Chapter 8
Leviathan
The raid happens around two in the morning.
I'm at the clubhouse, going over financials with Klutch, when my phone lights up.
The text is from our manager at Steel Kittens—three words that make my blood run cold.
Cops. Everywhere. Help!
I'm on my bike before the screen goes dark.
By the time I get there, the parking lot looks like a war zone.
Six cruisers, lights flashing.
A dozen officers, some in uniform, some plainclothes.
They've got the girls lined up against the wall—dancers, bartenders, the women who work the back rooms—hands on their heads like they're criminals.
I park my bike and walk toward the chaos, keeping my movements slow and deliberate.
No sudden moves. No aggression. Just a business owner checking on his property.
A plainclothes detective intercepts me before I reach the door. "Sir, this is an active investigation. I'm going to need you to—"
"This is my club." I keep my voice calm. Pleasant, even. "I'd like to know what's going on."
"We received an anonymous tip about illegal activity on the premises. Drugs, prostitution." The detective's eyes are cold, assessing. "We're conducting a search."
"Do you have a warrant?"
He produces it from his jacket pocket, holds it up for me to see.
I take my time reading it, even though I already know what it says.
Varro's name isn't on it—he's too smart for that—but his fingerprints are all over this.
"Everything's in order," I say, handing it back. "Search all you want. You won't find anything."
The detective's smile is thin. "We'll see about that."
I stand in the parking lot and watch them tear my club apart.
They don't find anything.
I made sure of that days ago, the moment Varro showed up at the clubhouse with his threats.
Everything illegal was moved, hidden, disposed of.
The books are clean.
The girls have their stories straight.
There's nothing here but a legitimate strip club operating within the bounds of the law.
But that doesn't matter to Varro.
This isn't about finding evidence.
It's about sending a message.
I can touch you whenever I want. I can disrupt your business, harass your people, make your life hell. And there's nothing you can do about it.
By the time the cops clear out—empty-handed but satisfied with the chaos they've caused—it's almost dawn.
The girls are shaken. The manager is furious.
And I'm standing in the middle of my trashed club, calculating the cost of this night in dollars and reputation.
This is just the beginning, and I know it.
Over the next few days, the pressure intensifies.
Cops start showing up at businesses we're connected to—the auto shop where we launder some of our money, the bar where the brothers like to drink, the warehouse where we store... things.
Nothing gets seized, nothing gets charged, but the message is clear.
Varro's watching. Varro's waiting.
Members start getting pulled over for bullshit traffic violations.
Broken taillight. Failure to signal. Anything the cops can use to delay, harass, intimidate.
Sipher gets hauled in for questioning about a robbery he had nothing to do with.
Klutch's apartment gets "randomly" selected for a fire safety inspection.
It's death by a thousand cuts, and it's working.
"We need to do something," Enigma says at church, frustration bleeding through his voice. "We can't just sit here and take this."
"What do you suggest?" I keep my voice level. "We hit back, we give Varro exactly what he wants. An excuse to come down on us harder."
"So we just let him walk all over us?"
"We play the long game." I look around the table, meeting every eye. "Varro's emotional right now. He's grieving his son, and he's making mistakes. Illegal searches. Harassment. Abuse of power. We document everything. And when the time is right, we use it."
"And in the meantime?" Stark asks. "We just bleed money and take the hits?"
"In the meantime, we survive. We stay clean. We don't give him anything he can use against us."
The room is quiet. I can feel the tension, the frustration, the simmering anger.
These men aren't used to playing defense.
They're used to hitting back, hard and fast, making examples of anyone who crosses them.
But that's not how we win this fight.
"There's something else." Klutch's voice is careful. Measured. "Some of the guys are talking. About the woman."
My jaw tightens. "What about her?"
"They're saying this wouldn't be happening if you hadn't killed Cain. If you hadn't brought her into the clubhouse." He holds up a hand before I can respond. "I'm not saying they're right. I'm just telling you what I'm hearing."
"And what are you hearing, exactly?"
"That maybe she's not worth the trouble."
The rage that surges through me is immediate and blinding.
I want to reach across the table and grab Klutch by the throat, demand to know who's been running their mouth, make an example of anyone who thinks they can question my decisions.
I don't.
Instead, I take a breath. Let the rage settle into something colder. More controlled.
"Let me be clear," I say, my voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the room. "Ripley is under my protection. That's not up for debate. Anyone who has a problem with that can turn in their patch and walk away right now."
Silence.
"No?" I look around the table. "Good. Then this discussion is over."
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, trying to get a grip on the emotions churning in my chest.
Zenon doesn't leave.
He waits until the room is empty, then settles into the chair beside me. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"Bullshit." He leans back, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. "You nearly took Klutch's head off."
"He deserved it."
"He was delivering a message, Leviathan. Don't shoot the messenger." Zenon pauses. "The guys are scared. They're watching their livelihoods get threatened, and they're looking for someone to blame. Ripley's an easy target."
"She didn't do anything."
"I know that. You know that. But fear doesn't care about logic." He's quiet for a moment. "What is she to you, brother?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because I don't have an answer, but because I do—and it terrifies me.
"I don't know," I lie.
Zenon snorts. "Yeah, you do. You're just too stubborn to admit it."
"Enlighten me, then."
"She's the first thing you've cared about in years. The first person who's gotten under your skin, past all that ice and control." He shrugs. "That's not a bad thing, but it's a vulnerability. And right now, Varro's looking for vulnerabilities to exploit."
"She's not a vulnerability."
"She is if you let her be." He stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Figure out what you want. And then figure out how to protect it. That's what leaders do."
He walks out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I find her on the roof.
It's late—past midnight—and the clubhouse has settled into its usual nocturnal rhythm.
Music drifting up from the common room, the murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter.
Normal sounds. Comforting sounds.
But Ripley isn't downstairs, enjoying the warmth and the company.
She's up here, sitting on the edge of the roof with her legs dangling over the side, staring out at the Pittsburgh skyline.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching her.
The city lights paint her profile in gold and shadow, catching the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Her bruises have faded to pale yellow now, almost invisible unless you know where to look.
She looks peaceful. Contemplative. She looks beautiful.
"You're going to give me a heart attack, sitting up here like that," I say, stepping out onto the roof.
She doesn't start. Doesn't even turn around. "You've killed people. I doubt a little height is going to scare you."
"It's not the height that scares me." I settle beside her, leaving a few inches of space between us.
Below, the city sprawls out in a tapestry of lights—bridges spanning the rivers, skyscrapers reaching for the sky, the distant glow of Heinz Field. "It's the thought of you falling."
"I'm not going to fall." She pulls her knees up, wrapping her arms around them.
"I used to come up to rooftops when I was in college.
There was this building near campus with roof access—technically off-limits, but no one ever checked.
I'd go up there to think. To breathe. To pretend I was somewhere else. "
"Where did you want to be?"
"Anywhere but here." She laughs softly, but there's no humor in it.
"That sounds terrible, doesn't it? Pittsburgh's my home.
I love this city. But when I was younger, I had all these dreams about traveling.
Seeing the world. Teaching English abroad, maybe.
I wanted to live in London for a year. Or Paris.
Somewhere with history and culture and.. ."
She trails off, shaking her head.
"And what?"
"And none of that matters anymore." Her voice is flat. Resigned. "I was nineteen when I met Cain. By twenty, I'd forgotten what it felt like to dream. He made sure of that."
The anger rises in me again—not the hot, blinding rage from earlier, but something colder.
More permanent. A hatred for a dead man that will never fully fade.
"What did you want to be?" I ask. "Before him."
"A teacher." The word comes out wistful.
Almost painful. "English and Creative Writing.
I wanted to teach high school, help kids discover the same love for stories that I had.
I had this whole vision—my own classroom, shelves full of books, students who'd roll their eyes at Shakespeare but secretly love it.
" She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Stupid, right?"
"Why is it stupid?"