Page 9 of Angel

This is my sanctuary and is definitely not the place to meet Sophie Clere.

Jameson brings the car to the front of the house, and as soon as it stops, I don’t wait for him and exit the vehicle, striding up the steps two at a time.

Harrington greets me as always and says with some surprise, “You’re early, sir.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

I wink to take the sting out of my words, and he rolls his eyes.

“Anything I should know about?”

“Sophie Clere.”

Two words that create understanding.

“I’m on it.”

I leave him to gather any intelligence on the woman and head to my room at speed. Tearing off my tie and shrugging out of my jacket as I walk.

I really hate these clothes. Give me a t-shirt, jeans, or sweatpants any day of the week. Playing the billionaire tycoon never sits well with me, but I can’t escape the fact I am.

I built PowerTech from the ground up, and it’s worth billions on Wall Street. I invented an AI chat engine that is far superior to any of the preceding ones, and it’s a worldwide success. Companies, consumers, and businesses all subscribe to my baby, and subsequently, I have more money than I will ever spend. I hold seventy-five percent shares in my company, the remaining twenty-five catapulting my business to the top ten in the world. I have it all, which is no wonder why my hobby is so important to me.

Once I reach my suite of rooms, I head to the shower, washing away the gala, ridding my body of the stench of society, and as I towel dry my hair, I leave it messy, longer than most, wild even.

My eyes flash as I pull on my black jeans, the tight t-shirt caressing my muscles that flex as I move. I’m a machine. A killing machine by choice, and as I shrug on the leather jacket, I reach for my mask.

There he is. Jason Powell no longer exists. I became Jason Prince soon after that day. We took on new identities, and I fought for the name. Ryder was a king. I wanted to be like him and considered the name a nod to him and the importance of the moment we met.

He changed me. My attitude, my dream, and my calling. I would never be that frightened kid again. I would be him. Now Angel stands before me in all his devilish glory, and it’s like coming home.

I love this shit more than anything, and a little piece of the past catches on my heart every fucking time.

The frightened boy I once was no longer exists. He ditched any idea of being a soldier the moment he was rescued by one. He became powerful in another way. Success is the best revenge, and as I head to the crypt, I leave Jay behind.

I’m Angel now. President of the Wild Angels. The most feared MC gang in Los Angeles, but not by the innocent. It’s the criminals who shiver in my sights, and I will not rest until I have eradicated every single fucking one of them.

* * *

When I enter the crypt, I breathe a little easier. It’s always home to me here. Not the mansion where my money pays for the best it can buy. I prefer the dark, gothic vibe of the windowless cavern. The horrific images on the walls of death and the afterlife. The cold, damp atmosphere, stone floors, and intricate carvings. The taste of fear, oppression, and danger that fires my soul.

Inside the main chamber is my office. My desk, a large round table, is set in the center of the room. An image carved into the wood of the table of five arrows, pointing to the five chairs set around it. They form a semicircle and I sit in the nearest one.

I have no chosen position. I like to mix it up. My four brothers will join me, taking the next available chair. All of us hidden behind skeleton masks, anonymity our disguise.

We must talk.

I wonder what this is about?

I have never publicly met Sophie Clere, not personally anyway, either as Jason Prince or Angel. She works for us, but Havoc recruited her when he saved her from a stalker who accosted her one night at a film premiere.

What happened later that night doesn’t count and it’s a secret I guard like a possessive lover.

She has worked for the angels ever since. Offering her services when we require an escort for the evening. She opens many doors in Hollywood, and she appears to love the thrill of the missions we send her on. Now she wants to talk, which usually means a visit to the crypt. A car bringing her here, her face covered.

Secrecy is vital to our operation, and nobody but the main five knows where we operate from. I excuse Harrington in that and Gabriel, of course.

My thoughts turn to Gabriel. Does he know of this? We dance to his tune. Did he tell her to request the meeting?