Scarlet Angel: Scarlet Syndicate

By Ember Sparks

Angelos "Angel" Stathis never intended to join the Savage Bloods motorcycle club. After narrowly escaping a brutal attempt on his life by the Scarlet Syndicate, a powerful crime family he was once part of, Angel found refuge among the rough-riding outlaws. Now, he's trying to outlive his past, tending bar at the club's headquarters and finding solace in the bonds of his new brothers.

 

Eleni Cirillo, younger sister of the Scarlet Syndicate's ruthless leader, Lukas Cirillo, walks into the Savage Bloods' sanctum seeking escape from her brother's control. What she doesn't know is that this woud lead her to Angel, the man she knew and loved since childhood. And thought was dead. Now scarred and hardened, Angel ignites a whirlwind of desire within her. Their reunion sparks a passionate affair filled with the desperate hunger of years of longing.

 

As their forbidden romance intensifies, the ever-watchful Lukas begins to suspect his sister's betrayal. If he discovers their secret, his fury will know no bounds, and the consequences for Angel and Eleni will be dire. Can they uncover the truth about Angel's excommunication from the Syndicate and fight against the odds to be together, or will their love be destroyed by the very world that brought them back together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Somerset Press
• Release date: Jul 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227023513

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Angel

The clink of ice against glass echoes through the dimly lit bar, accompanied by the low hum of laughter and conversation as I descend the stairs from my room above Savage Spirits, the headquarters of the recently founded NYC branch of the Savage Bloods Motorcycle Club.

Hey, brother. Has it been busy today? I say to Gunner, one of the club’s new prospects, as I step behind the bar and clock in at the register for my shift.

Gunner nods at me, his hands moving with practiced ease to expertly mix drinks for the rowdy club members who fill the bar. Not too bad, actually. Busy for a Tuesday, but still just a Tuesday.

Voices rise and fall, echoing off the dark-painted walls adorned with tattered banners and neon signs. Several groups of club members linger in the booths and around the pool tables and dart boards. Only the guys who come here specifically for the drinking sit at the bar, their focus intent on the muted baseball game playing on the TV hanging on the wall behind Gunner’s post. Cigarette smoke lingers in the air, hanging like morning fog. Having never been a smoker myself, it used to bother me, the constant haze, but now I barely notice it.

Hey, Angel! Gimme another one! a burly biker hollers from across the bar, his voice cutting through the din.

You got it, Old Timer. I oblige without missing a beat, pouring a generous shot of whiskey and sliding it down the counter toward Davis with a flick of my wrist. Davis doesn’t bat an eye at the Greek accent still tinging my English. No one here does. They used to ask me about it, where I was from. But my past is dead. I should be dead.

I settle in to help Gunner sling drinks through the evening rush. Eventually, business starts to die down a bit, and Gunner takes off. See you later, man! Gunner calls on his way out the door, his arm wrapped around a club cat he’s taking out to his car for a quickie. Trina, I think her name is. I don’t really pay attention to the club cats except to make sure that no one’s forcing them into anything non-consensual. That was one of HotHead’s top rules when he agreed to allow an NYC branch of his motorcycle club. But aside from that, the club cats might as well not exist to me. I’ve never been the casual fuck type.

As I wipe down the stained wooden surface, a group of club members nearby catches my attention. They engage in playful banter, their laughter infectious as they share stories from recent rides and conquests. I can't help but crack a small smile, finding solace in the camaraderie that surrounds me. There was another time in my life when I had that kind of bond, a bond closer than brotherhood. And then I had no one. Now, I have the Savage Bloods, but even after almost two years, I’m still more of an outsider than a brother.

Did you see the look on that guy's face when I pulled up next to him? one of the young bucks asks his friends, his eyes dancing with mischief.

Like he'd seen a ghost, another chimed in, slapping his thigh in amusement. You should've seen yourself, man. Pure intimidation. I thought he was going to shit himself.

I shake my head slightly, amused but remaining silent. I know my role here—providing liquid courage and a sympathetic ear, allowing these men to forget their troubles, if only for a night. In the midst of this whirlwind of brotherhood and revelry, I’ve found a haven far removed from the life I once knew. But still, the memories linger, lurking just beneath the surface, threatening to resurface at any moment.

The door to Savage Spirits swings open, allowing a gust of cool night air to momentarily cut through the haze of smoke and raucous laughter. I pause in my duties behind the bar for just a moment, taking in the fleeting sensation of crisp, fresh air before it’s swallowed up by the warmth and chaos again.

Hey, Angel, Blitz, the Hell chapter’s club treasurer, calls out as he approaches the bar. His voice is a familiar blend of gravel and honey. He leans against the counter with his trademark grin, his well-worn leather jacket creaking with the movement. How's your day been, brother?

I look up from the glass I’m polishing, meeting Blitz's piercing gaze with a nod. Same old, same old, I reply, my voice low and measured as I repeat the same response I’ve given so many times it might as well be my catchphrase at this point. Just tending to the thirsty masses. You here for the monthly dues? It’s about that time.

What, I can’t be here just to see your pretty face? Blitz chuckles, but there’s a depth to his gaze that belies his jovial exterior.

I mirror his laugh, then tell him. Razor’s not here today. It’s his old lady’s birthday or some shit.

That’s cool. I was thinking about hanging around for a few days anyway. Blitz doesn’t look even remotely put out that the NYC chapter president isn’t here on the day he’s come to collect. In fact, he seems more interested in one of the club cats in the corner, a new girl named Brandy. She’s barely in her twenties and certainly doesn’t fit the part of a club cat. Except for her short shorts and leather bra, both a size too big for her, she looks and talks like she just walked out of a country club. But Tiffany vouched for her,