Page 71 of Monk

“Thank you,” I managed, my throat tight.

Vivi had every right to walk into this clubhouse whenever she wanted. As Pence’s widow, she was still part of this family—even if her husband was dead. Even if he’d died because of what he’d done. Even if the circumstances of his death had torn the club apart. She was one of us. That didn’t just go away.

Kansas stepped forward, his hands sliding into his pockets in that casual way he had when he was trying to put someone at ease. “What can we do for you?” he asked, his tone measured and careful.

Vivi’s mouth tightened, her jaw clenching as she fought for control. For a moment, I thought she might break down right there in the hallway, might finally let the grief and anger pour out of her. But she didn’t. She was too strong for that. She took a deep breath, steadied herself with visible effort, and met Kansas’ gaze head-on. “I need to clear out the apartment,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Across the street.”

“Viv, that’s your place,” Kansas spoke up, concern evident in his tone.

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “That building belongs to the club and the ol’ ladies. I’m not an ol’ lady anymore.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying the pain beneath her stoic exterior.

“The fuck you’re not,” I growled before I could stop myself, taking a step forward. “You are one of us. That doesn’t change.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Monk, but I’m not. Not really. Not anymore.” She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. “I just want to get a few of my things. That’s all.”

I looked at Kansas, whose expression was unreadable. He simply nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Take whatever time you need. There’s no rush.”

Vivi’s eyes flicked to me, then back to Kansas, gratitude and sorrow warring on her face. “I just—” She stopped abruptly, her voice cracking, the words catching in her throat. “I just need to get it done. Get it over with. I can’t keep putting it off.”

I stepped forward before I could think better of it, before my brain could catch up with my instincts. “I’ll walk you over,” I offered, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

Vivi blinked, genuine surprise flickering across her exhausted face. “You don’t have to?—”

“I know,” I said, cutting her off as gently as I could manage. “But I’m offering. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

She stared at me for a long moment, studying my face as if trying to determine whether I meant it. Finally, she nodded, her shoulders sagging slightly with relief. “Okay,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “Thank you, Monk.”

Kansas’ gaze met mine over Vivi’s head, and I saw the approval there, the respect. The silent acknowledgment that I was doing the right thing, that this was what brothers did. What family did.

The apartment building was directly across the street from the clubhouse compound, close enough that you could see the comings and goings of the brothers from the upper-floor windows.

It was an old three-story structure, the kind that had been built in the seventies and hadn’t been updated since. Faded brick that had once been a deep red but had turned rust-colored over the decades. Peeling paint on the window frames, exposing the rotting wood underneath. A rusted metal staircase leading up to the second floor, its railing wobbly and loose in places. Kansas ordered the building retrofitted for apartments for the club members shortly after the massacre, turning what had been a crumbling eyesore into something functional. A safe haven. A place where the club could keep everyone close. Though noneof us really stayed there anymore. After the massacre, all of us refused to leave the clubhouse. We slept in the common rooms, crashed on couches, bunked together in the spare rooms. We couldn’t stand the thought of being separated, of being alone, of being vulnerable. The top floor of the building, the penthouse, belonged to Kansas and Kali, though they rarely used it, unless they needed a night away from the kids. They lived just outside Lawton, in a massive house Kali spent close to a year renovating. The second floor was broken up into two smaller penthouses, one for the VP and the other for the sergeant at arms. The ground floor was made up of several smaller apartments for the club brothers who didn’t hold a patch.

Vivi and Pence had lived on the second floor, in a corner unit overlooking the street.

I followed her up the stairs, the metal creaking and groaning under our weight, each step echoing in the quiet afternoon air.

She pulled a key from her tote bag, her fingers fumbling with it for a moment before she managed to slide it into the lock. She unlocked the door, pushing it open with a soft creak that seemed too loud in the silence. The apartment smelled stale. Musty. Like it had been closed up for too long. Like grief and abandonment had settled into the walls and seeped into the furniture. Vivi stepped inside, her shoulders rigid, her spine straight, her movements careful and deliberate, like she was afraid something might break if she moved too quickly.

I followed, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.

The living room was small but tidy. A worn leather couch sat against one wall, its cushions sagging in the middle from years of use. A coffee table in front of it, scarred and scratched but solid. A bookshelf lined with paperbacks and framed photos—pictures of Vivi and Pence at rallies, at parties, at the beach. Moments frozen in time when everything had been okay. A blanket draped over the arm of the couch, dark green and soft-looking, likesomeone had been sitting there just yesterday. Like Pence might walk out of the bedroom at any moment and ask what we were doing here. Vivi stood in the middle of the room, her boots planted on the worn carpet, staring at the space like she didn’t recognize it. Like she’d walked into someone else’s life.

“How are you holding up?” I asked quietly, my voice low and careful.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, her hands clenched white-knuckled around the strap of her tote bag, her jaw tight. Then she laughed.

A bitter, hollow sound that made my chest tighten and my stomach drop.

“How am I holding up?” she repeated, her voice sharp and cutting. “I’m holding up like shit, Monk. How the hell do you think I’m holding up?”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t try to placate her or tell her it would be okay. I just stood there, my hands at my sides, letting her have her anger. Letting her have whatever she needed to get through this moment. She could scream at me, throw things, curse my name—whatever it took. I’d take it all.

She deserved it. She deserved so much more than that. She deserved a husband who hadn’t betrayed her in the worst possible way. She deserved a life that hadn’t been built on lies and secrets and deception.

“My husband,” she said, her voice rising, sharp and jagged like broken glass, “the man I loved, the man I trusted, the man I thought Iknew—fucked an underaged club whore. He got her pregnant. He had a fuckingsonwith her.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she turned away, her hands shaking. I could see her shoulders trembling, could see the way she wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces together. “And I didn’t see it,” she continued,her voice breaking into something raw and wounded. “I didn’t see any of it. I was so fucking blind, so fucking stupid?—”