Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Razor
I pushed through the clubhouse chapel doors, the familiar smell of stale cigarettes and leather hitting me like a physical wave.
Brothers turned to stare, conversations dying mid-sentence as I strode toward the table where Mustang presided like a king on his throne.
The silence spread like oil on water, thick and suffocating.
This wasn't how things were done. You didn't just storm into Church without being summoned.
You didn't challenge the president. Not if you wanted to keep wearing your cut.
But some things mattered more than tradition, more than protocol. More than the patches on my back.
"What the fuck is this?" Mustang's voice cut through the chapel, his eyes narrowing as I approached. He straightened in his chair, both hands flat on the table in a show of controlled authority.
I didn't answer immediately, taking my time to scan the faces around the table.
Ace, our VP, watched with guarded interest. Fury's massive frame tensed, ready for whatever came next.
Loch and Torque exchanged glances, their expressions carefully neutral but their body language alert.
Socket kept his eyes on his hands, while Screwball shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Emergency meeting," I finally said, stopping at the edge of the table. I placed my hands on the polished wood, leaning forward to meet Mustang's cold stare. "Club business that can't wait."
"I decide what's emergency business," Mustang countered, his finger tapping once, twice against the table—the only sign that my interruption had rattled him. "Not you."
"Three attacks in the past week," I said, ignoring his response. I pulled documents from my cut and spread them across the table. Police reports. Insurance claims. Security footage stills. "Warehouse raided. Golden Apple vandalized. Supply routes compromised. This isn't random. It's coordinated."
Mustang's jaw tightened as he glanced at the evidence, then back at me. "We've weathered worse."
"Different this time." I pointed to timestamps on the security stills. "Simultaneous hits. Professional. Military precision. They're targeting more than our business."
Ace leaned forward, picking up one of the photographs. "He's right. This isn't street-level retaliation. This is strategic."
"And?" Mustang's voice had an edge that would have made most men back down. "We adjust. We hit back. Same as always."
I straightened, looking each brother in the eye as I spoke. "They hit the safehouse. Socket and Pierce nearly died. And they took Ophelia and Dante."
The tension in the room shifted, brothers exchanging glances as they processed what this meant. An attack on club property was one thing. An attack on family was something else entirely.
"Got them back," Mustang said dismissively. "Problem solved."
"Problem's just beginning," I countered, my voice dropping to a register that made several brothers shift uneasily in their seats. "They came for my family. They'll come for yours next." I looked at Torque. "Your wife." At Fury. "Your sister." At Loch. "Your mother."
Mustang stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "You making threats, brother?"
"Making observations," I replied, not backing down an inch. "Our enemies figured out our weakness. The club protects business first, family second. They exploited that."
"Women and kids are collateral," Mustang said, his voice hardening. "Always have been. Club comes first. That's how we survive."
"No." The word hung in the air, simple and final. I slammed my fist down on the table hard enough to make the ashtray jump. "No more."
The chapel fell silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. What I'd just done—directly contradicting Mustang in Church—was grounds for losing my patch. Maybe worse. Every brother in that room knew it.
"You questioning my leadership?" Mustang asked quietly, the danger in his voice unmistakable.
"I'm questioning our priorities," I replied, measuring each word. "Times change. Threats change. We need to adapt."
"By what? Playing house with your new family?" Mustang's mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You've been riding with this club for fifteen years. Now suddenly you're ready to throw that away for some woman and a kid that isn't even yours?"
I felt heat rising up my neck, but kept my voice level. "That woman and that kid are mine now. And yes, I'd throw it all away for them." I looked around the table again. "But I shouldn't have to. Neither should any brother."
Loch was the first to speak. "Razor's got a point. We've been operating the same way for twenty years. Maybe it's time to evolve."
"The hell does that mean? 'Evolve'?" Mustang spat the word like it tasted bad.
"It means we protect what's ours," I said. "All of it. Not just guns and drugs and strip clubs. Our families too." I tapped the photos again. "These attacks weren't just about hurting our business. They were sending a message: 'We know where you're vulnerable.'"
Torque nodded, his hand unconsciously touching the pocket where he kept a photo of his wife. "My old lady almost died last month because of club business. If we'd had better security protocols for families..."
"What exactly are you proposing?" Ace asked, his tone neutral but his eyes showing interest.
I pulled out one more document—a detailed security plan I'd spent the night drafting.
"Reallocation of resources. Twenty percent of club income goes to family protection.
Secure residences. Defensive training for old ladies.
Communication protocols for emergencies.
Safe houses that only family security teams know about. "
Mustang scoffed. "You want to divert money from our primary income streams to babysit?"
"I want to remove the target on our backs," I corrected him. "Make it so expensive to come at us through our families that no one tries it again."
"And if I say no?" Mustang's voice was dangerously soft.
I straightened to my full height, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Then I call for a vote. Right here. Right now."
A murmur went through the room. Calling for an unscheduled vote was nearly unprecedented, especially on something that directly challenged the president's authority.
"On what grounds?" Mustang demanded.
"Article three of the bylaws. Any member can call for immediate vote when club security is at risk." I'd read our constitution cover to cover last night, finding the loophole I needed. "I'm exercising that right."
Mustang's finger drummed faster on the table, his only tell when he was backed into a corner. He glanced at Ace, likely expecting support from his VP, but Ace's expression remained carefully neutral.
"All in favor of reallocating resources to family protection as outlined," I said formally, not waiting for Mustang's permission.
Hands began to rise. Ace first, then Fury. Loch and Torque followed almost simultaneously. Socket raised his hand, not meeting Mustang's glare. One by one, more hands went up until only Screwball and Mustang himself remained opposed.
"Majority carries," Ace announced quietly, the words landing like stones in the silent room.
Mustang's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. His eyes locked with mine, the challenge clear: I'd won this round, but the war was far from over.
"We'll implement immediately," I said, gathering the documents and turning to leave.
"Razor." Mustang's voice stopped me at the door. "You better be right about this. If your personal vendetta puts this club at risk..."
I turned back slowly. "It's not a vendetta. It's survival." I looked around at the brothers who had just sided with me against their president. "For all of us."
As I walked out, I could feel the weight of what had just happened settling across my shoulders. I'd challenged Mustang directly and won. The club would never be the same again.
Neither would I.
Ophelia
I paced the length of the safehouse living room, my socked feet silent on the worn floorboards as I pressed the burner phone tighter against my ear.
J.D. had rigged it somehow to pick up the chapel's security feed, a direct line into the heart of club business where I wasn't supposed to have access.
The young Prospect had given me a look when he'd handed it over—half concerned, half conspiratorial—before taking his position outside.
"Razor would skin me alive if he knew," he'd muttered, "but you deserve to hear what they're saying about you and the little man.
" Now, as voices crackled through the speaker, my heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was certain it would wake Dante, finally sleeping in the next room.
The safehouse felt impossibly small suddenly, its walls closing in with each passing minute.
Paint peeled from the corners of the ceiling like curling fingers, and the constant hum of generators outside created a soundtrack to my anxiety.
This was our third location in as many days—Razor taking no chances after the attack, trusting no one except his innermost circle with our whereabouts.
I caught my breath as Razor's voice came through the speaker, stronger and clearer than the others. Even electronically distorted, there was no mistaking the controlled intensity that had become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
"Three attacks in the past week," he was saying, his words measured and precise. "Warehouse raided. Golden Apple vandalized. Supply routes compromised. This isn't random. It's coordinated."