Chapter 4
Leviathan
Church is silent.
Twelve men sit around the table, their eyes on me.
Some are curious. Some are wary. A few look pissed.
They've heard the rumors by now—word travels fast in a club this size—but rumors aren't the same as confirmation.
They're waiting for me to explain.
I don't owe them an explanation. I'm the President. My word is law.
But Salvo taught me that leadership isn't just about giving orders. It's about making men understand why they should follow them.
I stand at the head of the table, hands flat on the worn wood, and meet their eyes one by one.
Zenon on my right, steady as always.
Sipher looking thoughtful.
Behemoth unreadable.
Klutch leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.
The others—Cleric, Lazarus, Enigma, Stark, Death, Halcyon—watching and waiting.
"You've heard by now," I say. My voice is calm. Measured. "Yesterday, I stripped Cain's patch."
Murmurs ripple through the room. I let them settle before continuing.
"I didn't bring it to church. Didn't call a vote. I saw what I saw, and I acted." I pause, letting the weight of that sink in. "I know that's not how it's supposed to work."
Klutch shifts in his seat. "Prez, with all due respect—"
"Let me finish."
He closes his mouth.
"I was in the parking lot last night. Stepped out for a smoke.
And I saw our Enforcer with his hands around his woman's throat.
" I keep my voice flat, but something dark moves beneath the words.
"Her feet were barely touching the ground.
She couldn't breathe. And when she looked at me, I saw fear like I haven't seen since the war. "
The room goes very still.
"We've got rules," I continue. "Protocol. Chain of command. I respect that. I built my leadership on that. But we've also got a code, and the code says we don't hurt women. Not our women. Not anyone's women. That's not who we are."
I look around the table, making sure every man feels the weight of my gaze.
"Cain violated that code. He violated it in my parking lot, in front of my eyes, and he didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. He laughed it off. Told me women get emotional. Like choking the life out of someone is what you do on a random night."
Silence.
"So yeah, I stripped his patch without a vote. I should've brought it to the table. I didn't." I straighten, squaring my shoulders. "You want to challenge me on it, now's the time."
No one moves.
Zenon catches my eye and gives an almost imperceptible nod.
He's got my back. He always has.
After a long moment, Sipher clears his throat. "For what it's worth, Prez, I never liked that bastard. Always thought there was something off about him."
"Agreed," Behemoth rumbles. His voice is low, gravelly—a sound like stones grinding together. "He enjoyed the work too much. The hurting."
A few others nod. The tension in the room shifts, loosens. They're not happy about the breach in protocol, but they understand. Or at least they're willing to accept it.
"What happens now?" Enigma asks. "Cain's not gonna take this lying down. He's got a temper."
"Let him have a temper." I keep my voice cold. "He comes near this clubhouse, he'll regret it. He's out. Done. Anyone has contact with him, I want to know about it."
Nods around the table.
"One more thing." I pause, choosing my next words carefully. "We need a new Enforcer. Behemoth, you're up."
Behemoth's expression doesn't change, but I see something flicker in his eyes. Acknowledgment. Maybe even pride. "I won't let you down, Prez."
"I know you won't."
I bang my fist on the table—the signal that church is over.
Chairs scrape back as men rise, conversations starting in low murmurs.
I stay where I am, watching them file out, waiting until only Zenon remains.
He doesn't say anything at first, just leans back in his chair, studying me with those sharp eyes that see too much.
"That was a hell of a speech," he says finally.
"It was the truth."
"I know it was." He tilts his head. "You want to tell me what's really going on?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I've known you for fifteen years, Levi. I've seen you make hard calls. Cold calls. Calls that would keep most men up at night. And you've never once acted on impulse." He pauses. "Until now."
I don't have an answer for him, don't have an answer for myself.
"She's just a woman," I say. The words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"She's his woman. Was his woman." Zenon's gaze is steady. "And you went off-book for her. Broke your own rules. That's not nothing, brother."
"It was the right thing to do."
"Maybe. But since when do you give a shit about the right thing?" He holds up a hand before I can respond. "I'm not criticizing. I'm just... observing. Whatever you saw in that parking lot, it got under your skin. And that's not like you."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
I keep seeing her eyes. Brown and terrified and empty.
I keep feeling that cold rage that rose up in my chest when I watched Cain's fingers dig into her throat.
I keep hearing myself say her name—Ripley—softer than I meant to, like the word mattered.
It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter. She's nobody to me.
But I can't stop thinking about her.
"Just keep an eye on things," I tell Zenon, pushing away from the table. "Cain's going to be a problem. I can feel it."
"And if he comes back looking for trouble?"
I pause at the door, looking back over my shoulder. "Then we give him more than he can handle."
A week passes.
Cain doesn't show his face at the clubhouse—smart move, considering I made it clear what would happen if he did, but I hear things.
Rumors. Whispers.
He's been making the rounds at local bars, running his mouth about how he got screwed over.
Trying to drum up sympathy, maybe even allies.
Let him talk. Talk is cheap.
I focus on the club.
On the business.
On the dozen fires that always need putting out.
The shipment Zenon rerouted comes through clean.
Steel Kittens' numbers start to tick back up after I have a pointed conversation with the manager.
Klutch handles the situation with the Italians, smooth as always.
Life goes on. The club keeps turning.
Cain becomes a footnote, a cautionary tale, a reminder of what happens when you cross the line.
I tell myself I've forgotten about her.
I'm lying.
Every night, when I close my eyes, I see her face.
The terror. The resignation. The way she looked at me like I was the first person to see her in years.
It's driving me crazy. I don't do this. Don't obsess over women. Don't lose sleep over some random female who isn't even mine.
I've got clubwhores willing to warm my bed any night of the week, and I haven't touched any of them since that night in the parking lot.
Because none of them have brown eyes that haunt my dreams.
I need to get a grip. Need to focus. Need to remember who I am and what I'm responsible for.
I'm in my office, staring at spreadsheets without really seeing them, when I hear the commotion.
Voices in the main room. Raised, alarmed. Someone shouting for me.
I'm on my feet before I make the conscious decision to move, striding out of the office, every sense on high alert.
My hand goes to the gun at my hip—instinct, drilled into me by years of combat and club life.
What I see stops me cold.
Ripley.
She's standing just inside the doorway, swaying on her feet like a strong wind might knock her over.
Tawny's got an arm around her, trying to hold her upright.
Paige is hovering nearby, her face pale.
But I barely notice them. All I can see is Ripley.
Her face is a mess.
Bloody nose, the blood still dripping down her chin.
Black eye, the left one, already swelling shut.
Split lip, crusted with dried blood.
Bruises on her cheekbones, her jaw, her throat—Christ, her throat is a mottled map of purple and yellow, layered bruises that tell me this wasn't the first time. Just the worst.
She's shaking. Full-body tremors that she can't control.
Her arms are wrapped around her midsection like she's trying to hold herself together, and her one good eye is darting around the room, looking for threats.
When that eye lands on me, she stops shaking.
"He said—" Her voice cracks. She swallows, tries again. "He said I had to pay. For what I did. For what happened to him."
The rage hits me so fast I can't breathe.
It's not the cold, controlled anger I'm used to.
Not the calculated fury that lets me make hard decisions without flinching.
This is something else. Something primal. Something that wants to tear Cain apart with my bare hands and watch him bleed.
I cross the room in three strides.
The crowd parts for me—brothers, clubwhores, hang arounds, all stepping back like they can feel the rage radiating off me.
"Get her cleaned up," I bark at Tawny. "Water. First aid kit. Now."
Tawny nods, already moving. Paige follows.
But Ripley doesn't move.
She's staring at me with that one good eye, and I realize she's waiting.
Waiting for me to tell her this was her fault.
Waiting for me to turn her away.
Waiting for confirmation of everything that bastard told her about herself.
I crouch down in front of her, putting myself at her eye level.
Up close, the damage is even worse.
I can see the individual marks of his knuckles on her cheekbone.
Can see the way her lip split right down the middle.
Can see the fear in her eye warring with something else.
Hope.
She's hoping I won't send her away.
Hoping I'll help.
And that hope—fragile, desperate, barely alive—does something to me that I don't understand.
I reach out slowly, giving her time to flinch away.
She doesn't.
My fingers find her chin, tilting her face up so I can assess the damage.
Her skin is cold. Clammy. She's going into shock.
"You're safe now," I tell her. My voice comes out rough, raw in a way I didn't intend. "You hear me? You're safe."
"I didn't know where else to go." Her words are slurred, her split lip making it hard to talk. "I thought maybe—I didn't—"
"You came to the right place."