His eyes move from the maps on the table to the folder, to the gun Saint’s still got his hand on, to me sitting at his right.
“Interesting,” Sol muses.
Saint’s face goes still as Bricks mutters, “Here we fucking go,” low enough that maybe only I hear it.
Sol walks farther into the room. No one offers him a chair. It’s the first sign something has changed, though I don’t think Sol notices immediately. He’s too busy looking at the table as if it’s betrayed him by continuing to function without his hand on it.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw Varina Ward walk out of here alive,” he says. “And the remaining Rogues are being offered exit instead of burial.” A chuckle rumbles through him as he stops in front of the table. “You threaten to take over the club and this is how you’re running it?”
“Join or leave. Yes.”
Sol laughs once, the bitterness in the sound making my stomach churn. “You can dress weakness in policy all you want, Saint. It still smells the same.”
“The terms have been handled and agreed upon,” Saint says.
“Handled,” Sol repeats. “You’re dismantling what I built one sentimental exception at a time. You let a Ward walk into my clubhouse with what I assume are more lies because that’s all they know how to do and leave with cash. She even counted it in the lot. You let captured men who raised weapons against us breathe because your husband still thinks family is a word worth saving. You stop mid-meeting to ask permission from the political theater sitting beside you.”
I frown, confused on how he knows any of that until I remember he is still the club president. There’s no doubt in my mind that some of the older generation are loyal to him or at least loyal enough to feed him information.
Saint stands, the chair legs scraping against the floor loud enough to make Demo flinch near the wall. “Say that again,” Saint growls.
Sol smiles, and for the first time I understand how much cruelty can live inside disappointment. “Political theater. That’swhat he is. Rogue blood in Obsidian leather, useful because he makes you look merciful while you tear apart the club that fed him. You think letting him soften the terms makes you different from me. It doesn’t. It makes you easier to move.”
Saint steps away from the table, anger radiating through him, his hand clenched a little too tightly around his gun. I reach for him but he’s just out of reach, horror exploding through my chest.
“You built a fortress and called it a club,” Saint says.
Sol’s smile thins. “I built the only reason you’re alive.”
“No,” Saint says, voice low enough that the room leans toward it. “My mother did that. You just taught me how to survive afterward.”
Sol’s face contorts with anger as Saint steps closer.
“You keep talking about what you built like the walls were the point. Fear dressed as wisdom. Control dressed as order. Men obeying because they’re more scared of disappointing you than dying for you. That’s not loyalty. That’s a room waiting for the first person brave enough to stop pretending.”
“You think this is bravery?” Sol gestures toward the table, toward me, toward the maps. “This is a boy throwing away the discipline that made him useful because he got addicted to being needed.”
Saint laughs, nothing soft in that sound. “No. This is me finally understanding why Mom left.”
The room goes so quiet that even the bar seems to stop breathing.
“You don’t get to speak about her.”
“I’m the only one here who should,” Saint says. “You buried her name under lessons because admitting she left you would mean admitting she looked at this place, looked at you, and chose the road. You told yourself love was weakness because it was easier than saying you loved badly and lost anyway.”
Sol stalks closer, closing the distance until he’s only a few feet from Saint. “Careful.”
Saint doesn’t back up. “No. You see, you made a fatal mistake,Dad.You built Obsidian to be a club loyal to the club, not to the man. In your head, you became the club so that the loyalty would also carry over to you. The problem is in the last several weeks, it’s been very fucking easy to see that you don’t stand with the club. You have some agenda and it’s not working out for Obsidian.”
Bricks steps forward, slow enough not to startle the room and deliberate enough that no one mistakes it for anything but a line being drawn. “I say we settle this right here, right now.”
Sol turns his head. “You have something to say, Bricks?”
“Yeah,” Bricks says. “I’m tired of watching a dead man argue with the future.” He raises an eyebrow before twisting around to face the club. Most of the men are gathered around in between drinks and just wanting to see what happens next. “The vote to hand the club to Saint was always going to happen but I think it’s time now to bring in the new generation. What say you?”
It’s silent for a few moments and then hands start to raise. Some even move toward Saint, physically making a point of where they stand. Even the prospects shift toward the bar, closer to Saint than to the man who built the chair he’s losing.
Sol looks around the room, obviously disgusted before glaring at Saint. “Does this mean you want me to leave?”
