Page 91 of Riot’s Revenge

For a long moment he didn’t move, then he exhaled heavily and leaned back in his chair. “I can’t do what he did.”

The words were spoken quietly, but they seemed to fill the room, but every man sitting around that table knew exactly what he meant.

He wasn’t talking about running church or club business. He was talking about Shadow and trying to fill shoes nobody could fill. About losing a father.

“You don’t have to,” I said softly.

Reaper lifted his head.

“You don’t have to do what he did.”

My throat tightened slightly. “Nobody can.”

A few heads nodded around the table.

“He spent years teaching you how to lead. Not how to be him.”

Something shifted in Reaper’s expression, but it wasn’t acceptance just then, but maybe understanding.

I hoped so, because Shadow had spent most of Reaper’s life preparing him for it, whether either of them realized it at the time or not.

The club had already made its choice years ago, the vote was merely making it official.

The rest of church passed quickly after that. Most of the brothers drifted out once business was concluded, leaving behind half-empty coffee cups and a silence that seemed to linger long after they’d gone.

Eventually, only Reaper and I remained, sitting in silence.

The room still felt strange and unfamiliar. As though the world had shifted slightly off its axis and neither of us had figured out how to stand properly again.

Reaper’s gaze settled on the President’s chair, he stood, and I watched him cross the room slowly before stopping beside it. His hand rested against the back of the chair and stayed there for several seconds. Eventually Reaper sat down, the leather creaked softly beneath his weight.

He looked around the room and shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Reaper looked over. “You laughing at me?”

“Little bit.”

For the first time in weeks, the corner of his mouth twitched. The smile didn’t last and neither did mine, but it was a start.

I looked at the chair, at the man sitting in it, and despite everything, I knew Shadow would have approved. The thought hurt, my heart squeezing painfully, but somehow it helped too.

37

MARIA

The clubhouse looked nothing like it had three months earlier.

I stood on the porch with a bottle of beer in one hand and looked out across the yard while the late afternoon sun cast everything in warm shades of gold. If I looked hard enough, I could still see traces of what had happened. A section of wall had been rebuilt from scratch, the paint covering it still slightly brighter than the rest of the building. The replacement windows reflected the sunlight a little too perfectly, their new glass standing out against the older panes surrounding them.

Near the barbecue, Ghost was arguing with Spider about something neither of them seemed particularly invested in winning. A handful of prospects stood nearby pretending not to listen while clearly listening to every word.

Watching them, I couldn’t help smiling. The argument itself was ridiculous, but there was something comforting about it. Ghost and Spider bickering over nothing felt normal, and after everything the club had been through, normal had become something worth appreciating.

For months it had felt as though grief had settled over the clubhouse like a storm cloud. Even when people laughed, it never quite reached their eyes. Every conversation seemed to circle back to who we’d lost or what had happened.

Shadow’s absence could still be felt in a hundred small ways, and Tiny and Ripper’s empty seats were impossible to ignore whenever the club gathered together. Some wounds would take far longer to heal than others, but the grief no longer felt suffocating.