I stand on the porch and watch them go.
Behind me, I hear the brothers starting to move—picking up overturned furniture, collecting scattered belongings, putting our home back together piece by piece.
No one speaks. The anger is too thick, too close to the surface.
This can't continue.
Varro's playing a long game, trying to wear us down, trying to provoke a reaction he can use against us.
And it's working.
I can feel the tension in the club, the frustration, the simmering rage that's looking for an outlet.
Something's going to break. I just don't know what.
Church that night is tense.
Every patched member is present, seated around the table with expressions ranging from worried to furious.
The room still smells faintly of the cops' boots, a reminder of the violation we all endured.
I stand at the head of the table and wait for silence.
"You all know what happened today," I begin. "Varro's not backing off. If anything, he's escalating. We need to be prepared for more of the same."
"For how long?" Stark's voice is tight with frustration. "How long are we supposed to just sit here and take this?"
"As long as it takes."
"That's bullshit." He's on his feet now, hands braced on the table. "We've got a target on our backs because of?—"
He stops. But everyone knows what he was about to say.
Because of her.
"Finish that sentence." My voice drops to something cold and dangerous. "Go ahead, Stark. Say what you're thinking."
The room goes very still.
Stark's jaw works.
I can see him weighing the options—back down and look weak, or push forward and face whatever consequences come.
He's angry, but he's not stupid.
He knows what challenging me directly could cost him.
"I'm just saying," he says finally, his voice more controlled, "that we wouldn't be in this situation if Cain was still around. If things had been handled... differently."
"Differently." I let the word hang in the air. "You mean if I'd looked the other way while he beat his woman half to death. If I'd let him keep wearing our patch while he violated everything this club is supposed to stand for."
"I'm not saying what he did was right?—"
"Then what are you saying?"
Stark opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn't have an answer. None of them do.
"Let me make somethingveryclear." I look around the table, meeting every eye. "Cain Varro was a cancer in this club. He enjoyed hurting people—not because it was necessary, but because he got off on it. He would have brought us down eventually, one way or another. I just accelerated the timeline."
