Chapter 12
Leviathan
I need to talk to Salvo.
The thought hits me at three in the morning, lying awake while Ripley sleeps beside me.
I've been turning things over in my head for hours—Varro's vendetta, the club's issues, the impossible balance between love and duty—and I keep coming back to the same conclusion.
I'm in over my head.
I've led this club for years.
Made hard decisions, navigated dangerous waters, kept us profitable and alive when lesser organizations crumbled.
But this is different.
This is personal in a way nothing has ever been before, and personal makes me stupid.
I need perspective. I need wisdom. I need the man who taught me everything I know about leadership.
At dawn, I slip out of bed, leaving Ripley curled in the warm space I vacated.
She murmurs something in her sleep but doesn't wake.
I watch her for a moment—the peace on her face, the way her hand reaches for where I was—and something in my chest tightens.
I'm doing this for her.
For us. For the future I'm starting to believe we might actually have.
I grab my keys and head for the garage.
───
Salvo lives on the outskirts of the city, in a modest house on a quiet street.
It's not what most people expect from a former MC president.
No compound, no security detail, no visible signs of the life he used to lead.
Just a two-bedroom bungalow with a well-tended garden and a porch swing that creaks in the wind.
Michael Webster—Salvo to anyone who earned the right to call him that—retired from the club five years ago.
Bad heart, the doctors said.
Too much stress, too many years of hard living.
He handed me the gavel and stepped back, letting the younger generation take the reins.
But he never really left. Not in the ways that matter.
I park my bike in the driveway and walk up the front path.
Before I can knock, the door swings open.
"Saw you coming." Salvo stands in the doorway, leaning on the cane he's needed since the second heart attack. He's thinner than he used to be, his hair more gray than black now, but his eyes are the same—sharp, assessing, missing nothing. "You look like shit."
"Good morning to you too."
He snorts, stepping aside to let me in. "Coffee's on. Loretta's at her sister's for the week, so you're stuck with my cooking."
"I'll survive."
The inside of the house is warm and lived-in.
Photos on every surface—the club in its early days, Salvo and Loretta's wedding, group shots from parties and runs and funerals.
A lifetime of memories, preserved in frames.
I follow him to the kitchen, where a pot of coffee is indeed waiting.
He pours two cups, hands one to me, and settles into a chair at the small table.
"So," he says. "What's got you driving out here at the crack of dawn?"
"What makes you think something's wrong?"
"You've got that look. Same look you had when you first prospected, trying to figure out how to fit a square peg into a round hole." He takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. "Sit down, Levi. Tell me what's eating you."
I sit.
For a moment, I don't know where to start.
The words feel tangled in my chest, knotted together with emotions I've spent years refusing to acknowledge.
"There's a woman," I say finally.
Salvo's eyebrows rise. "Well. That's new."
"Her name's Ripley. She was with Cain Varro—his girlfriend, for three years. He was beating her. I saw it, stripped his patch, and when he came after her again..." I pause. "I killed him."
"I heard." Salvo's voice is neutral. "Word travels, even to us old-timers. You broke protocol. Made it personal."
"It was personal."
"Yeah. I figured that out." He sets down his cup, folding his hands on the table. "So, now you've got the Chief of Police gunning for you, half your club questioning your judgment, and a woman living under your roof who's become the center of everything. That about sum it up?"
"Pretty much."
"And you came here because...?"
I drag a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding through.
"Because I don't know what I'm doing anymore.
I've always known. Always had a plan, a strategy, a way forward.
But with her—" I stop, struggling for words.
"She makes me feel things I don't know how to handle.
And those feelings are affecting my judgment. Making me reckless."
"You think loving someone makes you weak?"
The question cuts straight to the heart of it.
I look at Salvo—this man who led the club for two decades, who built an empire from nothing, who survived more close calls than I can count.
"Doesn't it?"
"No." His voice is firm. "Loving someone makes you human. And human is the only thing worth being."
"Easy for you to say. You've got Loretta. You've had her for forty years."
"And you think those forty years were easy?
" He laughs, but there's an edge to it. "I almost lost her a dozen times.
Almost let the club destroy what we had.
There were nights I slept at the clubhouse because she couldn't stand to look at me, mornings I woke up wondering if today was the day she'd finally walk out. "
"But she didn't."
"No. Because we fought for it. Both of us.
" He leans forward, his gaze intense. "Love isn't a weakness, Levi.
It's a choice. Every day, you choose to put someone else first. To make room for them in a life that doesn't always have room.
It's the hardest thing you'll ever do, and the most worthwhile. "
I'm quiet, letting his words sink in.
"The club," I say finally. "Some of the brothers think she's a liability. Think I've lost perspective."
"Have you?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I meet his eyes. "But I can't let her go. I've tried to imagine it—sending her away, cutting her loose—and I can't. The thought of losing her..." I shake my head. "It's not an option."
Salvo nods slowly. "Then you've already made your choice. You just haven't accepted it yet."
"What choice?"
"The choice to be a man first and a President second." He holds up a hand before I can protest. "I'm not saying you abandon the club. I'm saying you figure out how to have both. How to lead and love at the same time. It's not easy, but it's possible."
"How did you do it?"
"Badly, most of the time." A ghost of a smile crosses his face.
"I made mistakes. Hurt Loretta when I should have protected her, prioritized the club when I should have prioritized us.
But I learned. Slowly, painfully, I learned that the club doesn't need all of me.
It just needs the parts that matter—the leadership, the vision, the willingness to make hard calls. The rest of me belongs to her."
"And if the club can't accept that?"
"Then you remind them who's in charge." His voice hardens. "You're the President, Levi. You earned that patch through blood and sweat and sacrifice. If some of the brothers don't like your choices, that's their problem. Not yours."
I sit with that for a moment. The permission to be human.
The validation that loving someone doesn't make me less of a leader.
"Varro's not backing off," I say. "The raids, the harassment—it's getting worse. And now I'm hearing rumors that he's looking at Ripley. Trying to build some kind of case against her."
Salvo's expression sharpens. "What kind of case?"
"Accessory, maybe. Conspiracy. I don't know the specifics, but if he can tie her to Cain's death—even tangentially—he's got leverage."
"Against you."
"Against both of us." The fear I've been suppressing rises to the surface. "She had nothing to do with what I did. But Varro doesn't care about the truth. He cares about hurting me, and she's the easiest target."
Salvo is quiet for a long moment, turning something over in his mind. "You need to get ahead of this. Document everything—her injuries, the abuse, the hospital records if there are any. Build a case that shows she was a victim, not an accomplice."
"I've been working on that. But some of it's just her word against Cain's. And Cain's not around to contradict her."
"Then find corroboration. Witnesses who saw the bruises, friends she might have confided in, anything that proves what he was doing to her.
" He pauses. "And find dirt on Varro. A man in his position doesn't get there without cutting corners.
If he's dirty—and I'd bet my pension he is—you find the evidence and you use it. "
"We've been documenting the harassment. The illegal searches, the abuse of power."
"Good. Keep doing that. Build a file so thick that if Varro tries to come after you in court, you can bury him in his own misconduct." Salvo's eyes are hard now, the old warrior surfacing beneath the retired grandfather. "This is a war, Levi. And in war, you use every weapon at your disposal."
I nod, feeling something settle in my chest. A plan. A path forward.
"One more thing," Salvo says as I stand to leave.
"What?"
"The woman. Ripley." He holds my gaze. "Does she know what she's in for? This life—our life—it's not easy on the women who love us. If she's going to stay, she needs to understand what that means."
"She knows." I think about everything Ripley has survived, everything she's overcome. "She's stronger than anyone I've ever met. Whatever comes, she can handle it."
"Good." Salvo pushes himself to his feet, leaning on his cane. "Then you've got your answer. Stop fighting yourself and start fighting for her."
He walks me to the door, his hand gripping my shoulder with surprising strength.
"You're a good Prez, Leviathan. Better than I ever was, if I'm honest. But don't let the crown become a cage." He squeezes once, then lets go. "Go home. Be with your woman. And for Christ's sake, get some sleep. You really do look like shit."
I laugh—a real laugh, the first one in what feels like weeks. "Thanks, old man."
"Anytime." He watches me walk to my bike, standing in the doorway like a sentinel. "And Levi? Don't be a stranger. Loretta misses you."
"I'll come back soon. Maybe bring Ripley to visit."