Page 98 of Property of the Bikers

Reeve speaks from my left. “She proved loyalty under siege,” he says. “She had five weeks of opportunity to compromise our operations and didn’t. She had exit routes she’d mapped herself and didn’t use them. She participated in a hospital operation that put her and her baby at direct risk because the club needed her to.” He pauses. “That meets the standard.”

The room sits with that.

Ghost unfolds his arms. “She stayed when she could’ve run,” he says. “That’s club.”

Those words from the man whose opinion carries the most weight in this room outside of mine, and the atmosphere shifts in the specific way atmospheres shift when Ghost speaks and means it.

“Vote,” I say.

The hands go up.

I count them the way I always count them, not just the number but the quality of each one, who moves fast and who moves slow and who waits to see the count before committing.

Twelve clear yes votes in the first three seconds.

Then three more, slower.

I look at the no votes.

Holloway’s hand stays flat on the table. He looks at me when I see it, and I hold his eyes. We understand each other, which is that he’s voting his conscience, and I’m noting it.

Two more hands stay down. Briggs and a newer patch named Walsh, who is still calibrating where his lines are.

Two abstentions. Cutter and Torres, both mid-level patches, both men I’ve been watching since the first protection vote five weeks ago.

The rest of the table is yes. The majority is clear.

“Passed,” I say.

I bring the gavel down once.

The room breaks into the particular noise of men who have just voted on something significant and are now processing it at different speeds. Some of them look at Mira. Some of them look at the table. The prospects along the wall exchange glances that I file for later.

Maya comes through the side door, the vest adjustment already done, and goes to Mira at the back of the room. She says something I can’t hear. Mira nods. Maya straightens the vest on her shoulders with the brisk efficiency of a woman who has done this before and considers it done.

Mira looks at the room. She doesn’t perform anything. Doesn’t smile broadly or look grateful or make any gesture that asks the room for approval. She just stands there in the vest with her chin up and her hands loose and her eight-and-a-half-month pregnancy visible above the property patch, and the men who voted yes see someone who has earned the right to stand in this room, and the men who voted no see the same person and have different feelings about it.

Holloway is looking at the table, jaw working slightly, running something through his head. He looks up when he feels me looking, and we hold eyes for a moment. He nods once, small and flat.

He voted no and the vote passed and he’ll operate inside the result because that’s what patched members do when church makes a decision.

That’s enough for now.

Later, I’ll sit with him privately. Not to argue or convince. Just to hear what he needs to say and say what needs saying back. Holloway is a good patch and a good man, and his objection was principled, and I’ll treat it that way.

Maya says something to Mira, and Mira says something back. Maya hugs her, brief and practical, the hug of a woman who means it and doesn’t need to extend it to prove she means it.

“Welcome to the family,” Maya says, loud enough that I can hear it. “Officially. Ignore the holdouts. They’ll come around, or they’ll leave. Either way it’s handled.”

She releases Mira and goes back through the side door.

The club disperses in clusters. A few men stop to say something to Mira on their way out, brief exchanges, the kind that don’t require response beyond a nod. Ghost comes past me on his way to the door and doesn’t say anything, which is his version of everything’s fine.

Reeve appears at my shoulder.

Jax comes around from the far end of the table.

The three of us stand at the head of the table and look at the room clearing.