Chapter 2
Leviathan
Numbers don't lie.
I stare at the spreadsheet on my laptop, the glow of the screen harsh in the dim office.
Steel Kittens pulled in twelve percent less than last month.
That's the third dip in a row.
Could be seasonal—winter's always slower—but my gut says otherwise.
Someone's skimming, or the girls aren't pushing drinks hard enough, or management's gotten lazy.
I make a note to have Klutch run an audit.
If someone's stealing from the club, I'll find them, and they won't enjoy what happens next.
A knock on the door. I don't look up.
"It's open."
Zenon steps inside, dropping into the chair across from my desk like he owns the place.
In a way, he does. We built this together—him and me, from the ground up. Prospected together under Salvo, earned our patches together, bled for this club together.
He's the only person in this world I trust without question.
"You look like shit," he says by way of greeting.
"Fuck off."
He grins, unrepentant. "Klutch wants to talk to you about the protection run next week. Says the Italians are getting twitchy about the route."
"They're always twitchy. Tell him to handle it."
"Told him you'd say that." Zenon stretches his legs out, crossing his boots at the ankle. "He's also asking about the new shipment. Wants to know if we're moving it through the usual channels or switching things up."
I close the laptop, finally giving him my full attention. "What do you think?"
"I think the usual channels have been too usual lately. Cops have been sniffing around the south side. Might be time to reroute."
I nod.
This is why Zenon's my VP.
He sees things. Anticipates problems before they become problems.
Some of the brothers think he's too cautious, too careful.
They're wrong.
Careful is how you stay out of prison and stay alive.
"Talk to Lazarus," I say. "Have him scout alternative routes. I want options by Friday."
"Done." Zenon doesn't move, though. He's watching me with that look—the one that says he's got something else on his mind. "You coming out tonight? Brothers are getting restless. Been a while since you showed your face at a party."
"I show my face plenty."
"You show up, drink one beer, and disappear into your office. That's not the same thing." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, I get it. You've got shit to handle. But morale matters, Levi. The guys need to see their Prez isn't a fucking robot."
I want to argue.
I don't have time for parties, for bullshit small talk, for watching brothers get drunk and handsy with the clubwhores.
I've got a business to run. An empire to protect.
But Zenon's not wrong.
Leadership isn't just about making the hard calls.
It's about presence. Connection. Making men feel like they're part of something bigger than themselves.
Salvo taught me that.
"Fine," I say. "One hour."
"Two."
"Don't push it."
He grins again, standing. "Wouldn't dream of it, Prez."
The clubhouse is loud.
Music pounds from the speakers—some rock song I don't recognize—and the main room is packed with bodies.
Brothers in their cuts, clubwhores in too-tight dresses, hang arounds trying to look like they belong.
Smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the smell of whiskey and perfume and sweat.
I stand near the bar, nursing a beer I don't really want, watching.
That's what I do. I watch. I observe. I take note of who's talking to whom, who's drinking too much, who's got tension in their shoulders that wasn't there last week.
Information is currency. The more I have, the better I can protect what's mine.
Sipher's at the pool table, running the game like he always does.
Behemoth's in the corner, quiet and watchful—good man, solid, doesn't talk unless he's got something worth saying.
Stark and Death are at a table, arguing about something, probably football.
Halcyon's chatting up a blonde I don't recognize.
Normal night. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then Cain walks in.
He's got his arm around a woman—his woman, the one he's been parading around for the past few years.
Ripley, I think her name is.
I've seen her at gatherings before, always at his side, always quiet.
Pretty, in a soft way.
Curves that her dress can't hide.
Brown hair, brown eyes, the kind of face that would be forgettable if it weren't for the way she holds herself.
Like she's trying to disappear.
I notice things. It's my job to notice things.
And I've noticed, over the past year or so, that something about Cain's woman isn't right.
She smiles, but it never reaches her eyes.
She laughs at his jokes a beat too late, like she's performing rather than reacting.
She flinches when he moves too fast.
Small things. Things most people wouldn't see.
I see them.
Cain steers her toward the bar, his hand on the small of her back.
No—lower. Possessive.
His fingers dig into her hip, and I watch her face go carefully blank.
She's good at that. Hiding. Pretending.
I know something about hiding, too.
"Prez." Cain nods at me, all false respect and easy charm. He's good at the charm. It's what makes him effective as an Enforcer. People underestimate him, see the smile and the swagger, and don't realize the violence lurking underneath until it's too late.
I used to think that violence was an asset. Now I'm not so sure.
"Cain." I nod back, keeping my voice neutral. My eyes flick to the woman beside him. "Ripley."
She looks up, startled—like she didn't expect me to know her name.
For a moment, our eyes meet.
Hers are brown, like I remembered, but there's something in them I didn't notice before.
Something dull. Flat. Empty.
"Hi," she says softly. Then she looks away, like even that single word cost her something.
Cain's hand tightens on her hip.
I see it.
The way his fingers press harder, a warning she's learned to read.
She shifts closer to him, making herself smaller, and something in my chest tightens.
Not my business.
She's his ol' lady.
His property, as far as the club's concerned.
What happens between them is their affair.
I've got enough problems without borrowing trouble from a brother's relationship.
I turn away, take a long drink of my beer, and push the tightness down where it belongs.
The party wears on.
I do my duty—shake hands, slap backs, listen to brothers bitch about their problems.
Klutch wants more money for security upgrades.
Enigma's got concerns about a new dealer moving product in our territory.
Cleric's worried about one of the girls at Steel Kittens who's been showing up with bruises she won't explain.
I file it all away, make mental notes, promise to follow up.
This is the job.
Not the violence, not the money, not the power—but this.
Being the man everyone brings their problems to.
Being the one who has to find solutions.
Salvo made it look easy.
It's not.
I think about him sometimes—the man who saved my life.
Sergeant First Class Michael "Salvo" Webster. We served together overseas, back when I was young and stupid and thought I was invincible.
He was the one who taught me that strength isn't about how hard you can hit.
It's about knowing when to hit and when to hold back.
When I came home broken—medical discharge, a head full of nightmares, no idea how to be a civilian—Salvo was there.
He was already the head of this charter by then, already built something from nothing.
He saw me drowning and threw me a rope.
"You've got a choice," he told me. "You can let this destroy you, or you can let it make you stronger. But you've got to choose."
I chose.
I prospected alongside Zenon, did the grunt work, proved myself.
Earned my patch. Worked my way up from nothing to something.
When Salvo stepped down, he handed me the gavel and told me not to fuck it up.
I haven't. At least not yet.
But some days, the weight of it presses down so hard I can barely breathe.
Around midnight, I step outside for air.
The parking lot is quiet, the noise of the party muffled by the closed doors.
I lean against the brick wall, pull out a cigarette, light it.
The smoke burns my lungs in a way that feels almost good. Familiar.
I should quit.
Zenon's been on my ass about it for years, but everyone needs a vice, and this one's less destructive than most.
I'm halfway through the cigarette when I hear voices.
Low. Tense. Coming from the far end of the lot, near the row of bikes.
I don't move. Don't react. Just tilt my head slightly, letting the shadows hide me while I listen.
"—told you to smile." A man's voice. Cain. "That's all I fuckin’ asked. Smile, be friendly, don't embarrass me in front of my brothers."
"I did smile." A woman's voice. Ripley. Quiet. Scared. "I was trying—"
"You were trying? That's your excuse?" A harsh laugh. "You were standing there like a fuckin’ statue. Everyone could see it. Everyone was looking at you and thinking what the hell is wrong with Cain's woman?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"You never mean anything, do you? You never fuckin’ mean it."
I move without thinking, stepping away from the wall, walking toward the sound of their voices.
I tell myself it's just curiosity. Just making sure there's no trouble in my parking lot.
I'm lying to myself.
I round the corner and stop.
Cain has her pinned against his bike, his hand wrapped around her throat.
Her feet are barely touching the ground.
Her hands are clawing at his wrist—not fighting, not really, just scrabbling uselessly—and her face is turning red from the pressure.
Her eyes find mine.
Terror. Pure, animal terror. And underneath it, something worse.
Resignation.
Like this is normal. Like this is just another night.
Something in me snaps.
I don't know what it is. I don't understand it.
I've seen violence before and it's never affected me like this.
But looking at her, at the fear in her eyes, at the way she's stopped fighting because she knows it won't help—
I want to kill him.
The thought is cold and clear and absolute.
I want to wrap my hands around Cain's throat the way he's got his hands around hers.
I want to watch the life drain out of his eyes.
I want to make him feel every ounce of fear he's put into her.
I don't.
Instead, I step forward, making my presence known.
My boots crunch on the gravel, deliberately loud.
Cain's head snaps toward me.
For a split second, I see something flicker across his face—surprise, maybe, or fear.
Then it's gone, replaced by that easy charm, that practiced smile.
He releases her.
Ripley stumbles, catches herself on the bike, gasps for air.
Her hand goes to her throat, pressing against the skin like she's checking to make sure she's still alive.
"Prez." Cain's voice is smooth. Casual. Like I didn't just catch him choking the life out of his woman. "Didn't see you there."
I don't respond.
I just look at him.
Let the silence stretch.
Let him feel the weight of my gaze.
He shifts, uncomfortable. Good.
"Just a disagreement," he says, spreading his hands like it's nothing. "You know how women get. Emotional. Irrational. Sometimes you gotta remind them who's in charge." He laughs, like we're sharing a joke. Like I'm supposed to understand.
I don't laugh.
My eyes move to Ripley.
She's standing very still, arms wrapped around herself, head bowed.
She won't look at me. Her whole body is trembling.
"Go inside," I tell her. My voice comes out flat. Emotionless. The voice I use when I'm giving orders I expect to be obeyed.
She doesn't move, doesn't even seem to hear me.
"Ripley." Softer this time. Something I didn't intend creeping into my tone. "Go inside. Now."
She looks up then.
Meets my eyes for just a moment.
I don't know what she sees in my face, but whatever it is makes her nod.
She moves past Cain—giving him a wide berth, like he's a wild animal that might strike—and hurries toward the clubhouse door.
I watch her go.
When the door closes behind her, I turn back to Cain.
He's watching me with something wary in his eyes. Smart man. He should be wary. "We got a problem here, Prez?" he asks. Still trying to play it cool. Still trying to pretend everything's fine.
I take a long drag of my cigarette. Blow the smoke out slowly. Let him wait.
"That your ol’ lady?" I ask finally.
"Yeah. Three years now."
"She looks scared."
"Like I said." He shrugs. "Women get emotional. It's nothing."
It's not nothing.
We both know it's not nothing.
But I don't have proof.
I don't have anything except what I saw, and what I saw could be explained away.
Could be dismissed.
Could be buried under excuses and justifications and "it's not what it looked like."
That's how it always works. That's how men like Cain get away with what they do.
"Keep your hands off her throat," I say quietly. "That's not a request."
His eyes flash—anger, resentment, challenge.
For a second, I think he's going to push back.
Going to tell me to mind my own business.
Going to remind me that what he does with his woman is his affair.
He doesn't.
Because underneath the charm and the swagger, Cain's a coward.
And cowards don't challenge men they know can destroy them.
"Sure thing, Prez," he says, and there's a thin edge of mockery in his voice. "Whatever you say."
He walks past me, heading for the clubhouse.
I don't turn to watch him go.
I stay in the parking lot, smoking my cigarette down to the filter, staring at the spot where he had her pinned.
Where her feet barely touched the ground.
Where the terror in her eyes told me everything I needed to know.
I should let it go.
Should file it away as someone else's problem.
Should focus on the dozen other fires I've got burning that need my attention.
I can't.
Her eyes.
Brown and empty and full of fear.
They're burned into my brain, branded there, impossible to forget.
I don't understand what I'm feeling.
This tightness in my chest.
This cold rage simmering beneath my skin.
I've spent years learning to control my emotions, to lock them down, to be the cold and calculated leader this club needs.
One look from a broken woman, and all of that control is cracking.
I crush the cigarette under my boot and head back inside.
I don't look for her. Don't seek her out.
But I'm aware of her—where she's standing, how she's holding herself, the way she flinches every time Cain gets too close.
I watch her for the rest of the night, telling myself it's nothing.
Just observation. Just information.
But when they leave—Cain's arm around her shoulders, her body stiff with tension—I make a decision.
I'm going to find out what's happening behind closed doors. And if it's what I think it is...
Cain's going to learn that there are some lines even an Enforcer doesn't cross.
Not in my club, and damn sure not on my watch.