Chapter 25 #3
The club fills the pews in a way that feels both controlled and instinctive, as if every man knows where his body should be without being told.
Cuts shift and settle as brothers sit, leather creaking in a muted chorus, and boots scrape the floor with deliberate restraint.
Bones stands near the entrance, arms crossed, eyes scanning every movement.
Dagger positions himself where he can see both the aisle and the windows.
Red stands off to the side near the back, phone tucked away but attention fixed on the door, the parking lot beyond the stained-glass panels, anything that might break the quiet.
Aftermath lingers closer to the front, posture rigid, shoulders squared as if he’s holding the entire room together through sheer force of will.
Up near the coffin, Monica and Danyella keep their grief hidden in tasks, exchanging silent looks, tiny nods, and subtle hand motions that keep everything moving smoothly without drawing attention.
Danyella straightens one of the floral arrangements and steps back to check the symmetry, as if perfection might be the only control she has over death.
Monica confirms something with a glance at Capone and receives a barely perceptible nod in return.
Pearl’s coffin sits at the front like an unanswered question, its polished wood catching candlelight in thin gold lines. Her name is etched on a simple plaque. The silence here isn’t peaceful; it’s vigilant, heavy with what happened and everything that could have happened.
Tiny’s knee brushes mine as I sit, warm and solid, a grounding touch that keeps me from floating too far into my head.
The hum of the overhead lights mingles with the faint creak of old pews shifting under the weight of cut-wearing men.
My pulse beats loud in my ears, but the room holds steady, held together by candlelight, loyalty, and the unspoken understanding that this is not about pretending Pearl was innocent; it’s about closing the door without letting her death become another open wound.
Pearl was a problem. She was also one of them.
No one pretends she was anyone other than who she was. The priest keeps it neutral, respectful, and distant. When it’s over, people rise slowly, one by one, filing past the coffin in silence.
When it’s my turn, my chest tightens. Tiny’s hand squeezes mine once before letting go.
I step forward alone. The white rose feels heavier now. I look down at the coffin, and for a moment, memories surge. Pearl’s voice, her lies, the trap, the cage, the fear.
I close my eyes. “I forgive you,” I whisper, barely louder than my breath. “Not because you deserve it, but because I don’t want to carry you anymore.” I place the rose gently on top, its bright, clean petals against the dark wood.
When I turn away, Daisy is waiting. We go outside, and the air feels different, cooler and cleaner. I’m standing near the edge of the lot when Nadia comes up beside me. She doesn’t ask permission to share my space because she earned that right the same way I did, through survival.
She stops shoulder to shoulder with me, close enough that I can feel her presence, steady and solid. Her posture is straight, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed on the trees lining the property rather than on me. The wind tugs at her hair, and she doesn’t flinch.
“I should’ve seen it sooner,” she says quietly. No apology layered with excuses. Just truth. “I thought I could manage her. Thought I could keep it from spilling over.”
I nod once. “We both thought that.”
Nadia exhales, slow and controlled. “I won’t make that mistake again.” There’s weight in her words. Not a promise meant to soothe, but a vow meant to change behavior.
She turns her head, finally looking at me. Her eyes don’t ask for forgiveness. They acknowledge damage. “I’m glad you made it out,” she says. “I’m glad we did.”
Something tight in my chest eases. “So am I,” I reply.
We stand there a moment longer, two women who were caged and have come back breathing, watching the club move around us, engines idling, voices low, life continuing. When Nadia steps away, she squeezes my arm once, firm and grounding.
Daisy walks toward me at the edge of the lot, away from the others. She doesn’t rush. She never does. When we stop, she leans against the stone wall, arms folded loosely, her eyes soft yet sharp.
“That took guts,” she says.
I shrug, the motion small. “It didn’t feel brave.”
“Mercy never does,” Daisy replies. “People think forgiveness is a weakness because it doesn’t look like a fight. But choosing not to bleed anymore is strength.” I nod as Daisy continues. “Closure isn’t an apology. It’s deciding what doesn’t get to live rent-free in your head.”
Her words settle deep, anchoring something that’s been floating loose for too long.
I glance back at Tiny, who stands a few yards away, talking quietly with Capone, his posture relaxed, his presence solid. He looks over and meets my gaze, concern flickering until he sees my face and understands.
I’m okay.
For the first time in a long time, temptation doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t promise escape, numbness, or silence. It has nothing left to offer me.
I turn back to Daisy and let out a slow breath. “Thank you,” I say.
She smiles, warm and sure. “Anytime.”
We walk back together, neither rushing nor lingering. Just moving forward. This time, it doesn’t feel like I’m running from anything at all.