' "You look..." "Beautiful, I know. Can we move on?" '
Amidst the shadows of the little town of Charming, this chaotic and dangerous scene steps in Giselle Telford, a woman dead set on escaping the shadows of her past to embrace an uncertain future...
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Giselle finally makes it to Frank's club.
The moment she steps inside, she feels eyes on her—like somebody had been waiting just for her. And, of course, it's him.
"'Bout damn time," Frank mutters, rising from his chair. But as she walks closer, his expression shifts. Concern flickers across his face. "Jesus, what the hell happened to you?"
She lets out a long sigh and shakes her head. "Rough morning. It's nothing—just a stupid accident."
"You sure?" he presses, voice low and skeptical.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," she insists with a nod. "So, tell me... what'd you manage to squeeze outta that guy?"
Frank doesn't answer right away. Instead, he jerks his chin toward a back room. She follows him down the hall, past doors she's never noticed before, until he pushes one open.
The room is lit harshly by a single overhead lamp, and the long table in the middle is buried under stacks of papers, photographs, and maps. The rest of the crew is already there, waiting.
She chuckles, tossing a quick salut to the others.
They stare back at her with confusion, eyes lingering on the faint swelling across her nose. She catches it, shrugs. "It's not a big deal, guys. Nose ain't broken. Trust me, I'd know."
Ward clears his throat, pulling the room back into focus. "Alright. Here's what we got so far."
He lays it out plain. What they learned isn't much—but enough to start piecing the puzzle together.
"Zobelle's not just some businessman," Ward explains. "He's got this... network. League of American Nationalists. Sounds harmless, right? But it's a front—white separatist bullshit. He's got Weston backing his play, Darby sniffing around like a mutt looking for scraps, and now he's pushing into Charming."
Frank leans back in his chair, scowling. "Thing is, his endgame ain't just money. He's trying to cut SAMCRO off at the knees."
Giselle crosses her arms, listening. "So he's setting up roots. Using the League to slide in under the radar."
Ward nods. "Exactly. He wants to look legit—open businesses, shake hands with city council, throw money around. But behind that curtain? He's buying muscle, turning Aryan Brotherhood inside prisons into his foot soldiers, using guys like Weston to stir the pot."
