Page 7 of Heresy (The Lost Gospels #1)

FOUR

THE LOGIC OF MONSTERS

HEX

T he heavy bolt slides home with a sound like a tomb door closing, metallic finality that reverberates through my bones and settles into the marrow where certainty used to live.

The thud echoes in the narrow hallway—final punctuation mark on a problem contained, another variable eliminated from the equation of survival.

I turn my back on the steel door, expecting the familiar weight of control to settle across my shoulders.

This is what I do. What I've always done.

I clean up messes. I erase complications.

I neutralize threats before they can poison the carefully maintained ecosystem of fear and loyalty that keeps my kingdom functioning.

The process should feel mechanical, administrative—another administrative task completed with surgical precision.

It doesn't come.

Instead, there's just a strange, hollow quiet in my mind, an unsettling stillness where cold relief should bloom like frost on glass. The absence feels wrong, unnatural—like reaching for a weapon that isn't there, like expecting solid ground and finding only a void beneath my feet.

Something is different about this one.

I push the feeling down, attempting to bury it under layers of ice and practice indifference, but it resists compression like water refusing to fit into an impossibly small container.

The sensation clings to the edges of my consciousness with the persistence of smoke that follows you regardless of which direction you turn.

The woman upstairs—Vera—has disrupted something fundamental in the architecture of my certainty.

Not just tactical considerations or operational security. Something deeper, more personal, residing in psychological territories I thought I'd mapped and secured years ago. Her defiance in that alley created fissures in foundations I believed were bedrock-solid.

Every step away from her cell feels like walking against invisible current.

I walk back down the stairs, boots heavy on worn wooden steps that creak beneath my weight like confessions under pressure.

Each footfall carries me further from the locked door and deeper into the familiar territory of my domain, but distance doesn't diminish the strange energy she's left vibrating in my nervous system.

As I descend, the familiar sounds of the clubhouse rise to meet me.

Low rumble of music bleeding through speakers that have absorbed decades of cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey.

Sharp crack of pool balls colliding with mathematical precision.

Rough laughter of my men—the acoustic signature of brotherhood forged in violence and maintained through mutual dependence on each other's capacity for destruction.

The sounds of my kingdom. The heartbeat of an empire built on loyalty and fear.

The moment my boots hit the main floor, transformation begins with viral efficiency.

Noise starts to die, conversations faltering mid-sentence like radio signals disrupted by atmospheric interference.

Laughter cuts off with surgical precision.

The man holding the pool cue freezes mid-stroke, chalk still balanced on tip like prayer interrupted by divine intervention.

This isn't the Vow of Silence—sacred quiet that speaks to brotherhood and discipline.

This is something older, more primal. Raw, untamed power of presence that operates below conscious thought, speaks directly to evolutionary circuitry that recognizes apex predators through pheromones and micro-expressions rather than rational analysis.

Every eye in the room turns to me, waiting.

They are a pack of wolves, and I am their alpha.

They smell the strange scent of prey I've dragged back to our den, taste the chemical signature of disruption in air that should carry only familiar brutality.

Their collective attention creates a gravitational field that bends reality around my movements, transforming a simple act of walking into a performance of dominance.

They are waiting for my command to either feast or forget.

I ignore them all, gaze sweeping over them with cold indifference that communicates more effectively than words ever could. The message is clear: the spectacle is over, the decision made, the problem managed according to protocols they don't need to understand.

Noise slowly resumes, but it's different now. Muted. Watchful.

The quality of sound changes, conversations resuming with careful modulation that suggests everyone is listening with one ear while speaking with the other.

They know something has shifted in the atmospheric pressure of our shared space, something that requires monitoring even if they can't identify the source.

I make my way to the bar, men parting for me without conscious thought.

Their bodies respond to proximity with automatic deference, creating corridors through which I move like Moses parting waters—except these waters are made of muscle and leather and barely contain violence held in careful suspension.

The beast is settled, but it is not at peace. And neither am I.

I navigate toward our usual corner table, the one shrouded in deepest shadows where serious business gets conducted.

Territory claimed through years of important conversations, a space that has absorbed more secrets than any confessional booth.

I don't need to look. I know they will follow.

The inner circle forms according to algorithms written in blood.

I catch Rook's eye and give a slight jerk of my head.

He understands immediately. Twenty years of partnership have taught us to communicate through gestures that carry more information than speeches.

He nods, grabbing the bottle of Macallan from the bar—whiskey reserved for moments when decisions are measured in graves.

My gaze finds Zero, who is already watching me with those dead, calculating eyes.

He detaches himself from the wall with mechanical efficiency, a coiled spring held in suspension.

Fuse starts to rise from the pool table, reading the group dynamic with pack-animal accuracy, but a look from me freezes him mid-motion.

This is not his council. His expertise lies in application, not strategy.

A moment later, my inner circle assembles with surgical precision. Rook sets the bottle and three glasses on the scarred wood. Zero stands at my shoulder—a silent sentinel whose presence promises violence. The triangle forms: strategic mind, tactical precision, executive authority.

Zero speaks first, as always. His voice is a flat monotone, surgical steel given vocal cords. "She's a liability. She saw the brand. We don't know who she is. The cleanest play is removal." He lays the words on the table like autopsy tools. "A body in the Gowanus Canal asks no questions."

It's the voice of pure, cold pragmatism. The voice I normally listen to without question.

Rook lets the silence hang before countering, his tone carrying a strategist's caution. "Killing a civilian photographer is messy. It brings federal heat. Her disappearance gets headlines; dead bikers don't. We need to know what we're dealing with first."

They are both right, and that's what makes this moment dangerous.

Zero sees the immediate threat. Rook sees the broader consequences.

They are the hammer and the scalpel, and I am the hand that wields them.

But as I listen, my mind refuses to focus.

Instead, it drifts back to that alley, replaying the moment I saw her face.

The terror in her eyes, yes, but something else buried beneath it.

A spark of defiance that caught light like a match struck in darkness.

Something primitive in me recognizes a kindred spirit in a woman who faced certain death with a spine of steel and fire in her eyes.

The arguments of my brothers circle the air. Zero's solution is clean. Rook is smart.

My gut tells me they're both wrong.

The feeling rises from somewhere deeper than logic, a language that predates civilization. This isn't about tactical considerations anymore. This has become personal in a way that threatens the very foundations of the man I've forced myself to become.

I raise a hand, a small gesture that cuts them both off. Real authority operates in the silence where a king shapes reality. They go still, eyes fixed on me, waiting.

"She lives," I say, the words emerging flat and final, a verdict from a place beyond reason. It’s not a strategy; it’s a recognition of something in her that mirrors a part of myself I thought I’d successfully murdered years ago.

Then I add the qualifier, the sharp edge that clarifies this mercy has an expiration date. "For now."

Zero’s jaw sets, dissent flickering in his dead eyes like a candle flame in an arctic wind. Rook’s expression is a mask, but his mind is working, searching for the hidden chess moves in a choice that feels dangerously emotional. Before either can speak, I give them the lie they can swallow.

"A normal civilian, cornered by three of us?

She would have been a screaming, crying mess.

" The image of her defiance burns behind my eyes—chin lifted, fury blazing.

"She didn't. She just watched us. I want to know why.

I don't like anomalies. She could be a plant.

Santos, Bratva, who knows. We find out what she is before she goes in the ground. "

This logic they can follow—tactical paranoia they understand. I pin Zero with a hard stare, making sure the final order brands itself onto his brain. "So this is how it is. Nobody talks to her. Nobody goes near that room. Her existence is known only to us." My gaze drifts to Rook and back.

"She is mine to handle."