She’s not patched. Not blood. But no one questions her presence. She’s here because I trust her more than any man in this room. And because I asked her to come.
Rock, Rampage, Honor, and Throttle were at a warehouse drop earlier tonight when they were ambushed by the Las Estrellas Negras Cartel. The four of them barely made it out by the skin of their teeth.
“Someone gave up our location,” I growl. “There is one person missing tonight, and to me, that means guilty.”
Saint holds his hands up in defense. “You cannot go around accusing a member of treason without backup.”
“He rolled on us,” Dad says, his voice is quiet enough to cut steel.
“He was at the warehouse drop two nights ago,” Rock says, still favoring his ribs. “Told the cartel we’d be light. Gave them the truck route.”
“Bastard nearly got Rampage killed,” Honor adds, eyes blazing. “And he’s one of ours?”
“Was.” Dad’s voice goes sharp. “He was a founding brother. Bled beside me before some of you were born. He pulled me out of a burning truck in '98. Watched my son take his first steps. Doesn’t change the fact that he nearly got you all killed. That doesn’t make him family anymore.”
Aria doesn’t flinch. She’s heard that tone before. Quiet finality before blood gets spilled. Her gaze cuts to me, asking a question without speaking.You sure you’re ready for this?I don’t answer out loud. Just hold her stare a beat longer than necessary.
The silence is heavy, like the sky’s about to fall.
Throttle’s perched on the edge of a chair, knuckles scraped raw. “So, what now? We send a message or play defense?”
A map is spread wide across the table like a corpse in a morgue. Burnt edges. Coffee stains. A red Sharpie circles the warehouse in Greystone twice. Once with calculation, once with fury.
Dad doesn’t look at it. He looks at us. “This isn’t just business now,” he says. His voice scrapes like it’s been dragged through gravel. “One of our own sold us out. They’re gonna pay for it in blood.”
Rampage stands with his arms crossed, fresh bruises under his eye from a backlot brawl the night before. “We hit hard, we hit once. No dragging this out.” His knuckles are taped, but one is still bleeding. He probably punched a wall before walking in.
“Not just a punch, brother,” Honor murmurs from the edge of the table, eyes lowered. “We do this wrong, we bury more than traitors. We bury the future.” He’s wearing his patch with a black button-up and a chain with a tiny silver cross tucked beneath it. His presence is different. Calmer. Like he’s carrying grief that hasn’t happened yet.
Rampage opens his mouth, and Dad holds up a hand, not to silence him, but to weigh them both. “You two always were the fire and the fuse.”
“You suggesting we let it slide?” Rampage growls, stepping closer.
“I’m saying God isn’t the only one watching,” Honor replies, meeting his stare. “If we go scorched earth without thinking, we burn saints with the sinners.”
The tension between them crackles, but Dad cuts through it with a hand slam on the table. “This ain’t Sunday mass,” he says to Honor, “and it damn sure isn’t a prizefight,” he adds to Rampage. “It’s war. You don’t like how it feels? You don’t pick up a gun.”
They go quiet. Then all eyes shift to me. I didn’t ask for that. Dad doesn’t say my name. Just stares.
“We're bleeding,” I say finally. “Internally. That warehouse isn’t the only fire. The books are leaking, too. If we hit now, we look disorganized. Weak. We patch those leaks first.”
Rampage scoffs. “So, what, you want to delay the raid and audit invoices?”
“I'm saying we prep like it’s our last stand,” I say evenly. “You want this clean? Then we get cleaner first. No more surprises.”
Dad watches me like I’m someone else. Not his son. Not the kid who used to ride on the back of his Dyna and count telephone poles. Someone harder. Someone... useful.
“You sound like Saint,” he mutters.
That lands like a punch I never saw coming.
Honor’s jaw flexes, but he nods like he understands. “Steel Saint wouldn’t have charged blind.”
Rampage doesn’t speak. He just grabs a pen and starts marking the second exit route.
Dad grips the edge of the table, weathered fingers white-knuckled. Then he lets go, stepping back. “You call it, Isaiah,” he says.
And just like that, I’m standing in Church with ghosts and men twice my age, the youngest voice in the room, but the one they’re listening to.
