He shrugged like it was nothing. But it wasn’t. “You’re my sister, Bran. Always will be.”
She sniffed and bumped his arm with hers. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Yeah, but I’m your asshole,” he shot back with a grin.
The tension between them broke, the sharp edges of the night softening just a little. Whatever came next—whatever fallout Tool had brought on himself—Brandi knew she had someone in her corner.
And sometimes, that was enough.
From the corner of the lot, Gypsy watched Brandi and Killer talking, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Just stood there, taking it all in, jaw tight, annoyance simmering low in his gut.
Tool was still slumped sitting on the curb, bloodied and breathing hard, looking more pitiful than dangerous. It made Gypsy’s lip curl in disgust.
This? This wasn’t about Brandi. This was about respect.
Tool had been warned—handle your shit or back the hell off.Instead, he let his jealousy fester, put his hands where they didn’t belong, and worse, he swung on another patched brother. That broke a different set of rules entirely.
Romeo stepped up beside him, hands in his pockets. He didn’t say anything, but Gypsy caught the look he shot toward the scene—the silent agreement between them.
“You fight a brother outside of the ring, you pay the price,” Gypsy said under his breath, mostly to himself. Then louder, sharper: “Call church for tomorrow. Noon.”
Romeo nodded once and peeled off to start making the calls.
Gypsy ground out the rare cigarette he was smoking under his boot, the scrape of rubber against pavement loud in the otherwise quiet lot.
He wasn’t kicking Tool out over a woman. That wasn’t how this club worked. But hedamn surewasn’t letting this slide.
Tool would be fined. Not for losing his temper. For disrespecting the patch.
And next time?
Next time he'd think twice before letting personal bullshit drag the club's name through the dirt.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The meeting roomwasn’t built for comfort.
Just rows of dented, mismatched folding chairs lined up in tight, uneven rows facing a long, battered table at the front. No fancy décor. No padding on the seats. No distractions. The walls were bare except for the club colors. Overhead, the Edison lights buzzed, throwing a warm, amber light across the room.
The officers sat at the table—Gypsy stood front and center, Cruise to his right. Their cuts were stretched tight across their backs; colors bold under the lighting.
The rest of the club filed in, heavy boots striking the floor with muted thuds. Conversations were short, voices low. Most of the brothers grabbed a chair without bothering to unfold it properly, shoving it with a boot to make room for themselves.
Once the last man settled, Tabor shut the door with a heavybangthat echoed off the walls. Locking it was a formality—everyone here was supposed to be here. But habits like that kept them alive.
Gypsy didn’t move. He just leaned against the table; hands planted on the table and let his gaze sweep over the room. A single look that saidpay attention.
He spoke, his voice low but carrying to every corner. “Doc call it.”
“Church is in session,” Doc said as he flipped open the church ledger.
A few boots shifted on the floor. A cough broke the silence. Then it was straight to business—no bullshit, no wasted words.
Old business first. Loose ends to tie off, debts to call in, trouble to head off before it got too big to stomp out.
New business next. Deals, alliances, betrayals—the kind of talk that tightened jaws and sharpened eyes. Votes were called, hands raised, verdicts made. Not everyone agreed, but once a vote was cast, that was the end of it. Brotherhood meant unity, even when it was uncomfortable.
Sometimes the tension got thick—real thick. You could almost hear the sound of tempers grinding against the thin line of respect that held it all together. But nobody stood up unless they were invited to. Nobody spoke out of turn unless they had the balls to back it up.
