The sun had barely broken through the morning mists when you were already on your feet. Today was the festival, a big fundraiser that Gemma had taken care of down to the last detail.

Old gamblers from the West were coming, the ones who liked whiskey and barbecue smoke and memories of the days when SAMCRO had done business with them. A day like this couldn’t go wrong. And you, as Clay’s wife, the first lady of the club, knew there was no room for error. You’d been on the move since morning hands in dough, then grease, then paint as you helped the kids paint their faces.

Elvis laughed at some kid who’d drawn a mustache on him with a marker. Gemma was the one running the whole thing, and you were right next to her in the shadows, but always in the center. When the tables needed to be put away, you did it. When the cups ran out, you were already carrying a new pack. You knew where to be and what to do before anyone could tell you.

April Hobart had shown up a few days earlier. She didn't go in through the main door, but stood by the side entrance to the workshop, as if she knew she had no right to go any further.. thin and tired woman. There were no questions in her eyes, only a plea.

She didn't speak of Kyle with love, only resignation. "do it for me not for Kyle.. i want him to see his son," she said quietly. "It's just a moment."

You didn't make a decision right away. You knew what Kyle had done. Opie had gone to jail for him, the club had lost face. Clay didn't even want to hear his name. But you looked at that kid and something touched you. That evening, at the table with a cigar and bourbon, you brought the subject up to Clay.

He gritted his teeth. He chewed on the cigar for a long time, said

"get it out of your head" or "I'd rather hang myself by my balls"

but finally after few kisses he said, "I'll talk it with boys later."

On the day of the picnic, Kyle showed up as if nothing had happened. Clean, smiling, with a new cane, a bottle of Jack in his hand, and a present for his son. He started talking to people, pretending that everything was back to normal. You just watched. Not with contempt. With distance.

Clay talked to Bobby like it was a normal day. Some of the new guys didn’t know who Kyle was. Those who did didn’t ask.

The evening had turned chilly. The lights hanging between the trees cast yellow shadows. Kids were leaving with their families, the speakers were silent, and the smell of sausage still hung over the square. And Kyle.. was gone. You already knew.

Then you sat on a box in the garage. Calmly. The club didn’t act impulsively. The club was a family. With principles. There was a metallic clang from inside the garage. Kyle was already there chained to the steel posts. The same ones the boys used to lift motorcycles for repairs. Now they held his.

The SAMCRO tattoo still marred his back. He hadn’t removed it for years. Maybe he didn’t want to forget.

Maybe he thought he could come back.

But Clay sat right next to you. Heavy, confident, silent. He smoked a cigar as if he didn’t feel any tension in the air. You were silent too. You were staring ahead. No mercy. No emotion. A club woman doesn’t cry over traitors.

Tig was the first to enter. With that smile of his that never boded well. “Knife or fire?” he threw carelessly.

Kyle didn’t have time to answer. The whiskey was already running down his back, soaking into the material. Someone corked the bottle. The sound was louder than you expected. It meant one thing: the decision had been made. You sat still. Not because you didn’t care. But because you knew what the club stood for. Honor. Loyalty. Blood for blood.

Clay glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. Cigar smoke moved between you. He nodded slightly. As if saying, “See. This is how it’s done.” your back arched slightly like a cat stretching its back as you leaned against him and his hand rested on your back as he held you with pride and watched what was about to happen.