Page 100

"Yeah," I lied, staring at those empty seats. "Just thinking."

"About?"

About how Eddie wasn't wrong, even if his solution was unacceptable. About how more chairs might be empty before this ended. About whether love was worth other people's lives.

"Nothing important," I said instead, letting him pull me close.

But I caught Eddie watching from the doorway, and the look in his eyes said this conversation wasn't over.

Alittlelater,whileTysontalked tactics with his brothers, I found myself standing alone in front of Rico's and Johnnie's memorial, unable to look away from the patches that would never be upgraded to full member. My fingers traced the prospect rocker, feeling the raised embroidery, the quality leather that would outlast the men who'd worn it.

Rico's cut still smelled faintly of cologne, something woody and young, probably bought to impress girls at the party. There was a small stain near the pocket—barbecue sauce maybe, from some rushed meal between duties. These little details made him real, made the loss sharp enough to cut.

Johnnie's was worse somehow. Newer, stiffer, like he'd been conditioning the leather to make it perfect.

"Guilt's a heavy burden."

I jumped, spinning to find Eddie in the doorway. He moved quiet for a big man, or maybe I'd been too lost in my own head to hear him approach.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." He came in slowly, hands visible, everything about his body language saying 'non-threatening.' "Just wanted to pay my respects."

"I was just . . ." I gestured helplessly at the cuts. What was I doing? Apologizing to dead men who couldn't hear me?

"You were honoring them," Eddie said simply. "Nothing wrong with that. Shows you understand the weight of their sacrifice."

He moved to stand beside me, not too close, respecting personal space. Up close, I could see the grief in his eyes wasreal. Whatever else Eddie was, he genuinely mourned these losses.

"Did you know them well?" I asked, needing to hear something, anything that made them more than just casualties in my drama.

"Sponsored Johnnie myself." His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. "Good kid. Smart, dedicated. Would've made a solid brother."

Each word was a knife between my ribs. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," Eddie said, but his tone suggested otherwise. The words were right, but the delivery made them feel hollow, let the guilt sink deeper. "Just unfortunate timing. If we could've ended this before the party . . ."

"But Tyson said—"

"Tyson's thinking with his heart, not his head." Eddie pulled out his phone, swiping to photos. "Can't blame him. Man's in love, wants to protect you. But sometimes protection means making hard choices."

He showed me a picture—a young woman, pretty despite exhaustion, obviously pregnant, standing next to Johnnie at what looked like a barbecue. They were both laughing at something off-camera, his hand protective over her belly. Young love with their whole future ahead of them.

"Maria," Eddie said quietly. "Twenty years old. Works at the grocery store, been saving every penny for the baby. What's she going to do now?"

"The club will—"

"The club will help, sure. But money doesn't replace a father. Doesn't give that kid someone to teach them to ride a bike or throw a ball." He swiped to another photo. "And Rico's mom . . ."

This one was worse. An older woman, frail in a hospital bed, Rico beside her holding her hand. The resemblance wasclear—same eyes, same stubborn chin. Rico looked tired but determined, the good son doing his duty.

"Stage three cancer," Eddie said softly. "Rico was her only family, worked three jobs to pay for treatment. Who covers that now? Who holds her hand during chemo?"

"Stop." The word came out choked. "Please."

"I'm not trying to hurt you," Eddie said, pocketing his phone. "Just want you to understand the cost. Every day this war continues, more families get destroyed. More mothers lose sons, more children grow up without fathers."

"Like using me as bait would change that."

"Like ending this before more die would change that," he corrected gently. "One day, few hours maybe. Draw Cruz out, let the brothers handle him. Clean, surgical, done."