The room gradually quiets as Nitro and Ro move to the front. Nitro’s carrying what I now realize is a flute case.
A fucking flute!
This mountain of a man, with arms like tree trunks and a beard that could house small animals, opens the case and pulls out a delicate silver instrument.
My jaw actually drops.
Then Ro pulls out her electric guitar, plugs it into the amp that’s already sitting in the room waiting.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Nitro says, his voice carrying easily through the room. “Hope you’re all doing well this month. Queenie’s been keeping me posted on the gossip, so I know Harold’s been causing trouble in the dining room again.”
A chorus of laughter ripples through the crowd, and an elderly man in the front row raises his hand. “That’s a damn lie, Nitro! It was Mario who started the food fight.”
“Don’t start that bullshit, Harold. We don’t all have dementia,” Queenie calls out, but she’s laughing too.
“All right, all right,” Nitro says, and there’s such warmth in his voice that I feel something tight in my chest loosen. “Who wants to hear a biker play some classical shit?”
The residents all cheer like they’re going to a damn rock concert, and I can’t help but laugh as Deek elbows me gently. “Here we go,” he whispers beside me.
Nitro raises the flute to his lips, then glances over his shoulder at Ro, and then they begin. It’s a classical piece, something I recognize but can’t name. It’s a crazy mix so pure, so beautiful,that the entire room falls silent. Nitro plays it with a skill that speaks of years of training. His classical flair, teamed with that rock edge from Ro, makes this entire thing such an amazing sound that I had no fucking idea the old folks would love.
But they are.
I stare, completely transfixed.
This is not what I expected.
Nothing about this is what I expected.
The contrast is staggering.
This man who only yesterday was prepared to fight his way into enemy territory at the Casino, who carries himself like he could break someone in half without breaking a sweat, is creating something so achingly beautiful. Ro plays the guitar like she was made for it, in a room full of elderly people who are watching them like they’re performing at Carnegie Hall.
As they play, I glance around the room. Every face is rapt with attention. Some residents have tears in their eyes. Others are swaying to the melody. And the brothers, these supposedly hardened criminals, are watching Nitro and Ro with expressions of pure pride and affection.
When the piece ends, the applause is thunderous. Queenie actually whoops, and I can’t help but smile at the pure joy on everyone’s faces.
“That was beautiful, my darlings,” calls out a woman with snow-white hair. “Could you play that Pachelbel piece? The one you did last spring?”
“Of course, Mrs. Henderson,” Nitro replies. He gives a nod to Ro, and I watch in amazement as they launch into what I recognize as “Canon in D.”
This continues for another twenty minutes, where requests are shouted out, Nitro fulfilling every one of them with the patience of a saint and the skill of a professional musician. Ro,teasing and taunting the old folks, adds rock flair to the songs. When they finally take their bows, the room erupts again.
But the surprises aren’t over.
Bear moves to an old radio in the corner and starts fiddling with the dials until swing music fills the air. Glenn Miller, I think. I raise my brow as Deek rises to his feet beside me, and suddenly, the brothers are moving through the room, extending their hands to the elderly women with the grace of old-world gentlemen.
Ghost, toothpick nowhere to be seen, is waltzing with a woman who can’t be under ninety. Deek is teaching a group of ladies some kind of line dance, and they’re cackling with delight. Koa is deep in conversation with several men about what sounds like motorcycle engines, his hands moving animatedly as he explains something.
Ro moves to the eldest gentleman and dances with him in a way that is probably giving him palpitations.
And then, with the haunting presence of a ghost, Sin appears.
I hadn’t noticed him come in, but suddenly he’s here, offering his hand to Queenie with a small bow. My stomach flutters while Queenie preens like a teenager as he leads her onto the makeshift dance floor. Even in this setting, he maintains that controlled, stoic presence that seems to be his default, but there’s something softer around the edges. Watching him like this, this hardened man, dancing with this flamboyant elderly woman like he doesn’t have a care in the world right now, somehow is doing things to me that I shouldn’t let happen. The way his biceps bulge with the strength he has, making sure to hold her steady. The way he moves, somehow gracefully around the floor, even though he’s a beast of a man, is making me think things.
Feel things.
I sit back in my chair, forgotten for the moment, and just watch. My notebook lies open in my lap, my pen poised, but I can’t seem to form words for what I’m witnessing. These men, these supposed criminals, these members of a motorcycle club that the media paints as dangerous outlaws, are spending their afternoon making elderly people happy. Not for show, not for publicity, but because they genuinely care.
