The chapel is the back room of the clubhouse—a long table surrounded by chairs, the walls lined with old photos and club memorabilia.
This is where we make decisions.
Where we vote on things that matter.
Where we handle business that can't be handled in the light of day.
I've sat at this table a hundred times.
Voted on runs and deals and disciplinary actions.
But tonight feels different.
Tonight, the business is personal.
Tonight, I'm asking my brothers to kill a man.
Every seat is filled.
Ruger sits at the head of the table, his expression grim, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the wood.
To his right is Coin, his jaw tight with tension.
Maddox is next, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on me with quiet fury.
Then Bracken, fidgeting with his lighter, looking like he's already ready for a fight.
To Ruger's left is Ounce, me, then Porter.
The prospects wait outside—they're not full members yet, don't get a vote—but everyone who matters is here.
Krypton. Daemeon. Wraith. Satyr.
Everyone who'll have a say in what happens next.
"Bloodhound called this meeting," Ruger says, his voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation. The room falls silent immediately. "So, let's hear it. What's going on?"
I take a breath.
I've been thinking about how to say this since I carried Vanna through the door.
There's no good way.
No way to make it sound less ugly than it is.
So, I just say it.
"My wife was attacked today. A man named Virgil—he used to be her dealer, back when she was using. He cornered her in an alley behind the pharmacy on Fourth Street. Put his hands on her. Made threats."
The room goes still.
I can feel the tension ratcheting up, the anger building like a storm cloud.
These men have seen me at my worst—seen me drunk, grieving, broken by Vanna's relapses.
They know what she means to me.
And they know what it takes to lay hands on a brother's ol’ lady.
