Page 26 of Property of the Bikers

I’ve been president of this club for nine years, and I know the difference between a room that’s behind me and a room that’s waiting to see which way things go. Tonight is the second kind, and I let them sit in it for a full minute after the last man takes his seat before I open my mouth.

Reeve is at my left. Folder closed, hands flat. Jax is at the far end of the row, and for once, he isn’t tilting his chair back. He’s sitting straight.

Ghost is against the wall instead of at the table. He does that sometimes when he wants a full view of the room rather than just the men across from him. I noticed it when he came in, and I didn’t say anything about it.

“Reeve,” I say.

He opens the folder and runs through the week. Three supplier cancellations, the insurance audit, the bank flags, the coordinated timing that traces back through two shell companies to a corporate attorney in Limassol with Bratva fingerprints on four other entities. He delivers it sequentially, and the room listens without interrupting because Reeve’s briefings don’t have fat in them, and everyone knows it.

When he closes the folder, the room stays quiet for a moment.

Then Holloway speaks.

He’s been a senior patch for six years, a solid man, runs the construction arm of the business with the right kind of competence that means I never have to think about that side of things. He isn’t a troublemaker. That’s what makes it matter that he’s the one who opens his mouth.

“We’ve absorbed a week of this,” he says. “Suppliers pulling out, insurance crawling up our backside, bank making noise. All of it coordinated, all of it clean, all of it because we’ve got a woman on the compound who isn’t patched, isn’t family, and isn’t anyone’s old lady.” He looks at me directly. “I’m not saying she should go. I’m saying the club deserves to know what we’re committing to before the next round lands.”

The room doesn’t move.

Briggs, a mid-level patch two seats down from Holloway, puts his hands on the table. “Nobody voted to take on a Bratva strategist. We voted to hold the perimeter. Those aren’t the same thing, and they’re starting to feel like they are.”

I let both of those sit. Not because I don’t have an answer, but because cutting them off before the room has heard them out loud would tell everyone that I don’t trust my own position to survive contact with the question.

Greer speaks next, from the far end. “What happens when the pressure stops being financial? What happens when it’s not suppliers and audits but something that comes through the gate?”

Nobody answers him. We all know what happens when it comes through the gate. That’s what the doubled patrol is for. That’s what the stationary men at the road approach are for. The answer isn’t in doubt. What’s in doubt is whether the answer is worth the cost of giving it.

I look at the table. “She’s on our ground,” I say. “Viktor Sokolov built a documented plan to have her killed after she delivers. We accepted her presence on this compound. Those are the facts.” I look at Holloway. “Reversing now doesn’t end the pressure. It tells Viktor and every other operation with eyes on Ruthless that our perimeter has a number on it. That if you find the right combination of supplier cancellations and insurance audits, you can move us off a position.” I pause. “That’s not a lesson I’m willing to teach.”

Holloway looks at the table for a moment. He isn’t happy. He isn’t supposed to be happy. Happy isn’t what I’m going for.

“This isn’t about her,” I continue. “It’s about what Ruthless is. You give ground when it costs you something, and you hold it when it costs you something. The cost is the same either way. The difference is what you are after you’ve paid it.”

Jax speaks from the end of the table. He leans forward on his elbows, and his voice is easy, but his eyes aren’t. “Bratva reads every move we make right now. We hand her over, we’ve told them that Ruthless ground is negotiable. That’s not a one-time concession. That’s an invitation.”

“Agreed,” Reeve says. “Returning her doesn’t close Viktor’s interest in this club. We’ve already refused him. That refusal is on record. Reversing it doesn’t erase it. It just adds capitulation on top of defiance. Worse optics than holding.”

From the wall, Ghost says quietly, “Cade’s got reasons nobody here needs to hear twice.” He doesn’t look up when he says it.

Holloway’s jaw tightens slightly and then releases. Briggs looks at the table. Even Greer, who has been the most vocal, sits back in his chair and doesn’t add anything.

Whatever question was still live in the room a moment ago has closed.

I don’t look at Ghost. I don’t acknowledge it. I look at the table and wait for the stillness to finish what it’s doing, and then I say, “Vote.”

Hands go up.

I count them. Not just the yes votes but the pace of every hand and the face behind it. Eight clear votes in the first two seconds. Two more, slower men who needed to see the count before they committed. Jax’s hand is up before I finish the word. Reeve doesn’t raise his hand because Reeve never votes, he advises, and everyone at this table understands that his presence on my left is its own kind of vote.

Three men don’t raise their hands. Holloway. Briggs. A newly patched Cole.

Greer’s hand goes up last, and he looks at me when he does it. Not warmly. But it goes up.

One hand stays flat on the table. Flat and open, palm down, not a fist. That’s Cutter, mid-level patch, and that’s a no. He doesn’t look away when I see it. I respect that. A man who votes against you and looks you in the eye while he does it is worth more than a man who abstains to keep his options open.

The gavel comes down.

The room breaks, conversations starting up. Holloway stands and catches my eye across the table and gives me a nod that means I heard you, not I agree with you, and I give him the same nod back because that’s an honest exchange and honest exchanges are worth maintaining.