems bigger than it should be given the size of the restaurant above us. Loco swaggers straight through the middle of the room, heading for a shadowy area toward the back. We pass a row of round blue metal drums with warning labels. Then a line of black metal drums. Chemicals to assist with body disposal, I assume.

I fall in step with Rock. “You starting to think bringing all the club officers here maybe wasn’t the best idea?”

“Not yet.”

Teller brushes against my arm. “Does everyone we know have a murder room?”

“Probably,” Rock answers.

“Necessary in our line of work,” Wrath adds.

“What’s that?” Loco skids to a stop and turns around.

“We’re admiring your murder room,” Wrath answers. “Impressive attention to detail.” He points to the tiled ceiling with sprinklers strategically placed every few feet.

Loco’s wide, maniacal grin hints at how he got his nickname. “When we had the fire, I took the opportunity to upgrade our establishment.” He lifts his chin at Wrath. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, but I missed my opportunity to install a murder room in the basement of Furious.”

“Eh.” Loco waves his hand through the air. “You got locker rooms, right? Just as good.” He turns and continues walking.

Murphy’s been quiet the entire time, but now he slides up on Rock’s other side. “Kinda wish Z or Rooster had come with us,” he whispers.

Rock raises an eyebrow.

Murphy tilts his head toward a shadowy section where the wall and ceiling meet. Every few seconds a row of red lights blink on and off.

“Recording?” Rock asks.

“Maybe.” Murphy shrugs.

I pull a pair of leather gloves from my pocket and slip them on.

Loco stops walking and unlocks a large steel door. A cloud of piss and fuck-knows-what-else air bursts over us. The lights flicker on and the stench becomes obvious.

Grillo.

Banged up, bloody, sitting on a filthy old mattress, and tethered to the wall by a hefty length of chain.

Gotta say, it does my heart good to see him in this condition.

“Get yourself a new pet, Loco?” Rock stands back and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, caught me a big rat.” He squats next to Grillo and grins. “Been squeaking all sorts of secrets for me, right?”

“Thuck yooo,” Grillo slurs through his swollen lips.