“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re invincible. You’re not. And if you go down, this whole thing burns.”
I meet his stare. “You think I don’t know that?”
“You act like you don’t.” He lets the silence hang, then exhales through his nose. “We’ve got five dead. The Believers are blaming us. And now the cartel’s got a reason to hit us harder. You shouldn’t have gone in with them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You questioning my calls now?”
“I’m questioning your backroom deals that almost got you killed.” His voice shakes. “You should’ve told me.”
“You were at school.”
“I’m not a damn student anymore,” he growls. “Not when I’m planning funeral rotations instead of midterms.”
I chuckle, wincing at the pain in my ribs. “There’s the fire. You sound like your old man.”
He looks down, throat working, then quietly says, “I’m not you, but I’ll carry this weight. Just don’t make me do it without you.”
I don’t answer right away. Just reach out and squeeze his wrist. “I’m not dead yet,” I mutter. “But if I do go, don’t carry the weight. Wield it.”
“You were at school,” I rasp, though I know that excuse doesn’t work anymore. Not since he started showing up in my meetings and speaking at Church like he already wears the crown.
But he doesn’t come alone now. Not anymore.
The day I get discharged, Isaiah is already waiting outside the clubhouse. And she's with him. Aria Brennan.
Tall, all hips and heat, curves that don’t back down from anything. She’s dressed in a sharp navy blazer that clings to her like a second skin, heels clicking against concrete like she owns the ground she walks on. Long dark hair tied back, but strands have escaped to kiss the curve of her cheek. Blue eyes that cut through bullshit with surgical precision.
She’s been Isaiah’s best friend since grade school. But lately, that title feels like a shield they both pretend still fits.
They used to fight over everything. Debate club, justice reform, and what counts as a sandwich. Now, they speak in low tones when they think I’m not listening. Lingering glances. Tension so thick I could carve my initials into it.
I see the way she looks at him now, like she’s waiting for him to choose. The gavel, or her. The club, or the future they never talk about out loud.
After we arrive at the Clubhouse, I see Aria hang back. Watching the room. She’s not just a lawyer anymore. She’s part of our shadow network now. She knows where the bones are buried and who put them there.
Later, while the others clear out, she corners Isaiah in my office. I pretend not to listen, standing in the hallway. “You need to stop letting this place chew you up,” she says.
“I’m not letting it,” Isaiah replies. “I’m choosing it.”
“I know.” Her voice softens. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
He laughs once, bitter and low. “You think I’m not scared? I wake up every day wondering if the next body will have my name on it, or yours.”
Silence.
Then something shifts. I don’t know if it’s the air, or the sound of a chair scraping back, or just instinct honed over decades. But I can feel the temperature change before I see it.
She reaches for his hand. He doesn’t pull away. “You don’t have to do this alone, Zay,” she says. No mockery. Just raw truth. “I’m not scared of the weight. Just… don’t shut me out of it.”
“You think this is what I wanted?” he whispers. “I wanted a law degree, a house near a lake, you waking up next to me with coffee and sarcasm and no bulletproof vests.”
Aria’s voice catches. “Then why didn’t you say that when it mattered?”
“Because it still matters,” he says. And then their mouths crash together like all the held-back years had claws.
I turn away before I see too much. Let them have their moment. Because they’re going to need it.
