Chapter 12 Catherine
Chapter twelve
Catherine
Seneca lent me a shirt that smelled faintly of him.
He kept the cut for himself, and I caught the gleam of the Bloody Scythe patch every time he moved his arm.
I tried not to read into it, but I could feel the silent branding.
He’d explained to me that the cut was more than a piece of clothing.
It was a bond. A binding of men loyal to one another.
The clubhouse looked like every bad idea I’d ever entertained.
The place was alive, pulsing. Every head turned when we entered.
The music—something hard and relentless—stuttered to a halt.
For a second, I imagined myself as they saw me: barefoot, wearing a man’s shirt and nothing else, hair wet, face still bruised from the night before.
A hundred hours on the bench, and it took one second in a biker bar to remind me of every vulnerability I ever had.
One of the pool players set his cue down, approached. He was big, built like he could deadlift a Harley, hair clipped high and tight. Tattoos spidered up his arms, over his throat, across the knuckles. His eyes were sharp, but not dead. He looked at me first, then at Seneca.
“You look like shit,” he said. The voice was dry, with an edge I recognized from years of cross-examinations. The kind of voice that made you want to answer honestly, just to get it over with.
Seneca shrugged, eyes never leaving the guy’s face. “Rough two days.”
“No shit. I’m Damron, the club president.” Damron nodded at me. “Hope our accommodations are up to your standards.” His face turned grim. “You should know those assholes torched your house.
Nothing of value, including pictures, jewelry, and documents, was in a fireproof safe. “Thank you for your concern.” I glanced at Seneca. “And your help.”
“You should get her a drink,” he told Seneca. “We’ll talk once she’s acclimated to the club way.” He walked back to the pool table.
Seneca led me past the bar. The regulars watched, eyes flicking from my face to my legs, to the bruise on my cheek.
None of them spoke, but I felt their judgment, equal parts curiosity and threat.
Two scantily clad young women watched me from behind the bar.
They were young, but not too young to know better.
He steered me to a booth in the corner, shielded on two sides by the juke and a column of spent shell casings glued artfully into a table lamp. The seat was warm. I slid in, wincing as the bruised ribs protested. Seneca sat across from me, hands flat on the table.
I tried to find my composure, the mask I wore in chambers. It felt thin as tissue here. “Nice place,” I said, because sarcasm was all I had left.
Seneca’s mouth quirked at the corner. “Better than County.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Nitro joined us, sliding in next to Seneca and crowding the booth until the table pressed into my thighs.
I expected a shake-down, maybe a threat.
Instead, he produced a battered bottle of Jameson, poured three shots into mismatched glassware, and pushed one in front of me.
“To survival,” he said. “And to keeping the walls up.”
We clinked and drank. The whiskey burned the way it was supposed to, scorching a line from teeth to belly. I felt it bloom inside me, a heat that masked the pain. I wanted another shot but refrained from asking.
Nitro leaned back, hands splayed. “So, Seneca. You bring her here because you want to keep her alive, or because you want her to see how we live?”
Seneca didn’t answer right away. “Does it matter?”
Damron slid in next to me. “It does if you’re dragging heat onto the crew.”
Seneca nodded. “She’s an asset.”
I wasn’t sure how to take Seneca’s comment, but surrounded by three large men, I kept quiet.
There was a silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was strategic, a holding pattern while the real talk lined up. I took the moment to look around. The other bikers were back to their games, music, and women.
Nitro turned to me. “You understand what you walked into, Judge?”
I met his gaze, refusing to blink. “You mean the criminal underworld, or just the clubhouse?”
Damron grinned, genuine this time. “I like her,” he told Seneca.
Seneca’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
I took another sip, let the fire work its way through the pain. “You ever been shot at by a made man, Nitro?”
He laughed, the sound a dry rattle. “Once or twice.”
“Then you know what’s coming,” I said.
Damron studied me, eyes all calculation now. “You’re not just hiding out. You’re looking for payback.”
I let that hang, because it was true.
Seneca reached under the table and squeezed my hand. “They’re going to come again,” he said, low. “They don’t miss twice.”
“I’m counting on it,” I replied.
Damron leaned forward, voice a whisper. “You want to use us as bait?”
“Not bait,” I said. “Leverage.”
He sat back, bottle in hand. “Judge Bellini, you just might be crazier than any of us.”
I shrugged, and the motion hurt. “You ever try judging a mob trial in Yonkers?”
Seneca barked a laugh, then caught himself. “She’s Bellini, old blood.”
Nitro whistled. “Russo Bellini’s granddaughter?”
“That’s me,” I said, and this time I didn’t hide the pride or the threat in my voice.
Damron lifted his glass. “Well, shit. Welcome to the family.”
The other bikers had tuned in now, every eye on our corner. The tension had changed. Not softer, just more focused. I recognized the moment. It was like when a courtroom realized a witness was about to turn.
Seneca watched me, dark eyes unreadable. “You ready for this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s happening either way.”
Nitro grinned again, the smile more genuine now. “It was starting to get boring around here.”
I nodded. “I wasn’t planning on giving you this kind of excitement. I’ve got better ways to spend my time.”
Damron pushed out of the booth, wiped his hands on his jeans, and headed for a back hallway. Seneca poured me another shot. I took it, grateful for the burn.
Nitro finished his drink and followed Damron.
“You did good,” Seneca said, voice low.
“I held it together.”
He shook his head, a little awe and a lot of respect in the gesture. “You more than held it together, Catherine.”
The way my name rolled off his lips made my skin tingle.
“After this is over,” he said, “what are you going to do?”
I thought of the bench, the robe, the legacy I’d tried so hard to build. I thought of the ruined house and the bodies piling up like bad decisions. “I don’t know,” I said. “But it won’t be what I was.”
He nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did.
The room buzzed around us, the music starting again, rough and angry. I could feel the gaze of every man in the place, waiting to see what the judge would do next.
I took a breath, let the pain sharpen my focus, and decided I’d never be prey again.
Not here.
Not anywhere.
Nitro returned and motioned for us to follow him.
The meeting room was colder than the rest of the clubhouse, both in temperature and temperament.
The walls were hung with more of the club’s history: black-and-white photos of men long dead, flags from charters that no longer existed, a display case filled with medals and what looked suspiciously like war trophies.
The table was a single slab of wood, so wide and heavy I doubted it had ever left this room.
At the far end sat Damron, flanked by his officers.
Seneca took the last chair, and I sat along the wall, too used to being in the main chair.
Damron was reading when we entered, glasses perched on the end of his nose, eyes tracking every move. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.
“You sentenced one of ours last fall. Six to ten on a manslaughter beef,” Damron said, looking up from the sheet of paper.
I remembered. “Your man pled to avoid the needle.”
Damron smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You ever see a club brother die in a state pen?”
“I’ve seen a lot of men die,” I replied. “Some deserved it more than others.”
A murmur ran around the table—maybe respect, maybe amusement. Damron’s face didn’t change. He steepled his fingers. “You know why you’re here, Judge?”
I didn’t answer. Seneca did it for me.
“They hit her house last night. Martini crew. Two shooters, maybe three. She got out, but they’ll be back.”
Damron looked at me again, this time with the cold appraisal of a predator deciding if the wounded animal was worth finishing off. “Martini’s reach doesn’t usually get this far west.”
“Maybe they’re motivated,” I said. “Or maybe they don’t like being made fools of.” I explained the situation with my grandfather dying and the Martini’s opportunities.
Damron considered this, then glanced at Seneca. “You trust her?”
Seneca’s response was instant. “I do.”
That seemed to settle it. Damron gestured to the side, and one of the officers slid a file folder down the length of the table. It stopped in front of me with a soft thud.
“Your attorney,” Damron said. “She’s been busy.”
I opened the folder. Inside were printouts and screenshots of text messages, bank transfer confirmations, and a few grainy photos taken from across crowded bars.
The first page was a string of messages between Jenna and a number listed only as “MARTINI.” The language was clinical, but the intent was unmistakable.
There were locations, timing, and requests for updates.
Some of the later texts were more desperate, asking if “the package” had been delivered, if “the bell” had rung.
I kept flipping. There was a printout from Jenna’s bank, including a $10,000 deposit in cash, the day after the first attempt on my life. Another showed a one-way flight to Las Vegas under an alias I recognized from our college days—a name Jenna only used when she was running from something.