Jackson and Rosalie Teller's House

Gemma found a death threat on the front passenger seat in Rosalie's car which read: I'm going to hurt you, then kill you, stupid Irish bitch. She brought it inside and made cordial small talk as the children finished the last of their breakfast and settled down in front of the TV.

"You got ants in your pants?" Rosalie asked, and took a long swig of her coffee.

Gemma had been super twitchy since she'd arrived; her eyes kept darting over to the windows, and the back door. She pulled the note out of her back pocket, and told Rosalie exactly where she'd found it. She waited for her face to crumple before bombarding her with all possibilities, "could this be someone at work? A client? Something happen? You lose? Bad?"

Rosalie looked her dead in the eye, and uttered, "you really think this has anything to do with my work?"

"We should call Jax," Gemma suggested and stood up to do just that.

Rosalie was closer to the phone. She shook her head, and said, "I'm calling the police."

"No! No," Gemma insisted, and took the phone out of her hands, "if this is the club, you get that new Sheriff involved, everyone gets hurt. I'm going to give Unser a call."

"Unser?! This is a death threat, Gemma, delivered to my front door!" Rosalie hissed back, quietly.

"I know," Gemma said and she thought for a moment before suggesting, "let's uh-let's get you and the kids to the compound, make sure you're safe. Go from there."

"Normal people call the authorities when their lives are threatened," Rosalie said.

"You don't have a normal life, baby. You have this one," Gemma reminded her, and dialled Chibs' number.


Sons of Anarchy Clubhouse

Chibs and Opie were summoned to escort the family out safely, and quickly. There was no time to digest the first frightening installment of the day. Rosalie had to pack a bag for the children, double-time, as Marcus Alvarez had been shot; he was bleeding all over the clubhouse; Chibs had to get back there, now. It was chaotic at the clubhouse, filled up with Sons and strangers alike, hovering around their respective leaders, chomping at the bit for marching orders.

"Where's Jax?" Rosalie asked, looking around the bustling room.

"He went after the shooter," Clay said, flatly.

"What shooter?!" Gemma asked for her.

"Rosie? I need an extra pair of hands," Chibs hollered and beckoned her over.

She was still a little shell-shocked by the bomb Clay had just dropped so she didn't hear him at first. Gemma took the baby girl from her arms, and took Abel away from the commotion, and Rosalie drifted through the crowd to assist her father.

Chibs passed a cigarette down to Alvarez, and said, "here, man, that'll help."

"Thank you," Alvarez rasped, and took a long anguished draw.

"Keep pressure a sec," Chibs requested, and his daughter took over, holding the padding down to the wounded shoulder.

Alvarez winced. She could feel her finger tips moistening with blood, even through her gloves she could feel it. She pulled her mind away from the sensation. Only an hour ago she was feeding her children their breakfast, settling them down to watch cartoons, and now she was stemming the bleeding on a bullet wound. I don't have a normal life, she thought. It rang over and over in her head. Nothing about this is normal.

"How are you doing, baby?" Chibs whispered to her, bringing her back down from wherever she'd just disappeared off to.

"Scared," Rosalie whispered back, honestly.

His eyes flashed up from the bullet wound to meet hers, and he assured her, "whole club's got their eye on you."

"Great. That's all better then. No need to fear my children catching a rogue bullet meant for your club," she hissed back, pointedly.

"Let's not do this now," Chibs said, definitively.


Rosalie was perched on the stool beside Alvarez, tasked with overseeing his drifting in and out of consciousness, checking his vitals every now and then. She had little training from her father's limited stint as an army medic, but that was already much more than the rest of the yahoos milling about the club. Chibs played the 'I trust you most, kid.' card, which cemented her cooperation. Marcus' eyes fluttered and he returned once more. She asked him, quietly, "can I get you anything?"

"A do-over. Quicker reflexes?" He huffed out.

"I'm all out," she scoffed and asked him, tentatively, "you, uh...you know who did this to you?"

"Some guy that wanted me dead," he rasped.

"Looks like he almost got his wish. An inch or two and he would have hit an artery," Rosalie said.

"Thought you were a lawyer..." he rasped, "you moonlight as a doc too?"

"I watch a lot of E.R." Rosalie said, with a kind smile.

Alvarez laughed, and tensed at the pain that caused him. He looked pensive for a moment and then asked her, earnestly, "what happened to you? I remember...Jax was very concerned."

"I found a note in my car...a death threat," she told him, honestly, and checked herself into another out-of-body, this-is-not-normal experience. She was sat beside the leader of the Mayans MC, a man she knew only by reputation, openly discussing her personal problems, a problem that she hadn't even had the opportunity to discuss with her husband yet, or her own father; Mr Alvarez's condition was more pressing, you see, as was chasing down the shooter.

"Shit," Alvarez exhaled and then determined, "then...this is the best place for you. Been hearing rumors. Galindo lost a hit squad last week. Found 'em butchered and burned. My money's on Lobo Sonora spreading that stench about, confusing the trail. Targeting families is what drug cartels do."

Rosalie was stunned into silence. Alvarez was flying high on whatever Chibs had stabbed him with earlier, his lips were running much looser than usual, especially in the presence of an acquaintance. She wanted to press him further, but Chibs wandered back into the room at that point, talking on the phone, "Jackie Boy, you alright? Oh yeah, she's right here, helped me patch up Alvarez. Alright, we're on our way. Call Laroy. Aye. He wants to talk to you, love."

"Hey, are you okay?" Rosalie asked, quickly.

"Yeah. Are you?" Jackson whispered back, which did nothing to alleviate her fears.

"Well, yeah, I'm no longer wrist deep in Mr Alvarez's shoulder," she replied, neutrally.

"Thank you. Ro. Listen. You do not leave that compound. You hear me? Not for anything," he whispered.

"Okay," she said, "I love you."

"I love you," he said, quickly, "I gotta go."

Rosalie wavered for a second after he'd hung up, and then she put the burner phone down on the side, and stared out of the window intensely, completely lost in her spiraling thoughts. Her eyes were up and away from sight, holding back the tears, determined not to break down in the company of so many strangers. Alvarez watched her all the while; she was wearing the fear she'd alluded to before, she couldn't hide it anymore.

"Rafi. Pedro," Alvarez groaned, and summoned his men into the room with them, "get the crew. They should be with the Sons...track those putos."

"No, no, no. You need these guys to hold down your shit," Clay insisted, dismissing his kind intent and Rosalie's brief moment of relief. He assured Alvarez, "I got a call into Laroy. We're gonna handle it."

Chucky bumbled his way quickly through the crowd and darted right up to Clay. He informed him, breathlessly, "Sheriff's here. He's looking for Rosalie."

All eyes were suddenly on Rosalie. She surveyed the collection of concerned faces, sharing in most of their confusion, though not in the anger and frustration she saw in some. She steadied herself instantly and went outside to greet Sheriff Roosevelt. He was following up on an allegation that Rosalie had received a death threat at her home.

"Who told you someone made a threat?" She asked him, plainly.

"It was an anonymous tip," he countered.

"Well, I'm fine," she assured him.

"Are you sure? You seem a little unnerved," Roosevelt said.

Chibs, Gemma, Clay, Tig and Juice had all trickled out of the clubhouse after Rosalie, and they'd fanned out behind her to watch the conversation unfold.

"Rough case this morning," Rosalie said, vaguely.

Roosevelt squinted and hummed, quite clearly buying absolutely none of her bullshit, and offered the platitude, "yeah, well, I hope justice pulled through."

"Yes," she replied.

Roosevelt eyed up each of the devils perched on her shoulders, and he stepped closer towards her to say, quietly, "we can help you. You know that, right?"

"I appreciate that," she replied.

"You want me to leave a few of my men here?" he asked.

She shook her head, more for her audience, than for him, and she said, "no, that won't be necessary."

"Alright. You give us a call if you need anything, okay?" He said, and presented her with a card containing his information. He waited for her small nod and then turned his attention over to Juice, and barked, "Mr Ortiz. Your PO called. He wants you to take a piss test."

"When?" Juice whined.

"Now. Follow me back," Roosevelt requested.

"This is bullshit," Juice scorned under his breath.

"Go. The last thing in the world we want is this prick coming back here," Clay grumbled. He turned to Rosalie, folding the Sheriff's card over, and over once more, and asked her if everything was okay.

"Yeah. He must've caught wind of the threat. I told him it was nothing," Rosalie assured him.

"Good girl," Clay rasped, patted her affectionately on the shoulder, and sauntered off back inside.

"Can I have a word?" Rosalie asked Gemma as she started to follow suit.

"Mm-hmm," Gemma hummed, and followed her over to the benches, out of anyone else's earshot.

"What do you know about a cartel?" Rosalie asked, and watched Gemma's face flicker and then smooth over. She scorned back at her, "should I ask Alvarez for the rest of it? Would that be quicker than whatever bullshit you're about to spin?"

"All I know is they're selling them guns," Gemma said, sharply.

"Are there drugs involved?" Rosalie asked, and grew more emotional as she stewed in it longer. She cried out, "shit. The note-is that-is that the cartel threatening me?"

"Not sure," Gemma told her, honestly.

"Oh my god," Rosalie huffed out.

"Look, the club is not gonna let anything happen to you-" Gemma assured her.

"The club is why everything is happening to me!" Rosalie snapped back, and out of Gemma's hands, "to my family...I can't believe I signed off on this shit."

"Signed off on what?" Gemma called after her.


Jackson and Rosalie Teller's House

Rosalie was waiting up for him to come home that night, sat upright in their bed, her cellphone clutched in her hand so tight it should've hurt. Jackson stuck his head in, finally, and told her, "hey, babe. I'll be right in. I got to get cleaned up."

"I know about the drugs, Jax," Rosalie said.

He'd stopped in the doorway. Frozen. He turned back around to face her. She stared back at him, strongly, with watery eyes he was so sure he'd drown in if he didn't pull away right that second. He walked into their bedroom, and perched on the end of their bed, and eventually told the silent room, "I didn't know the drugs were gonna be part of the guns."

"Hmm," she rasped, tersely, and asked, "was that Clay?"

"Yeah," he admitted, and turned around to finally face her again, "the deal we had to make was…it was complicated."

She shook her head, and said, "he can't be trusted, Jax."

"Clay is protecting this club-"

"Clay protects himself!" Rosalie scoffed back and trembled as she said, "this is three weeks into it. What happens in three months, a year?!" She reached over to the night stand and tossed a pregnancy test over the bed. He picked it up with wide eyes, and he saw that hers were not filled with joy, and elation, but clouded with fear, and sadness. She whispered, tearfully, "how can we bring another child into this mess?"