Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Razor
I pushed through the clubhouse doors just as dawn broke, golden light slanting through dusty windows and painting the worn floorboards in patches of amber and shadow.
The chapel stood empty, waiting. Brothers would be filing in soon, summoned by Mustang himself for this vote that would either cement my vision for our future or tear apart fifteen years of brotherhood.
I flexed my fingers, the calculator in me running numbers, assessing variables, plotting contingencies.
Ophelia's words from this morning echoed in my head: "I think I'm pregnant.
" Another variable. Another reason failure wasn't an option.
The clubhouse smelled of stale beer and cigarettes, the lingering evidence of last night's celebration of the Weathers takedown.
I moved purposefully toward the chapel, my boots silent against the floor, years of training making stealth automatic even when unnecessary.
The door stood ajar, revealing the scarred wooden table where decisions affecting life and death had been made for decades.
I'd sat at that table for fifteen years, calculating odds, weighing risks, executing with precision.
Today, I was asking the club to fundamentally change what it had always been.
I took my usual seat, pulling out the documents I'd prepared—security protocols, budget allocations, operational guidelines.
All of it meticulously organized with the precision that had earned me my road name long before I carried a blade.
The soft rustle of paper filled the silence as I arranged everything, controlling the controllable while the larger variables remained in flux.
The chapel door swung open, and Socket entered first, his eyes bloodshot from the hours he'd spent dismantling the Weathers' empire.
He nodded once in my direction, the gesture conveying more than words could have—support, respect, solidarity.
Loch followed, then Torque, their expressions guarded but not hostile.
One by one, the brothers filed in, taking their customary places around the table.
Mustang entered last, his face unreadable as he took his position at the head of the table.
The scar along his jawline seemed more pronounced in the angled morning light, a permanent reminder of the violence that had shaped all our lives.
His eyes met mine briefly, giving nothing away, before he surveyed the assembled brothers.
"Church is in session," he announced, his voice carrying the gravitas of fifteen years of leadership. The chapel door closed with a heavy thud, sealing us in for what could be the most pivotal meeting in the club's history.
I waited, measuring my breaths, as Mustang laid out the agenda.
Business reports first—territory secure, the Golden Apple turning a profit, new supply routes established.
All the day-to-day operations that had once been the entirety of my focus.
Now they felt like background noise, secondary to the proposal that would either secure my family's future or force me to make choices I'd rather avoid.
"Final item," Mustang finally said, his voice shifting subtly. "Proposed security protocols and resource allocation." He turned to me, gesturing with a ringed hand. "Razor's got the floor."
I rose slowly, distributing copies of my proposal to each brother.
The room fell silent except for the rustle of paper as they examined the details of what I was proposing.
Twenty percent of club income redirected to family protection.
Secure residences. Defensive training for old ladies.
Communication protocols for emergencies.
A complete restructuring of how we approached the most vulnerable aspect of our lives.
"You've all seen the proposal," I began, my voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "Most of you voted in favor during the emergency session after Dante was taken. What we're deciding today is whether those changes become permanent."
I met each brother's eyes in turn, reading the mix of skepticism and curiosity in their expressions.
"For fifteen years, I've run the numbers for this club.
Calculated risks. Weighed variables. Executed with precision.
" I paused, allowing the weight of my reputation to carry the words.
"And I'm telling you now, our old approach is a liability we can't afford. "
Screwball shifted in his seat, his voice cutting through the tension. "We've always operated this way, brother. Women and kids understand the risks."
"Do they?" I challenged, leaning forward. "Did my wife understand that her son would be ripped from her arms? That she'd be beaten while trying to protect him? Did any old lady sign up for that?"
The room fell silent again, brothers exchanging glances as my words landed.
"Our enemies have evolved," I continued, tapping the document before them.
"They're targeting families because they know it's our weakness.
Because they know we prioritize club business over family security.
" I straightened, meeting Mustang's gaze directly.
"I'm not asking us to go soft. I'm asking us to eliminate a vulnerability that threatens everything we've built. "
Mustang's expression remained inscrutable as he studied the proposal before him. The silence stretched, brothers holding their breath, waiting for the president to speak. When he finally did, his words weren't what I expected.
"The Calculator's numbers don't lie." Mustang's voice carried through the chapel with a finality that silenced even the restless shuffling of boots. "Family-first security protocols stay. New revenue allocation stands. We protect our own—old ladies, kids, all of 'em."
Shock rippled through the room, visible in the widened eyes and straightened spines of brothers who'd expected a different outcome. I kept my own reaction carefully controlled, the calculator in me still processing this unexpected variable.
"But," Mustang continued, his finger jabbing the table for emphasis, "this doesn't change who we are. What we do. We're still Wicked Mayhem. We still handle business our way." His eyes swept the room, landing finally on me. "We're just making sure no one can use our families against us again."
I nodded, acknowledging both the acceptance and the boundary being drawn. The club would evolve, but its core identity would remain intact. It was more than I'd dared hope for.
"All in favor?" Mustang called, his ringed hand raised to initiate the vote.
Hands went up around the table—Ace's quick, decisive motion; Fury's arm rising with a slow smile spreading across his face; Torque slamming his palm on the table before raising it in agreement. One by one, each brother signaled support until the vote stood unanimous.
Something loosened in my chest, a tension I'd been carrying since the moment they'd taken Dante.
The weight hadn't disappeared completely—it never would—but it had shifted, becoming manageable in a way it hadn't been before.
I could go home to Ophelia and tell her that the threat from the club was gone.
We could build our family without looking over our shoulders, at least from that direction.
Mustang stood, officially closing the meeting, but instead of heading for the door, he moved toward me. The chapel emptied around us, brothers filing out with nods in my direction, some clapping my shoulder as they passed. When we were alone, Mustang extended his hand across the table.
"You changed my mind," he said simply. "Didn't think that was possible after all these years."
I took his hand, feeling the calluses and rings pressing against my palm. "Wasn't trying to challenge you," I replied, though we both knew that wasn't entirely true. "Just needed to protect what's mine."
"The club is stronger for it," he acknowledged, his grip tightening briefly before releasing.
"You were right. Family gives us something worth fighting for beyond territory and profit.
" He studied me for a moment, something almost like respect in his eyes.
"The old way served its purpose. Maybe it's time for something new. "
As he walked away, leaving me alone in the chapel bathed in morning light, I understood what had just happened.
More than a vote. More than a policy change.
The club had evolved, and with it, my place within it.
For fifteen years, I'd been the Calculator, the man who assessed risks with cold precision.
Now I was something else entirely—a husband, a father, a brother who'd challenged tradition and won.
I pulled out my phone, typing a quick message to Ophelia: "It's done. Coming home soon." Home. The word still hit me sideways sometimes, carrying a weight I was only beginning to understand. I pocketed the phone and headed for the door, eager to return to the family that had changed everything.
Ophelia
Sunlight slashed through the half-drawn blinds, painting golden stripes across our kitchen floor as I maneuvered around Dante's scattered toy motorcycles.
Six months in this house, and I still caught myself scanning entrances, checking locks, planning escape routes—habits formed during those terrifying days on the run that refused to fade completely.
But this morning, like most mornings now, the panic stayed dormant, a sleeping beast rather than the raging monster it had once been.
I shifted my daughter against my hip, her warm weight anchoring me to this reality where pancake batter and sippy cups had replaced fear and flight.