Chapter 6
Leviathan
I wake up with a woman in my arms.
For a moment, I don't move.
Hell, I don’t even think I fucking breathe.
I lie there in the gray morning light, staring at the ceiling of a room that isn't mine, trying to remember how I got here.
Then it comes back. All of it.
Ripley.
She's curled against my side, her head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin.
One of her hands rests over my heart, fingers splayed like she's checking to make sure it's still beating.
Her face is slack with sleep—peaceful in a way I've never seen her.
The bruises are still there, ugly purple and yellow marks that make my jaw clench, but the tension is gone. The fear is gone.
She looks almost... happy.
I should get up.
Should slip out of this bed, out of this room, and pretend last night never happened.
I'm the President of this club.
I've got responsibilities, obligations, a hundred problems that need my attention.
I don't have time to lie here watching some woman sleep, but I don't move.
Instead, I study her face.
The curve of her cheek.
The way her lashes fan against her skin.
The small scar on her chin that I didn't notice before—probably from Cain, probably from one of a hundred times he put his hands on her.
She's beautiful.
I noticed that before, in an abstract way, the way you notice the weather or the color of the sky.
But this is different. This is personal. This is dangerous.
What the fuck are you doing, Levi?
I don't have an answer.
I've been with plenty of women over the years.
Clubwhores, one-night stands, the occasional girlfriend who never lasted more than a few months.
I learned early on that relationships don't work for men like me.
We're too hard, too closed off, too damaged by the things we've seen and done.
Better to keep things simple.
Physical. No strings, no feelings, no vulnerability.
Last night wasn't simple.
Last night was... I don't even have words for what last night was.
Intense. Raw. Necessary in a way I didn't understand.
She came apart in my arms, and watching her—feeling her—something shifted in my chest.
Something I thought was dead.
I wanted to protect her.
Not just from Cain, not just from the world, but from everything that had ever hurt her.
I wanted to wrap her up and keep her safe and make sure no one ever touched her again.
That's not how I think. That's not who I am.
But with her, I don't seem to have a choice.
Ripley stirs, making a soft sound in her sleep.
Her hand curls tighter against my chest, and she nuzzles closer, seeking warmth.
The movement is so trusting, so unconscious, that something in my throat tightens.
She trusts me.
After everything she's been through, after three years of learning that trust is just another weapon men use against her, she trusts me.
I don't know if I deserve that trust.
Don't know if I'm capable of being what she needs.
I've got blood on my hands—more now than ever—and a war coming that could destroy everything I've built.
But looking at her, feeling her weight against me, I know one thing for certain.
I'm not letting her go.
I slip out of bed an hour later, moving carefully so I don't wake her.
She murmurs something in her sleep, reaches for the warm space I left behind, then settles back into the pillow.
I stand there watching her for longer than I should, then force myself to turn away.
I've got work to do.
I find my clothes scattered across the floor—shirt by the dresser, jeans near the door, cut draped over the chair.
I dress quickly, quietly, and slip out into the hallway.
The clubhouse is quiet this early.
A few brothers passed out on the couches in the common room, empty bottles littering the tables around them.
Someone's snoring loud enough to rattle the windows.
Normal morning after a party.
I head for the kitchen, grab a pot of coffee, and take it back to my office.
The paperwork hasn't gone anywhere.
The problems haven't solved themselves overnight.
The world keeps turning, indifferent to the fact that everything feels different now.
I'm halfway through my second cup when I hear the bikes.
Not our bikes.
The sound is wrong—too clean, too uniform.
I set down my coffee and move to the window, pulling back the blinds just enough to see the parking lot.
Cops.
Three cruisers, lights off but engines running.
And stepping out of the lead car, straightening his uniform jacket like he's about to pose for a photograph, is a man I recognize from news broadcasts and city council meetings.
Chief Douglas Varro.
My jaw tightens. I knew this was coming.
Knew it the moment I decided to put Cain in the ground.
But I thought I'd have more time.
Thought they'd need at least a few days to find the body, to identify it, to trace it back to me.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I watch Varro approach the clubhouse, flanked by two officers.
He walks like a man who owns the world—shoulders back, chin up, that particular swagger that powerful men develop when they've never been told no.
He looks like his son.
Same build, same dark hair, same cruel set to the mouth.
I wonder if he hits women too. If cruelty runs in the blood.
A knock on my office door. Zenon's voice, "Prez. We've got company."
"I see them." I down the rest of my coffee and set the mug aside. "Let them in. But keep the brothers close."
"You sure about this?"
"No. But we don't have a choice."
I hear Zenon's footsteps retreat, hear the front door open, hear voices in the common room.
I take a moment to compose myself—to lock down the emotions, to become the cold, calculating President this situation requires.
Then I walk out to meet the Chief.
Varro is standing in the middle of the main room like he owns the place.
The brothers have gathered—Zenon, Behemoth, Sipher, Klutch, a few others—forming a loose semicircle around him.
Nobody's touching weapons, but the tension is thick enough to cut.
We don't like cops in our house.
We especially don't like cops who show up unannounced with that look in their eyes.
Varro's gaze finds me the moment I enter the room.
His expression doesn't change, but I see something shift behind his eyes.
Recognition. Hatred.
"President Hale." His voice is clipped, professional. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Didn't realize I had a choice." I cross to the bar, pour myself a whiskey even though it's barely nine in the morning. Let him see that I'm not rattled. Let him wonder. "What can I do for you, Chief?"
"I think you know why I'm here."
"Enlighten me."
His jaw tightens.
The professional mask slips, just for a second, revealing the grief and rage underneath. "My son's body was found this morning. In a ditch off Route 28. He'd been beaten. Tortured." His voice cracks on the last word. "Murdered."
I take a sip of whiskey. "That's unfortunate."
"Unfortunate." Varro's hands clench into fists at his sides. "That's all you have to say? Unfortunate?"
"What would you like me to say?"
"I'd like you to admit what you did!" The mask shatters completely.
Varro steps forward, close enough that his officers tense behind him, and jabs a finger at my chest. "I know you killed my boy. I know it was you. He told me you stripped his patch, kicked him out of the club. And now he's dead. You think I'm stupid? You think I can't put two and two together?"
I don't flinch and sure as hell don't back down.
Just meet his eyes with the cold, flat stare I've perfected over years of dealing with men who think they can intimidate me.
"Your son," I say quietly, "beat his girlfriend.
Badly. Repeatedly. For three years, he used her as a punching bag, and she was too afraid to tell anyone.
Then he beat her so badly she could barely walk.
Bloody nose. Black eye. Boot print on her ribs.
She showed up at my door looking like she'd been hit by a truck, and you know what she said? "
Varro's face has gone pale. "That's not—"
"She said he told her she had to pay. For getting him kicked out of the club. For embarrassing him." I set down my whiskey, letting the silence stretch. "Your son was a monster, Chief. And the world is better off without him."
"You murdered him."
"Prove it."
The words hang in the air between us.
Varro's face cycles through a dozen emotions—grief, rage, frustration, hatred—before settling on something cold and determined.
"I don't need to prove it," he says. "Not yet. But I will. And when I do, I'm going to take down your entire club. Every business, every member, every person you care about. I'm going to burn it all to the ground and salt the earth so nothing grows back."
I hold his gaze. "Sounds like a threat."
"It's a promise." He leans closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear. "I know you killed my boy. And I'll make you pay for it if it's the last thing I do."
"Your boy beat women," I reply, just as quietly.
"Think carefully about whether you want to make this public.
Because if you come after me, I'll make sure every news outlet in Pittsburgh knows exactly what kind of man your son was.
Every hospital record, every police report that got buried, every witness who was too scared to talk.
By the time I'm done, the Varro name won't be worth the breath it takes to say it. "
Something flickers in his eyes.
Fear, maybe. Or doubt.
He knows I'm not bluffing.
He knows I have the resources, the connections, the sheer ruthlessness to follow through.
"This isn't over," he says finally.
"No," I agree. "It's not."
He holds my gaze for another long moment.
Then he turns on his heel and stalks out, his officers falling into step behind him.
The front door slams. The engines start. The cruisers pull away, tires spitting gravel.
The clubhouse exhales.
"Well," Zenon says into the silence. "That could have gone worse."
I pick up my whiskey and drain it. "Tell every full patch and officer to meet us in church. Now."
Fifteen minutes later, every patched member is seated around the table.