Chapter 179 Reborn

Chapter 179 Reborn
Knox

The Church room had never felt so empty, not even in the dead of winter, when the old radiators rattled and the wind howled at the windows. It was an emptiness that pressed in, thick and suffocating, refusing to let anyone breathe easy.

At the head of the battered oak table, Lucian’s chair stood sentinel. No one had dared touch it. His mug, a chipped, heavy thing, still sat beside the armrest, a sliver of cold coffee glinting inside. Half full, or maybe half empty. No one wanted to decide.

A scatter of paperwork remained spread across the table in front of his seat, forms and folders he’d dug into earlier that morning. For a wild, desperate moment, it looked like he might walk back through the door any second, grumble about everyone standing around like lost sheep, and tell us to sit the hell down.

But he didn’t.

Instead, there was only silence, thick, unnatural, the kind of quiet that prickled at the back of your neck.

I found myself standing behind his chair, one hand resting on the worn leather. The grooves were familiar under my palm, scars of years, rings pressed into the arm by Lucian’s steady grip. I couldn’t bring myself to sit. Not yet. Not with the room feeling like a mausoleum.

One by one, the others filtered in. Victor, limping, eased himself into his usual spot with a sharp hiss between his teeth.

“Son of a…” he muttered, jaw tight with pain.

Doc shot him a glare from across the table, his hands already fishing in a battered medical kit. “If you’d quit moving every five damn seconds, I’d be done sewing you up.”

Victor grunted, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been shot before.”

“And you’ve complained every damn time.” Doc’s reply was dry as dust.

A few quiet laughs slipped around the table, not because it was funny, but because everyone needed something that sounded normal. Anything that pushed back the weight in the room.

Doc leaned over Victor’s shoulder, threading another stitch through torn flesh. Victor winced, muttering curses, but didn’t move away. Doc tied off the suture, then glanced at me, first at my face, then at Lucian’s empty chair, then back at me, a silent question hanging in the air.

Nobody spoke. The silence pressed in harder.

At last, Victor cleared his throat. “You’re standing in the wrong place.”

I frowned, lost in the fog of grief. “What?”

He nodded at Lucian’s chair. “That one’s yours now.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I shook my head, stubborn, almost desperate. “No. Not yet.”

Elias spoke from the far end of the table, his voice rougher and older than I remembered. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re ready or not.” He leveled his gaze at me, cold and steady. “Lucian’s gone.”

The truth hurt more than any bullet.

“That makes you President.”

No ceremony. No vote. No argument. Just truth, heavy as a gravestone.

I stared at the chair. Every instinct screamed at me not to sit. It was Lucian’s, would always be Lucian’s, no matter what patch I wore.

Victor shifted, wincing as Doc jammed another needle through his shoulder. “Hell…” he breathed out, “You also need a Vice President. And a Sergeant-at-Arms.”

I turned to Elias. “…You are the Sergeant-at-Arms.”

He shook his head slowly, refusing. “No.”

Confused, I studied his face. “What do you mean, no?”

“I was Lucian’s Sergeant-at-Arms.” His eyes flickered to the empty chair. “I’d have followed that stubborn son of a bitch into Hell itself. But I won’t wear that patch for anyone else.”

A smile ghosted over his lips, gone in a heartbeat. “I’ll help you. I’ll advise. I’ll vote. I’ll fight. But from now on…” He tapped the table in front of his usual seat, a quiet, final gesture. “…I’m just another patch at this table.”

I didn’t know how to answer. Hell, I didn’t know what to say about any of it.

Before I could find the words, the door creaked open. Darius stepped inside, looking like he hadn’t slept in days, his phone still clutched in one hand.

“They released Caleb,” he said, voice hoarse.

Every eye in the room snapped to his face.

“The county finally signed off. We can bury him.”

The air grew heavier, like the room itself mourned.

Caleb. Lucian. Ash.

Three funerals. Three. Jesus Christ.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, as if I could wipe away the ache settling deep in my bones. I looked at Darius. “You.”

He blinked in surprise. “Me?”

“You were Vice President for years.”

He nodded, almost warily. “I was.”

“You know how this works.”

“I do.”

I nodded at the empty VP chair. “Can you be Vice President again…” I sighed, the weight of the day pressing down, “…without being a total fucking dick this time?”

Darius laughed, rough and raw. “I thought I was still technically a prospect.”

A few brothers chuckled, the sound a balm over an open wound.

I shrugged. “A lot of shit changed today.” Silence. I nodded again, more resolved. “Until things settle, you’re VP.”

A Nomad stood without a word, crossing the room to fetch Darius’s old cut. The leather was faded, the Vice President rocker still stitched on the back. He handed it over. Darius stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it on. It fit like he’d never taken it off.

I met his eyes. “If you’re wearing that patch…”

He nodded, solemn. “Then I leave my old life behind.” His smile faded. “No more FBI. No more Bureau. No more police.”

I leaned in, my voice low and certain. “We’re your family now.”

Darius swallowed hard. “The FBI pays for my apartment.”

“They won’t after this.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking lost for the first time. “…I’m gonna need somewhere to live.”

I glanced at Elias, who nodded once... final, unquestioning. Done.

“Get your shit tonight,” I said to Darius.

He managed a faint smile. “Thanks.”

I held his gaze, cold steel behind my words. “But hear me clearly, if you ever turn your back on this club again…” I let the threat hang in the air. “…I’ll do worse to you than I did to Rourke.”

Darius met my eyes, steady as stone. “I understand.”

He moved around the table, stopping behind the Vice President’s chair. He didn’t sit. Not yet. Just like me.

The room’s attention shifted to the last empty chair: Sergeant-at-Arms.

I stared at it, the answer clear.

“The only man I trust to watch my back,” I said, scanning the room, “and pull the trigger without asking questions… is Jinx.”

Victor raised a hand, slow and tentative. “He might be a problem.”

I looked over, searching his face.

Victor nodded toward the hallway. “Lily’s got him settled down. But… he wasn’t himself. He was a fucking monster earlier.”

I nodded, heavy-hearted. “I know.”

No one argued.

I turned to the Nomads. “Spread the word.”

They straightened in unison.

“I want every chapter within three states here.”

A few confused looks.

“We’re burying three of our own.” My voice hardened. “I want the world to hear us.”

The Nomads nodded... no questions, no hesitation.

I turned to Atlas, who hadn’t spoken since the rescue. He looked hollow, eyes shadowed with loss.

“Atlas.”

He looked up, slow and wary.

“I want every file. Every account. Every business. Every politician. Every judge. Every son of a bitch Rourke ever touched.”

His jaw set. “I’ll find them.”

“We’re not done,” I said.

“No.” He stood, taller than before. “We’re just getting started.”

I looked back at Victor. “As soon as Doc’s done sewing you back together—”

Victor sighed, resigned. “…I know.”

“Find Belle.”

He pulled out his phone, ignoring Doc’s glare. “Already on it.”

I nodded, then pulled out my own phone. One text.

Marcus. Clubhouse. Now.

Ash’s station sat vacant... his pens still lined up, his ledger open. Someone had to fill the gap. Marcus already knew the books, the logistics, the way Ash liked things organized. No one could replace him, but the club had to keep moving.

I slipped the phone away.

“Darius.”

“Yeah?”

“Any prospects worth patching in?”

He snorted. “Not a damn one.”

A few tired laughs circled the table.

“We need fresh blood.”

I nodded. “Start recruiting.”

He jotted the note down, quick and efficient.

Before anyone could say another word, the Church room door creaked open again. Every head turned.

Lily stood in the doorway, barefoot, swimming in one of Jinx’s oversized black T-shirts, her hair wild, skin pale. Each step she took left a new smear of red on the wooden floor.

My eyes dropped to her leg... blood dripping steadily down her calf.

For a long, breathless second, no one moved.

Then I threw up my hands, exasperated and afraid. “Jesus Christ, Lily.”