Then he's gone, and it's just me and Capone and the weight of every lie I've ever told.
The garage smells like oil and regret. Capone shuts the door behind us, and the click of the latch sounds like a cell door closing. Final. Absolute.
He doesn't speak immediately. Just leans against the workbench, arms crossed, and watches me. Waiting. Patient as a hunter in a blind.
I move to the sink, grab a rag, and start wiping my hands even though they're already clean. Anything to avoid his eyes. Anything to keep my hands busy so they don't shake.
The water runs cold over my knuckles. I scrub once, twice, three times. The rag turns gray with road dust and soot, but my hands still feel dirty. Still feel stained with something that won't wash off.
I stare at the stains between my fingers, at the small scar running across my palm from a Hellhounds initiation I was too young to understand. That part of me is supposed to be gone. But it’s still there.
The scar across my palm throbs in time with my pulse.
"You're lying to me," Capone says finally.
My hands still. Water drips from my fingers, pattering against the metal sink. "No, I…"
"Don't." His voice is quiet, but it cuts like wire through bone. "I've known you five years, Tiny. I know when you're hiding something. I know your tells. You flex your right hand when you're nervous. You avoid eye contact when you're not sure of your answer. And you clean your hands when you feel guilty."
I set the rag down, turning off the water. I turn to face him, because not facing him now would be admitting everything.
"Prez."
"Whatever it is," he interrupts, "it stays in this room. Between brothers. But I need to know if this thing is going to blow back on us." He pushes off the workbench, takes two steps closer. Not threatening. Just closing distance. Making sure I can't hide behind space. "I need to know if you're protecting someone outside this club. Because if you are, you're putting everyone inside at risk."
This is the moment. The last exit before the highway becomes a cliff. I could tell him everything. About Creed, about the Hellhounds, about the fact that Lattimer isn't just hiring muscle, he's hiringmyghosts. My past. The monsters I thought I'd left bleeding in the desert six years ago.
But if I do, Capone will pull me off runs. Bench me. Maybe even question my patch, wonder if the Hound in my history is still breathing in my present.
And if I'm not out there, I can't protect them from what's coming. So I lie. Again.
"The tags were generic," I say, meeting his eyes, forcing steadiness into my voice. "But if Lattimer's moving through that territory, consolidating, it means he's building something bigger than we thought. Bigger than shipment hits. He's establishing infrastructure. Waypoints. Supply lines."
It's not a lie, exactly. Just not the whole truth. Capone studies me. I can see him weighing it, trust versus instinct. Faith versus experience. The silence stretches until it's a living thing between us, breathing and hungry.
"If you're protecting someone," he says slowly, each word deliberate, "you're putting everyone else at risk. You understand that?"
"I'm not protecting anyone," I say. "I'm protectingus. I'm protecting this club from a threat I don't fully understand yet. And when I do understand it, when I have all the pieces, I'll bring it to Church. I swear."
Another long silence.
Capone's jaw works. Once. Twice. He's chewing on something. Anger, maybe, or disappointment. Hard to tell which would hurt worse. Then he nods. Slow. Reluctant. "Alright. But Tiny."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever ghost you've got riding shotgun," he says, voice dropping lower, "you either bury it or bring it to Church. Because when it catches up, and itwillcatch up, I need to know my Road Captain's head is clear. I need to know you'll put the club first."
"It is," I lie one more time. "Always."
He doesn't look convinced. But he lets it go. For now.
"Get some rest," he says, moving to the door. "Tomorrow we start mapping Lattimer's network. If he's building infrastructure, we burn it down before it's finished."
"Yes, Prez."
He pauses at the door, hand on the knob, and looks back over his shoulder. "Tiny. You've earned your place here. Earned your patch. Earned my trust. Don't make me question any of those things."
The words land like bullets. Clean. Precise. Devastating.