I walk through it without stopping.
Maddox is at the bar again, this time eating what looks like a sandwich the size of his head.
He clocks me heading for the Church hallway and the sandwich stops halfway to his mouth.
He knows. They all know. A brother doesn't call an emergency sit-down for good news.
The room fills in. Same seats as always—Ruger at the head, Ounce to his right, Bloodhound across from me, Maddox filling his chair like it was built around him, Porter with his reading glasses already on, Bracken tapping that ring, Decorum at the far end with his hands folded, while patches line the walls.
The door closes. The noise from the main room disappears. In here, there's nothing but the table, the brothers, and whatever truth needs to be spoken.
Ruger looks at me. "Floor's yours, brother."
I set the white card on the table. Everyone looks at it.
"Two men showed up at my house this morning," I say. "Professional muscle. Suits, shoulder holsters, Nevada plates—same car I've been tracking outside my girls' schools for the past week." I pause. Let that land. "They told me my ex-wife owes two hundred thousand dollars to a lending group out of Las Vegas. Gambling debt. She named me and my daughters as collateral."
The room doesn't explode.
This isn't a club that explodes, but the temperature drops.
I can feel it—the shift in the air, the way spines straighten and jaws tighten and hands go still.
Bloodhound's arms uncross slowly.
That's worse than if he'd slammed his fist on the table. Garrett going still means he’s calculating, and when the Sergeant at Arms starts doing math, someone's about to have a very bad day.
"She put the girls' names on it?" Ruger's voice is even, but there's something underneath it that sounds like a match being struck.
"That's what they said."
"Wrenleigh and Sadie Jo."
"Yes."
Ruger's jaw works. He looks at Ounce.
Ounce is already leaning back in his chair, those dark eyes half-closed the way they get when he's processing—not checking out, but turning something over behind a face that gives away nothing.
"How professional?" Ounce asks.
"Very. They knocked. They were polite. They knew my full name, my address, where my girls go to school. They left a card with just a number on it. No threats—but the older one looked at my house like he was taking notes."
"That is the threat," Ounce says.
"I know."
Silence. The kind that fills a room like water.
Maddox is the first to break it, and he does it with a voice that sounds like gravel pouring out of a cement truck. "They came to a brother's home. They mentioned his kids."
"They did."
"Then I don't understand what we're discussing."
Ruger holds up a hand. Not shutting Maddox down—just slowing the room. "This is Coin's play. His family, his call on how we handle it." He turns back to me. "What do you need?"
"Right now? Eyes. I need to know who these people are, how big the operation is, and whether Angelica is in the wind or whether she's going to show up next. I need someone watching my house when I'm not there and someone knowing where my girls are at all times."
