Chapter 10
Leviathan
The second raid happens on a random Tuesday.
I'm in my office when I hear the engines—that same too-clean, too-uniform sound that sets my teeth on edge.
By the time I reach the front door, three cruisers are pulling into the parking lot, and Chief Douglas Varro himself is stepping out of the lead car.
He's not hiding behind his officers this time.
He wants me to see him.
Wants me to know exactly who's responsible.
"Chief." I keep my voice neutral as I step onto the porch. "Back so soon?"
"Search warrant." He holds up the paper, that thin smile playing on his lips. "Anonymous tip about illegal weapons being stored on the premises."
"Anonymous tip." I don't reach for the warrant. "That's convenient."
"Isn't it?" His smile widens. "You're welcome to observe while my officers conduct their search. Wouldn't want you to think we're planting anything."
The implication is clear.
He's not above planting evidence if that's what it takes.
But he's also smart enough to know I'll be watching every move his officers make.
"By all means." I step aside, gesturing toward the door. "Search away."
For the next four hours, Varro and his officers destroy my clubhouse.
Varro's officers tear through the club—upending furniture, emptying drawers, pulling apart the chapel piece by piece.
They go through the bedrooms, the storage areas, the garage where we keep the bikes.
They even dig through the kitchen cabinets, like we might be hiding assault rifles behind the cereal boxes.
Through it all, I watch. Zenon watches.
The brothers who are present—Sipher, Klutch, Enigma, a few others—watch with rage simmering behind their eyes.
They don't find anything.
I made sure of that weeks ago, the moment Varro first showed up with his threats.
Every weapon that wasn't strictly legal was moved off-site.
Every piece of contraband, every questionable document, every shred of evidence that could be used against us—gone.
The clubhouse is cleaner than a hospital operating room, but that's not the point.
The point is the message. The humiliation.
The reminder that Varro can walk into our home whenever he wants, tear it apart, and there's nothing we can do about it.
When the last officer files out, Varro pauses in the doorway. "We'll be back," he says, that smile still playing on his lips. "Count on it."
"Looking forward to it, Chief."
He holds my gaze for a long moment.
Then he's gone, engines roaring to life, cruisers pulling out of the lot in a cloud of dust and exhaust.
I stand on the porch and watch them go.
Behind me, I hear the brothers starting to move—picking up overturned furniture, collecting scattered belongings, putting our home back together piece by piece.
No one speaks. The anger is too thick, too close to the surface.
This can't continue.
Varro's playing a long game, trying to wear us down, trying to provoke a reaction he can use against us.
And it's working.
I can feel the tension in the club, the frustration, the simmering rage that's looking for an outlet.
Something's going to break. I just don't know what.
Church that night is tense.
Every patched member is present, seated around the table with expressions ranging from worried to furious.
The room still smells faintly of the cops' boots, a reminder of the violation we all endured.
I stand at the head of the table and wait for silence.
"You all know what happened today," I begin. "Varro's not backing off. If anything, he's escalating. We need to be prepared for more of the same."
"For how long?" Stark's voice is tight with frustration. "How long are we supposed to just sit here and take this?"
"As long as it takes."
"That's bullshit." He's on his feet now, hands braced on the table. "We've got a target on our backs because of—"
He stops. But everyone knows what he was about to say.
Because of her.
"Finish that sentence." My voice drops to something cold and dangerous. "Go ahead, Stark. Say what you're thinking."
The room goes very still.
Stark's jaw works.
I can see him weighing the options—back down and look weak, or push forward and face whatever consequences come.
He's angry, but he's not stupid.
He knows what challenging me directly could cost him.
"I'm just saying," he says finally, his voice more controlled, "that we wouldn't be in this situation if Cain was still around. If things had been handled... differently."
"Differently." I let the word hang in the air. "You mean if I'd looked the other way while he beat his woman half to death. If I'd let him keep wearing our patch while he violated everything this club is supposed to stand for."
"I'm not saying what he did was right—"
"Then what are you saying?"
Stark opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn't have an answer. None of them do.
"Let me make something very clear." I look around the table, meeting every eye.
"Cain Varro was a cancer in this club. He enjoyed hurting people—not because it was necessary, but because he got off on it.
He would have brought us down eventually, one way or another. I just accelerated the timeline."
"And the girl?" Klutch's voice is more careful than Stark's, but the question is the same. "She's still here. Still under your protection. Still a liability."
"She's not a liability. She's a person who was abused by one of our own, and we're doing the right thing by protecting her." I pause. "Or do you think we should throw her to the wolves? Let Varro use her as leverage?"
Silence.
"That woman has nothing to do with our current problems," I continue. "Varro's not coming after us because of her. He's coming after us because I killed his son. That's on me. Not her."
"So what do we do?" Behemoth's voice is a low rumble. "We can't just keep taking hits."
"We document everything. Every illegal search, every bullshit traffic stop, every instance of harassment. We build a case. And when Varro finally slips up—and he will—we use it to bury him."
"That could take months," Enigma points out. "Maybe years."
"Then it takes months. We've survived worse." I straighten, squaring my shoulders. "This club has been around for decades. We've weathered storms that make Varro look like a summer shower. We'll weather this one too."
The room is quiet.
I can see them processing, weighing my words against their frustration.
Some look convinced.
Others—Stark, a few of the newer patches—still seem doubtful.
"Anyone else have something to say?" I ask. "Now's the time."
No one speaks.
"Good." I bang my fist on the table. "Church dismissed."
The brothers file out, conversations starting in low murmurs.
I stay where I am, hands flat on the table, trying to keep a grip on the anger still churning in my chest.
"Well handled."
Zenon's voice.
I look up to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"You think so?"
"I think you scared the shit out of Stark, which was probably necessary." He pushes off the frame, walking over to drop into the chair beside me. "But the underlying problem isn't going away."
"I know."
"The guys are scared, Leviathan. They're watching their livelihoods get threatened, and they're looking for someone to blame." He pauses. "Ripley's an easy target. The outsider. The woman who showed up right before everything went to hell."
"She didn't cause any of this."
"I know that. You know that. But fear doesn't care about facts." He's quiet for a moment. "There's something else we need to talk about."
"What?"
"You." He holds up a hand before I can interrupt. "Just hear me out. I've known you for fifteen years. I've seen you cold, I've seen you ruthless, I've seen you make decisions that would give most men nightmares. But I've never seen you like this."
"Like what?"
"Distracted. Off-balance." He meets my eyes. "In love."
The word hits me like a punch to the gut. "I'm not—"
"Don't." His voice is firm. "Don't bullshit me, brother. I've watched you with her. The way you look at her. The way you talk about her. The way you nearly took Stark's head off just now for implying she's a problem." He shakes his head. "You love her. It's written all over you."
I want to deny it. Want to retreat behind the walls I've spent years building, the cold control that's kept me alive and sane.
But the words won't come, because he's right.
"It doesn't matter what I feel," I say finally. "What matters is keeping this club together. Keeping her safe."
"Those two things might not be compatible forever." Zenon's voice is gentle. "At some point, you might have to choose."
"I'm not choosing between her and the club."
"You might not have a choice." He stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Just... think about it. Figure out what you really want. And then figure out how to protect it."
He walks out, leaving me alone with his words echoing in my head.
You love her.
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.
This was never supposed to happen.
I don't do feelings. I don't do attachments.
I've built my entire life around being the cold, calculated leader this club needs.
But then Ripley showed up on my doorstep, bloody and broken and looking at me like I was the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
And something shifted. Something cracked.
I do love her.
The admission settles into my chest like a stone.
Heavy. Immovable. True.
I love her, and I have no idea what to do about it.
I find her in my room—our room, now, though we haven't talked about it.
She's sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop balanced on her knees, brow furrowed in concentration.
When I walk in, she looks up with a smile that fades as she takes in my expression.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I cross to the window, staring out at the parking lot without really seeing it. "Just club business."
"The raid." It's not a question. She heard the commotion, saw the aftermath. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Leviathan." Her voice is soft. Concerned. "Talk to me."