Chapter 6 #2
The mood is tense.
Word has spread about Varro's visit, about the threats, about the war that's coming.
Some of the brothers look worried.
Others look angry.
A few—Behemoth, Sipher—look almost eager. They've been spoiling for a fight.
I stand at the head of the table, hands flat on the wood, and wait for silence.
"You've all heard by now," I begin. "Chief Varro's son is dead. Varro thinks we did it. He's right."
No one looks surprised. They knew. Of course they knew.
"He's coming for us. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. Increased police presence. Raids on our businesses. Harassment of our members. He's going to make our lives hell, and he's going to keep doing it until he finds something he can use against us—or until he gets tired."
"So, what do we do?" Klutch asks. "Lay low? Clean house?"
"Both." I look around the table, meeting every eye. "Starting now, everything goes through the books. No side deals, no shortcuts, no sloppy shit. If there's anything that could come back to bite us, get rid of it. I want us clean enough to pass a federal audit."
Nods around the table. They understand.
"What about the shipment next week?" Enigma asks. "We're supposed to move product through the south side."
"Cancel it. Or reroute it somewhere outside Varro's jurisdiction. I don't want anything moving through Pittsburgh until the heat dies down."
"That's going to cost us."
"It'll cost us more if we get caught." I straighten, crossing my arms. "I know this isn't what you want to hear.
I know some of you think we should hit back, make Varro regret coming at us.
But that's exactly what he wants. He wants us to make a mistake.
To give him something he can use. We're not going to give him that satisfaction. "
"And if he doesn't back off?" Stark asks. "If he keeps coming, no matter how clean we run?"
"Then we deal with it." My voice is cold. Final. "But we deal with it smart. Not with guns blazing, not with bodies dropping. We gather evidence, document his overreach, and we use it against him when the time is right."
Zenon catches my eye, gives an almost imperceptible nod. He understands. This is a long game, not a quick fix.
"One more thing." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "The woman. Ripley. She's still under my protection. Under the club's protection. If Varro or anyone else comes around asking about her, you don't know anything. You've never seen her. She doesn't exist."
"Is she involved?" Behemoth's voice is a low rumble. "In what happened to Cain?"
"No. She's a victim, and she stays off the radar." I look around the table. "Anyone have a problem with that?"
Silence.
"Good." I bang my fist on the table. "Church dismissed."
The brothers file out, conversations starting in low murmurs as they disperse.
I stay where I am, staring at the empty table, running through scenarios in my head.
Varro's going to be a problem. A big one.
He's got the resources, the authority, and the motivation to make our lives miserable. And unlike most cops, he can't be bought—not when it's personal, not when it's about his son.
I need to find leverage.
Something to keep him in check.
Something that'll make him think twice before coming at us too hard.
The buried police reports I mentioned were a bluff—I don't know if they exist.
But they might.
Cain was careful, but he was also arrogant.
He might have slipped up somewhere, left a trail.
If I can find it, document it, use it...
"Levi."
Zenon's voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
He's standing in the doorway, watching me with that knowing look.
"What?"
"She's awake. Saw her in the main room a few minutes ago. Tawny gave her some clothes."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
I should go to her.
Should check on her, make sure she's okay after everything that happened last night, but part of me is afraid.
Afraid of what I'll feel when I see her.
Afraid of how much I already feel.
Afraid that this thing between us—whatever it is—is going to destroy the careful control I've spent years building.
"You care about her." It's not a question.
"I don't know what I feel."
"Bullshit." Zenon steps into the room, letting the door close behind him. "I've known you fifteen years, brother. I've seen you with women. I've seen you cold, seen you calculating, seen you walk away without looking back. This isn't that. This is something else."
"It can't be something else. Not now. Not with Varro breathing down our necks."
"The heart doesn't care about timing." He shrugs. "Trust me. I learned that the hard way."
I don't ask what he means. We all have our stories. Our wounds.
"What do you suggest?" I ask instead.
"I suggest you stop fighting it." He moves to stand beside me, both of us staring at the empty table where decisions get made. "Whatever you feel for her, it's not going away. Might as well accept it. Figure out how to make it work."
"And if it puts the club at risk?"
"Then we handle it. Together. That's what we do." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "Go talk to her, Levi. She's probably scared out of her mind right now. Wondering what last night meant, wondering if you're going to push her away."
He's right. I know he's right.
I push away from the table and head for the main room.
I find her on one of the couches, tucked into the corner with her knees drawn up and a battered paperback in her hands.
She's wearing borrowed clothes—jeans that are a little too big, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up—and her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail.
The bruises on her face are still vivid, still painful to look at, but there's something different about her this morning.
She's not trying to disappear.
She looks up when I enter, and I see the uncertainty flash across her face.
The fear that I'm going to tell her last night was a mistake.
That I'm going to push her away.
I cross the room and sit beside her.
Not too close, but close enough that she can feel my presence.
"What are you reading?"
She blinks, surprised by the question. Looks down at the book in her hands like she'd forgotten it was there.
"Um. Pride and Prejudice." A small, self-conscious smile. "I found it on one of the shelves. Someone must have left it."
"Any good?"
"It's my favorite." The smile grows a little, loses some of its uncertainty. "I've read it probably twenty times. There's something comforting about it. Knowing how it ends, knowing everything works out."
I don't read much.
Never had the time, never saw the point, but I understand wanting something predictable. Something safe.
"You okay?" I ask. "After last night?"
The smile fades. She sets the book aside, turning to face me fully. "I don't know. I think so. I feel..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Different. Like something shifted."
"Good different or bad different?"
"I'm not sure yet." Her eyes search my face. "Are you okay? You left this morning. I woke up and you were gone."
"I had to handle something."
"The police." It's not a question. "I heard the motorcycles, saw the cruisers from the window."
I shouldn't be surprised.
She's observant. Careful.
Three years with Cain taught her to pay attention to everything.
"Cain's father," I say. "He knows what I did. Can't prove it, but he knows. He's going to make things difficult for a while."
"Because of me."
"Because of Cain." I reach out, tilting her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. "None of this is your fault. You hear me? Nothing that happened—not Cain, not his father, not any of it—is because of you."
"But if I hadn't come here—"
"If you hadn't come here, you'd be dead." The words are harsh, but they're true. "Cain would have killed you eventually. Maybe not on purpose, but it would have happened. You did the right thing."
She stares at me for a long moment. I watch her process the words, watch her try to believe them.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly.
"Now we're careful. We lay low, keep our heads down, and wait for Varro to make a mistake." I brush my thumb across her jaw, gentle over the bruises. "And you stay here. Where I can keep you safe."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
She nods slowly. Then, surprising me, she leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my lips.
"Thank you," she murmurs against my mouth. "For everything."
I pull her closer, one hand sliding into her hair, and kiss her properly.
She melts into me, her fingers curling into my shirt, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away.
No Varro, no threats, no war on the horizon.
Just her. Just this.
When we break apart, she's smiling.
A real smile, one that reaches her eyes.
"I should let you get back to work," she says.
"Probably."
Neither of us move.
"Ripley." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, let my fingers linger against her cheek. "Last night wasn't a mistake. I don't know what this is between us, but it's not a mistake. You understand?"
The smile widens. "I understand."
I force myself to stand up, to step back, to put some distance between us before I do something stupid like carry her back to bed and spend the rest of the day there.
"I'll check on you later," I say. "If you need anything, find Tawny or Paige. They'll take care of you."
"Okay."
I'm halfway to the door when her voice stops me.
"Leviathan?"
I turn back.
She's watching me with those brown eyes—warm now, not empty. Alive.
"I'm glad I came here," she says softly. "I'm glad it was you."
Something cracks open in my chest. Something I thought was dead. "Me too," I say.
And I mean it.
I'm in trouble. Deep trouble. The kind of trouble that doesn't have an easy solution.
But looking at her, sitting there in borrowed clothes with a battered paperback and a smile on her bruised face, I can't bring myself to care.
Some trouble is worth having.