Early the next morning, the adrenaline of the interrogation and torture finally wearing off, Rip and I are in the office, the morning sun trying to pierce through the thick curtains. We’re lounged back in our chairs with a tumbler of whiskey in hand,the amber liquid the only thing keeping the exhaustion at bay. My mind is a whirlwind of the confession we extracted in the catacombs, connecting the dots of a conspiracy that stretches far beyond the borders of Canton. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” I ask, my voice sounding rough and world-weary in the quiet room.
“Fuck if I know,” Riptide mumbles, swigging the last of his drink and staring at the scarred mahogany of his desk. He looks as ragged as I feel, the weight of the club’s future sitting heavy on his shoulders. “It’s plausible even if it’s a shock. Jerome has always been a crazy motherfucker, but the scale of what Patrick described... it’s a whole different level of filth.” He sets his glass down with a final, resonant thud and fixes me with a level stare. “If even half of what that weasel spat out is true, we’re not just looking at a gang war anymore. We’re looking at a systematic dismantling of everything we’ve ever known about our enemies.”
I lean forward, the ice in my glass clinking against the sides as I try to process the enormity of the corruption Patrick detailed. The Dragons weren't just a local gang playing at being outlaws, they were a cog in a much larger, more sophisticated machine. The implications of their ties to the Dallas syndicate were bad enough, but the mention of high-ranking officials and logistics that reached deep into state resources has my skin crawling.
“This won’t be over with the takedown of Jerome like we thought it would,” I state, my jaw tightening as the full picture begins to form. “We knew they were into skin trade, we knew they were in bed with the syndicate, but the fact that this goes up to military level, Rip, that’s an entirely different ballgame.” We were prepared for a fight in the streets, for leather and chrome against whatever muscle Jerome could buy, but we weren't prepared to face a network that could disappear a person usingofficial channels or move contraband with tactical precision. The war hasn’t ended with Patrick's capture, it’s just evolved into something far more dangerous.
“An admiral and a general, it sounds like the beginning line of a bad bar joke,” Riptide muses, his voice hollow as he stares at the wall. He looks as if he’s trying to find a target he can actually hit in this mess, but there are no targets here—only shadows and official titles.
I stand from my seat and stop by the window, looking out at the compound. The realization of what we’re up against hits me like a physical blow to my solar plexus. “This is bigger than what we can handle, Rip.”
“I know,” he whispers, his voice sounding hollow as he stares at the empty whiskey glass in his hand. The weight of leadership has never looked heavier on him than it does in the morning light. “I need to catch a few hours of sleep then start making some calls. We have connections, Slayer. Markers from people we need to start cashing in.” I watch him rub his face, the exhaustion etched into every line of his skin. He’s talking about the kind of allies who operate in the gray areas between the law and the life we lead, people who can reach the untouchables Patrick just named.
“We can’t accomplish anything right now anyway,” I say, sighing as I watch the prospects start their morning rounds in the courtyard. “This could take years, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be constantly watching over my shoulder.” Taking out Jerome was supposed to be the end of the chapter, but according to that piece of shit in the catacombs, it’s just the introduction to a much darker story.
Riptide looks me dead in the eye, his gaze hardening with a resolve that I haven’t seen since the war began. “Get your black book out of the lockbox, Slayer. It’s time we dig deep and pull out the big guns.”
“We go down that road and the world around us is going to burn,” I remind him.
“Then let it burn, Slayer. I’ll bring the graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows.”
The men we’re about to summon from the pits of hell are not individuals to be trifled with. They operate in the gray spaces where names are irrelevant and identities are unnecessary, nobody truly knows who they are, but their reputation is undisputed. They are the only ones capable of reaching theuntouchablesPatrick named, the high-ranking officials shielded by titles and bureaucracy. By letting these specters be the ones to get their hands dirty, we insulate the club from the fallout. We won’t be the ones pulling the triggers in the halls of power, and we won’t be directly complicit in the systematic executions that are about to take place. We’re just the ones opening the cage and letting the monsters out to hunt the predators who thought they were safe.
As I head home, I do so with my head held high and my shoulders weightless. I don’t feel an ounce of guilt for what we’re about to do. We’re about to unleash the kraken on men who think they’re invincible, all while ensuring that our families are safe from the fallout. If we did this, we’d all be at risk, as would any of the brothers we could call on to help. This way, our hands are clean in a manner of speaking, and we can keep on living our livesourway. We definitely live the ‘nobody fucks with the Kings’motto; this time we’re going to use some very unlikely allies to ensure that fact.
EPILOGUE
Jersey
While the menwere taking out Patrick, the women and I came up with an idea that will make things feel normal. One we’re putting into play now. We’re going to host a gender reveal party for Boston and Carolina. They’ve spent so much of their lives being managed and monitored, giving them a celebration that’s purely about their future as parents feels like reclaiming a piece of the humanity the facility tried to strip away.
Letti and Van are already diving into the logistics, their eyes sparkling with a mission that doesn’t involve safe rooms or tactical gear. We’re planning decorations, music, and of course, a reveal that’ll have Carolina squealing and Boston beaming with that wide, unfiltered grin of his.
In a place defined by anarchy and the constant hum of an impending war, this party is our way of drawing a line in the sand.
We’re choosing life and family over the shadows the world is trying to cast over us.
Watching Carolina meticulously organize her scrapbooks for the baby, I realize this isn't just a party for them, it's a reminder for all of us that even in the middle of a shitstorm, there’s still beauty worth fighting for.
As Britton and I watch on in wonder at the way these women work like a well-oiled machine and have everything planned within hours instead of days, I realize that this is what true sisterhood looks like.
They aren’t just checking off a list of party supplies—they’re building a foundation of joy for two people who have known far too much sterile coldness. Every streamer they discuss and every detail about the cake feels like a brick being laid in a fortress of normalcy.
Britton nudges me with her shoulder, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watches Letti debate the merits of blue versus pink glitter with Van. “They’re incredible, aren't they?” she whispers. “In a world that wants to tear everything down, they’re experts at building things up.” I nod, feeling a lump form in my throat.
I’ve spent my life hiding in the cracks, but these women, my sisters, are showing me how to stand in the light. They’re teaching Boston and Carolina that they don’t just have a place to stay, they have a family that celebrates their existence.
We spend the rest of the afternoon lost in the whirlwind of planning. We decide on a backyard barbecue theme, something relaxed and easy that won’t overstimulate the kids but still feels special. Carolina joins us halfway through, her eyes widening as we show her the mood board we’ve started. When she sees the tiny baby shoes we’re planning to use for the reveal, she lets out a breathy gasp, her fingers tentatively reaching out to touch the soft fabric.
“This is for our baby?” Carolina asks, her voice dropping to a whisper that is thick with awe. She looks at us as if she’s seeing a miracle take shape in real-time, the reality of her impending motherhood finally beginning to take root.
“And for you,” I say, my own heart swelling with a fierce, protective warmth. I reach out, wrapping my arm firmly across her shoulder and pulling her into my side, wanting her to feel the solidity of this moment.
As she lays her head on my shoulder and weeps, the tears a release for years of being managed instead of loved, Slayer comes up behind me. His presence is a grounding heat, a silent promise kept. Boston mimics his brother, standing behind Carolina with that same unyielding devotion. As if they practiced it, they wrap their arms around our waists at the same time and pull us back against their chests. I close my eyes, leaning into Slayer’s strength, realizing that while the world outside is preparing for fire and blood, here in this circle, we have already won.
“Love you, Jersey girl,” he mumbles in my ear, his gravelly voice vibrating through my core.
“Love you too, my mighty Slayer,” I whisper back.
