"I'd like you to admit what you did!" The mask shatters completely.
Varro steps forward, close enough that his officers tense behind him, and jabs a finger at my chest. "Iknowyou killed my boy. I know it was you. He told me you stripped his patch, kicked him out of the club. And now he's dead. You think I'm stupid? You think I can't put two and two together?"
I don't flinch and sure as hell don't back down.
Just meet his eyes with the cold, flat stare I've perfected over years of dealing with men who think they can intimidate me.
"Your son," I say quietly, "beat his girlfriend. Badly. Repeatedly. For three years, he used her as a punching bag, and she was too afraid to tell anyone. Then he beat her so badly she could barely walk. Bloody nose. Black eye. Boot print on her ribs. She showed up at my door looking like she'd been hit by a truck, and you know what she said?"
Varro's face has gone pale. "That's not?—"
"She said he told her she had to pay. For getting him kicked out of the club. For embarrassing him." I set down my whiskey, letting the silence stretch. "Your son was a monster, Chief. And the world is better off without him."
"You murdered him."
"Prove it."
The words hang in the air between us.
Varro's face cycles through a dozen emotions—grief, rage, frustration, hatred—before settling on something cold and determined.
"I don't need to prove it," he says. "Not yet. But I will. And when I do, I'm going to take down your entire club. Every business, every member, every person you care about. I'm going to burn it all to the ground and salt the earth so nothing grows back."
I hold his gaze. "Sounds like a threat."
"It's a promise." He leans closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear. "I know you killed my boy. And I'll make you pay for it if it's the last thing I do."
"Your boy beat women," I reply, just as quietly. "Think carefully about whether you want to make this public. Because if you come after me, I'll make sure every news outlet in Pittsburgh knows exactly what kind of man your son was. Every hospital record, every police report that got buried, every witness who was too scared to talk. By the time I'm done, the Varro name won't be worth the breath it takes to say it."
Something flickers in his eyes.
Fear, maybe. Or doubt.
He knows I'm not bluffing.
He knows I have the resources, the connections, the sheer ruthlessness to follow through.
"This isn't over," he says finally.
"No," I agree. "It's not."
He holds my gaze for another long moment.
Then he turns on his heel and stalks out, his officers falling into step behind him.
The front door slams. The engines start. The cruisers pull away, tires spitting gravel.
The clubhouse exhales.
"Well," Zenon says into the silence. "That could have gone worse."
I pick up my whiskey and drain it. "Tell every full patch and officer to meet us in church. Now."
Fifteen minutes later, every patched member is seated around the table.
The mood is tense.
Word has spread about Varro's visit, about the threats, about the war that's coming.
