“We ran a full internal vetting sweep,” Riot says evenly. “Digital, financial, behavioral. No shortcuts.”
The room stills in a way I can feel through the table beneath my forearms.
“Two members flagged,” he continues. “Both patched within the last year.”
A quiet shift moves through the brothers. A few heads tilt. A few shoulders square.
Riot taps again. One name enlarges on the screen.
“Cal Mercer.”
Cal’s head jerks before he catches himself. His jaw works and his throat moves as he swallows.
Riot doesn’t look at him. His attention stays on the data. “Repeated financial overlap tied directly into offshore corridors used by Sergei Morozov’s network. Patterned transfers. Consistent timing. Not accidental. Not isolated.”
Several men adjust their stance. The change in the room is immediate and controlled, tension tightening rather than flaring.
Riot swipes to the next display.
“Evan Hale.”
Evan’s fists clench at his sides, knuckles whitening against the seams of his jeans.
“Same network,” Riot continues. “Different channel. Communication overlap routed through the same infrastructure we tracked during the Jackson infiltration last year. Same laundering architecture.”
The faint murmur that started at the back of the room collapses into silence. Blade goes completely still. Tank’s shoulders square. Piston’s jaw tightens, the muscle jumping once.
Riot angles his body slightly so everyone can see the screen clearly. “This isn't a coincidence. This is them having active contact with a hostile organization.”
Mason’s voice cuts in, steady and grounded. “And Lucky.”
My breath holds before I can stop it.
Riot answers without hesitation. “His background’s complicated. Old history that predates the club. Nothing tied to Russians. Nothing current. No behavioral drift. Loyalty checks clean.”
Lucky exhales beside me, the tension easing out of his shoulders. He gives a short nod, eyes staying forward.
Riot adds, “Everything on that screen has been cross-verified. Multiple independent sources. No assumptions.”
He steps back, leaving the display visible while the room absorbs the information.
Cal’s breathing has gone shallow now, chest rising too fast. Evan’s face hardens into something tight and rigid, anger pulling his features sharp.
Mason lets the silence stretch long enough for the reality to settle into everyone’s bones. “Outside allegiance ends here,” he says finally. “Always has. Always will.” No one argues. No one even shifts. “This vote is for the brothers,” Mason continues. “You decide how this gets handled.”
The weight presses into my chest. These men wore the same cut we did. Ate at the same tables. Stood shoulder to shoulder on jobs and nights that tested loyalty in quiet ways most people never see. And they still chose the wrong side.
Mason raises his hand slightly. “All in favor of permanent removal.”
Hands rise around the room, one after another. No hesitation. No debate. The decision moves through the space clean and unified. My hand lifts with the rest.
Mason counts once, then lowers his hand. “It’s unanimous.”
Color drains from Cal’s face. Evan’s jaw tightens until something in his eyes fractures, control slipping just enough to show the crack underneath.
Mason doesn’t soften. His voice stays measured and firm. “You made your choices long before tonight. This is the consequence.”
Tank steps forward half a pace. Piston shifts beside him. The room subtly rearranges without anyone needing to say a word, bodies adjusting into positions born of habit and trust.
