Chapter 23
Rook
The corner of the clubhouse has always been my quiet place.
It’s not especially quiet, but the low hum of conversation from the bar turns into a distant murmur, like a storm heard through thick walls, softened and dulled until it becomes something almost rhythmic.
Glasses clink faintly, boots scuff against wooden floors, laughter rises and falls—but none of it reaches here with any sharp edge.
I sit in the same seat, the foam molded to my shape from years of use, one arm resting along the top edge of the booth, fingers tapping absently against the cracked vinyl.
I sit with my back to the wall, able to look out at the entire room, no blind spots or surprises.
My gaze tracks the room out of habit more than necessity, cataloging movements, faces, exits, instinctively mapping the space even when there’s no threat.
Across from me, Cruz leans back in his usual relaxed sprawl, long legs stretched out, fingers idly turning a bottle he hasn’t taken a sip from in minutes.
His posture says ease, but I know better, there’s always a current of awareness under it.
Boone sits beside me, steady and solid, forearms resting on the table, his presence quiet but unmistakable.
A few days ago, this space between us would have been tense, sharp, ready to break like glass under pressure just waiting for the right crack.
It’s different now. Not lighter, exactly.
But stronger. We’ve been tested and reforged.
No one is pretending nothing happened. No one is forgetting it.
But it’s settled. Understood. We’re aligned again in the only way that matters.
We have the same direction, the same goal.
We might not be perfect, but we’re a family.
Cruz finally breaks the silence, glancing toward the hallway. “She’s been up there all morning,” he says, his voice quieter than usual, threaded with concern.
Boone nods once, slow and sure. “She’s close.”
I don’t ask how he knows. We all do. Sloane doesn’t slow down unless she’s finishing something.
Doesn’t stop until it’s done. The door at the far end of the room opens, the hinges creaking, and as if summoned by our thoughts, there she is.
Even from across the clubhouse, she pulls my attention like a magnet, everything else fading to the background.
Sloane moves with purpose, a stack of files tucked under her arm, her posture straight despite the exhaustion I know she’s fighting.
The overhead lights catch in her hair as she walks, loose strands slipping free from where she tied it back, framing her face in a way that makes her look softer and sharper at the same time.
There’s a faint crease between her brows, her focus turned inward even as she walks, already three steps ahead of wherever she is physically.
She looks tired yet alert and sharp at the same time, propelled by that inner force that drives her.
She’s alive in a way that’s hard to look away from. Not that I ever want to.
She spots us immediately and heads straight over, weaving through the tables without breaking stride.
Conversations dip slightly as she passes.
Awareness, respect, Sloane has earned her place, not only as our old lady, but as the club’s lawyer, as a formidable woman.
She belongs here more than anyone new I’ve seen in a long time.
She reaches the booth and doesn’t hesitate, sliding in beside Cruz, who swings his legs out of the way, making space for her without a word. She sets the files down with a soft but deliberate thud.
“We need to talk.” Her voice is calm and resolved.
Cruz straightens immediately, the lazy ease drops from his posture as he leans forward, interest sharp in his eyes. “That sounds serious,” he says.
“It is.”
Boone turns slightly toward her, his attention fully locked in.
I shift just enough to face her more directly. “Tell us.”
She takes a breath, not to steady herself, but to organize her thoughts, and then she starts. “I’m ready to take this to the police.”
For a second, no one speaks. Not because we’re unsure, but because we understand exactly what that means.
There’s no stepping back from that move.
Once we do this, we can’t handle it ourselves.
Iron Vale MC will be fully under law enforcement’s scrutiny, unable to make a move against Briggs without them knowing.
The weight of that decision settles heavily, like a physical presence at the table.
Cruz exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his jaw. “That fast?” he asks, though there’s no real doubt in his tone.
Sloane shakes her head slightly. “It’s not fast,” she says. “It just feels like it because everything else has been reactive.”
Her hands move as she speaks, spreading the documents across the table with precision, each section laid out in a way that makes immediate sense, financial records here, property maps there, transaction trails connecting everything in between.
Papers slide against wood, the soft whisper of movement filling the silence.
“I have enough to establish pattern, intent, and structure,” she continues. “The shell companies link. The money flows. The property acquisitions. It all points to the same operation.”
I lean forward and pick up one of the files. Even before I read it properly, I can see the organization, the clarity, the way every piece slots into place. It’s airtight. The kind of case that should take a whole team of lawyers years to pull off.
Cruz leans in beside me, scanning over the pages. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You weren’t kidding.”
Boone studies another section more slowly, his eyes moving line by line carefully. “This is solid work,” he says, admiration tinging his voice that makes her cheeks flush with pride.
Sloane nods once. “I know.” There’s no arrogance in the statement. She knows her worth.
“What about Briggs?” I ask.
Her gaze lifts to mine immediately. “Briggs is tied in through the network,” she says. “Not directly enough to stand alone, but combined with everything else, and with Connor’s testimony, it’s enough to prosecute.”
Cruz’s expression tightens slightly, and he voices the concern we all share. “As long as Connor doesn’t fold.”
“He won’t,” she says with certainty.
“You trust him?” Boone asks, not for the first time.
“No,” she replies without hesitation. “But I understand Connor’s motivations. That’s enough.”
I flip another page, and that’s when I notice it. Not something that’s there, but something that isn’t. My fingers rest on the paper as I scan again. It’s not there. I look up at her. “You left something out.”
Cruz glances between us. “What?”
Sloane doesn’t look surprised. Of course, she doesn’t. She knew I’d catch it.
“The offer,” I say. I don’t elaborate, I don’t need to.
Boone stills beside me. Cruz’s eyes sharpen. “What offer?” Boone asks.
Sloane answers calmly. “Briggs’ attempt to purchase the land.”
Boone’s gaze shifts to me. We’ve already had this fight, already torn the stitching of our friendship open, and then sewn it back together. Boone looks between us. Then back at Sloane. “And it’s not in the case?”
“No,” she says.
“Why not?” he asks slowly.
Sloane meets his gaze directly. “Because including it weakens the case.”
Cruz frowns. “How?”
“It shifts the narrative,” she explains. “It gives the defense an alternative motive, one that reframes Briggs’ actions as reactive rather than premeditated.”
Boone considers that. “And that helps him.”
“Yes.”
I watch her. “You’re protecting the case,” I say. “You’re protecting me.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Cruz lets out a quiet breath. “That’s a big call.”
“I know.”
Boone studies her for a long moment. “You’re sure it won’t harm the case?”
“I don’t make decisions like this lightly,” she says.
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”
I lean back slightly, studying her. “Say it,” I tell her.
She tilts her head. “Say what?”
“Why did you really make that call? Not the legal answer. The real one.”
Sloane’s fingers rest lightly on the edge of the table; she taps them as she thinks. “I’ve spent my entire career making judgment calls,” she says quietly. “Deciding what strengthens a case and what destroys it.” Her eyes hold mine. “This is no different.”
Cruz shakes his head slightly. “It is different.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “Because this time, I care about the people affected. The case is personal. I’m not ignoring it,” she continues. “I’m weighing it, and I’ve decided that including it does more harm than good.” She pauses. Then softly adds, “And yes. I’m also protecting you.”
Something tightens in my chest. It’s not guilt. Not exactly. I nod once because I understand.
Boone exhales slowly. “Then we move forward together,” he says.
Cruz nods. “Yeah. No more holding back.”
I look at Sloane. “Alright,” I say. “Let’s finish this.”
***
Given that MC business sometimes skirts the boundaries of legality, we try and keep as far away from the cops as possible. So I can’t say I feel comfortable as I walk through the entrance to the precinct.
People move around us—uniforms, plainclothes, civilians—but their voices seem muted, like we’re walking through something separate from the rest of the world.
Conversations dip as we pass, not stopping entirely, but shifting just enough to acknowledge that we don’t belong here in the same way everyone else does.