I haven't shown up for myself. Not where it matters.
Lattimer used my past against us. Pearl died with our intel on her phone. Syvannah was taken by men wearing the same cut I once wore.
My stomach tightens.
I tip the bucket and shake the last of the feed into the grass. The dog lifts his head, eyes bright with a kind of hope that feels too familiar.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You and me both.”
I turn toward the garage. Trigger is rolling up a cord. He glances at me once, brows pulling together. “You look like shit,” he says.
“That supposed to pass as concern?” I ask.
“It is when I say it,” he replies, tossing the cord aside. “You alright?”
“Not yet.”
Trigger’s mouth opens like he wants to push, then he shuts it again and nods. “If you need an ear, you know where I am.”
“I know.” He claps my shoulder once before walking off. It should ground me, but it doesn’t.
Capone steps out of the garage a moment later, wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze sweeps over me from head to toe. He sees too much. Always has. “You carrying something?” he asks quietly.
I shift my weight. The rag in his hand hangs still. He’s waiting. “Yeah,” I say. “I need the table tonight.”
His eyebrows lift. Not in judgment, but in recognition. “Church?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Capone studies me for a moment, then gives a small nod, solid as concrete. “One hour.” He walks back inside without another word. That silence is trust. It is also a reminder of everything I have been avoiding.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the brothers talk, the garage hum, and the faint growl of a bike on the road far away. Maybe Syvannah is already on her way back. Maybe she is talking to Peanut, to Dr. Chen, or to herself.
I breathe in slowly, then exhale. The decision settles in my bones like something old finally laying itself down. She shows up. It is time for me to do the same.
I scrub my hands clean in the garage sink. The water runs brown, then clear. My fingers tremble under the faucet. Not from fear, but from relief. All the truth is coming.
The Church room feels smaller tonight. The walls bear the weight of every vote, every war, and every loss we have carried. The polished wood reflects the faces I trust with my life and those I have bled beside.
I take my seat at the table slower than usual, the weight of the cut on my shoulders heavier tonight. My brothers fill in around me, boots scraping concrete, chairs shifting. Low murmurs die as Capone lifts the gavel, his face unreadable, his dark eyes scanning the room.
Capone stands at the head, shoulders square, jaw set. He slams the gavel once. “Church is in session.” The sound echoes louder than it should.
My hands are clasped tight in front of me, knuckles white, pulse steady only because I’ve trained it to be. Trigger leans forward, both forearms on the table. Torch sits back, but his attention remains sharp. Blayze folds his arms across his chest. Bones and Dagger mirror each other without meaning to.
Capone sits, lights a cigarette, leans back in his chair, and looks straight at me. “Told you the table would be yours when you were ready.”
Every man watches me. I breathe once, slow enough that it hurts on purpose. “I have something to put on the table,” I say.
Trigger frowns, already reading the heaviness in my voice. “This about Syvannah?”
“No,” I answer. “This is about me.”
The chair legs scrape loudly on the concrete as I stand. The sound tightens my shoulders. I rest my hands on the table,grounding myself, feeling the carved grooves of names, years, and blood beneath my palms.
“I need to clear something,” I say. The steadiness in my voice surprises me. “Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”
Torch leans back in his chair, arms crossed. Blayze’s gaze sharpens. Aftermath doesn’t blink.