Page 97 of Property of the Bikers

The room fills faster than usual.

Word has moved through the compound the way word always moves, sideways and faster than it was officially released, and the men filing into the church room have a quality of readiness about them that tells me they know this isn’t a threat briefing. They’ve been waiting for this meeting since yesterday morning when Ghost’s truck came through the gate.

I let the room settle.

Full patch. Full prospects. Ghost beside the door. Reeve at my left. Jax at the far end of the table.

Mira is at the back of the room. She’s in the property vest I had Maya prepare last week, modified for the pregnancy, the Ruthless patch sitting over her left chest the way it sits on every member of this club. She’s standing with her hands loose at her sides and her chin up, and she’s reading the room the way she reads every room, exits first, then people, then the table, then me.

I nod once.

She holds her position.

“The threat has been eliminated,” I say.

The room is quiet. Not the loaded quiet of men waiting for bad news. The specific quiet of men receiving confirmation of something they already knew.

“Viktor Sokolov is gone. His network has been notified that the matter is closed. The Bratva has accepted the resolution. There will be no retaliation.” I look down the table. “The siege on this compound is over.”

Nobody speaks for a moment.

Then Hayes says, quietly, “Good riddance.”

Several men nod. A few say nothing. Ghost stays exactly where he is.

I let it sit for ten seconds.

Then I stand up straight. “Second item,” I say. “Mira Volkov has been on this compound for five weeks. She ran operations with us. She sat in this room, heard our plans, and kept them. She volunteered as controlled bait to spring the trap that eliminated the threat.” I pause. “She stayed when leaving was still a viable option. She chose this ground.”

The room is listening.

“She’s my old lady.”

I hold the silence for three full seconds.

“And Jax’s,” I say. “And Reeve’s.”

The silence shifts.

Not hostile. Not approving. The silence of a room that has received information it wasn’t fully prepared for and is running the implications in real time.

Holloway speaks first. He’s been a senior patch for nine years, and he asked the first hard question five weeks ago, and he asks the hard question now, directly and without malice, which is the only way Holloway has ever operated.

“That’s not how this works,” he says. “Old ladies don’t split between men. Not in this club. Not in any club I know of. President, VP, Road Captain sharing one woman sets a precedent this club hasn’t voted on.”

“It is now,” I say. “Vote.”

Holloway looks at the table. “With respect,” he says, “the club deserves more than two words before it votes on something this significant.”

He’s right.

I look at Jax.

Jax leans forward on his elbows. “She ran operations with us,” he says. “Not as a civilian we were protecting. As a strategic asset who contributed intelligence that shaped the counterstrike, identified methodology we hadn’t mapped, and held her position under conditions most people don’t hold up under.” He looks at Holloway. “She acted with more loyalty to this club over the last five weeks than some people who are patched into it.”

He doesn’t name names.

He doesn’t need to.