Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
BLADE
Church is packed. Every officer is at the table, the room heavy with smoke and intent, the kind that settles into your lungs and doesn’t leave. No one’s relaxed. No one’s leaning back. This isn’t the kind of meeting where people talk just to hear themselves or posture for the sake of it.
This is business.
Mason stands at the head of the table, hands flat on the wood, shoulders squared, eyes steady as he scans the room one last time before he speaks.
“We’re going to go over exactly what happened at the docks,” he says.
No anger. No heat. Just control.
He nods at Ghost. “Start.”
Ghost lays it out clean and methodical, no wasted words.
Arrival times. Vehicle placements. Russian presence.
Cartel presence. How the meet was already in motion before any Iron Reapers ever entered the picture.
No speculation, just facts, laid bare like a map you can’t unsee once it’s in front of you.
When Ghost finishes, Mason lifts his head slowly.
“They didn’t know the Iron Reapers were watching that exchange,” he says. “They didn’t expect us to be there.”
He pauses, eyes steady, letting that land.
“The meet itself was already over,” Mason continues. “Product changed hands. Money moved. Everyone was walking away clean.”
The room goes silent, the kind of quiet that feels deliberate.
“What happened next,” Mason says evenly, “happened because Blade saw Bri.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t look away. I don’t flinch.
“There was no trap,” Mason goes on. “No ambush meant for us. Blade reacted, and I don’t blame him.” His gaze flicks to me for half a second, then returns to the table. “Any man in this room would’ve done the same.”
A few heads nod. No argument. No hesitation.
“But once shots were fired,” Mason says, “there was no pulling it back.”
Ghost adds, “All confirmed kills were Russian. None escaped the docks.”
“Which tells us something important,” Mason says. “They weren’t expecting resistance, and they weren’t prepared for Iron Reapers muscle.”
He folds his arms. “We left a message.”
Dagger’s mouth curls slightly. “One they’re going to hear loud and clear.”
Mason nods once. “They took one of ours. They thought they could move in the shadows. Now they know better.”
The room stays quiet, heavy with understanding. Not shock. Not fear. Recognition.
Dagger leans forward slightly. “Alexei.”
Mason nods. “Alexei Morozov.”
The name hits the room with weight, familiar now in the worst way.
“Morozov was close to the top,” Mason says. “High enough to run operations, oversee logistics, and make executive calls. But he wasn’t the man in charge.”
Ghost switches the screen, pulling up files layered with connections and timestamps. “Morozov answered directly to one source. Same source tied to the financial restructuring we saw two years ago.”
Riot adds, “When we cut ties with the Russians over the gun pipeline, that didn’t end anything. It just forced them underground.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “They didn’t retaliate. They reorganized.”
He looks around the table, meeting eyes one by one. “Morozov wasn’t a loose end. He was a trusted lieutenant. A planner. A handler.”
My fists clench under the table.
“And his death,” Mason continues calmly, “is going to cause ripples.”
Ghost nods. “Already is. Cartel’s scrambling. Russian channels went dark within the hour.”
“That’s not panic,” Mason says. “That’s damage control.”
Dagger exhales slowly. “Meaning Morozov mattered.”
“Meaning he was valuable,” Mason agrees. “But replaceable.”
Silence stretches again, thick and electric.
Then Mason turns his attention fully back to the room.
“Perdition wasn’t random,” he says. “The clubhouse bombing wasn’t a coincidence. And Bri being taken wasn’t collateral.”
His eyes flick briefly toward me before locking forward again, sharper now.
“That was a separate operation,” Mason continues. “Planned. Controlled. Designed to destabilize us.”
Rev mutters a curse under his breath, low and venomous.
“They wanted us distracted,” Mason says. “They wanted fear. Division. Internal pressure.”
He shifts his weight slightly, eyes moving around the table, making sure every officer is locked in and listening.
“The docks weren’t supposed to be a war,” he continues. “That meet was business. Clean. Quiet. Over. They never intended to draw Iron Reapers there.”
Tank’s jaw tightens. “So now they’ve got one.”
Mason nods once. “Now they do.”
Ghost taps a key, and the screen changes.
A name appears.
A face.
“This is who’s been pulling the strings,” Mason says. “From the start.”
The room leans in without anyone realizing they moved.
“Sergei Volkov,” Mason continues. “Russian. Old money. Old power. He doesn’t run product himself. He runs people who run product. Alexei Morozov answered directly to him.”
My hands curl into fists.
“For two years,” Mason says, “Volkov has been dismantling us quietly. Funding pressure. Weaponizing rivals. Backing the hits on Perdition. Ordering the clubhouse bombing. And greenlighting Bri’s abduction.”
Silence slams down hard, heavier than before.
“There will be fallout,” Mason goes on calmly. “Volkov isn’t some street-level problem. When he falls, it’s going to shake a lot of structures.”
He looks around the table. “That’s on him.”
Dagger’s voice is low. “Because he started it.”
“Exactly,” Mason says. “He thought he could bleed us slow and we’d never know who was holding the knife.”
Mason turns to Ghost and Riot. “You two are full priority intel. I want everything. Properties. Shell companies. Financial routes. Safe houses. Lieutenants. Security rotations. If Volkov ever signed a check or shook a hand, I want it on my table.”
Ghost nods once. Riot’s already typing, eyes sharp and focused.
“We don’t rush this,” Mason says. “We don’t retaliate blind. And we don’t make noise just to make ourselves feel better.”
He pauses, letting the weight of it settle into the room, into every man sitting there.
“They started this believing they could dismantle the Iron Reapers piece by piece,” Mason finishes. “They were wrong.”
His voice drops, cold and final.
“We finish wars.”
No one speaks. No one has to. Because every man in the room already knows what comes next, and not a single one of us intends to back away from it.
Mason ends church with a sharp rap of his knuckles on the table.
“That’s it,” he says. “You all know your lanes. Get to work.”
Chairs scrape back. Boots hit concrete. The room breaks apart into low voices and movement, the kind that means things are already in motion. Plans forming. Calls being made. Pieces sliding into place.
“Blade,” Mason adds.
I pause.
“Office.”
I nod once and follow him down the hall, the noise of the clubhouse fading behind us. His office door closes with a solid click, sealing us into something quieter and heavier.
He doesn’t sit right away. Neither do I.
Mason leans back against his desk, arms crossed, eyes studying me in that way he has when he’s not talking as president but as someone who actually gives a damn.
“How’s Bri doing?” he asks.
The question hits harder than anything he said in church.
I exhale slowly. “She’s home,” I say. “That’s something.”
Mason nods. “And?”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “She sleeps in short stretches. Wakes up disoriented. Sometimes she looks around like she’s expecting locked doors.” My jaw tightens. “She’s not broken, but she’s not okay either.”
Mason listens without interrupting.
“She throws up most mornings,” I add quietly. “Tries to play it off like it’s nothing.”
His gaze sharpens. “Doctor?”
“Not yet,” I say. “She asked for time. Needed to feel normal first. Shower. Her clothes. Her space.” I pause. “She’s scared, Mason. Not just from what they did to her. From what comes next.”
Mason straightens slightly. “And you?”
I don’t hesitate. “I’m not leaving her side.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. Approval.
“Good,” he says. “Because whatever Volkov does next, it won’t be quiet.”
I nod. “I know.”
Mason studies me for a long moment. “You did right by her,” he says finally. “At the docks. Bringing her home. Holding it together after.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I didn’t hold it together. I just didn’t fall apart where anyone could see.”
Mason’s voice softens just a fraction. “That’s usually how it works.”
Silence settles between us, not awkward. Just heavy.
“She’s Iron Reaper family. Your old lady,” Mason says. “Which means whatever she needs, she gets. Protection. Space. Time.”
My chest tightens. “Thank you.”
He pushes off the desk. “You focus on her. Ghost and Riot will bring us what we need on Volkov. When it’s time, I’ll tell you.”
I nod. “I’ll be ready.”
“I know,” Mason says. He opens the door, ending the moment as cleanly as he started it. And all I can think about as I walk back down the hall is getting back to her.