“No,” he says again, slower. “You’re building a wall around this family. That’s not just legal. That’s blood.” I don’t answer.Just nod and go back to my files. He doesn’t stop watching me. Not that night. Maybe not ever again.
The first time I meetHonor, it’s at a funeral. Shot in the back, leaving a drop. Wrong place, wrong hour. I help carry the casket. I don’t know why, but it feels heavier than it should.
The sun is beating down on the leather backs of Saints lined in formation, sweat and silence thick in the air. Burying one of the OG’s is never easy. I’m standing to the side, trying not to think about how many of these we’ve had this year. Too many black patches. Too many damn eulogies.
As the casket lowers into the ground, taking Bookie deep into its chasm, I hear it. Psalm 23. But not from the preacher. It’s this gangly white kid with long arms and wild curls, reciting like he’s in his own world.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” He doesn’t stutter. Doesn’t falter. Just belts it, like the dead man is listening.
Later, Dad leans in. “That’s Kyle. The preacher’s kid. Odd one.”
“Why’s he here?”
“Boy said he wants to learn the difference between salvation and justice.” Tama glances sideways.
“No shit.”
“But he sees things. Knows things. Keep him close.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Because God told you?”
“No,” Dad says. “Becausemy gutdid.”
I’m not patched yet, but the weight of one’s already on my back. Unspoken, but not invisible. It’s the kind of respect that unnerves my father more than a loaded barrel.
After I get one of the old garage deeds untangled and cleared, Ghost pipes up from a stool and says, “Steel Saint would’ve liked you.”
I don’t ask what he means. I already know. He means the weight. The grind. The refusal to bend.
I work two phones and three desks some nights. Paper stacks everywhere. One brother in county, one fighting a custody battle, another trying to register a body shop without raising suspicion. Everything runs through me.
I make enemies. Quiet ones. White-collar ones. And sometimes I feel them watching. Cops, city officials, and even old friends ask why I stick around.
But the club isn’t just motorcycles and mayhem anymore. Not if I can help it.
It’s the broken boys. It’s the rage that doesn’t know where else to go. It’s the ones like Rock and Jennings, and Crusher. Boys who got left behind, the same way I did.
So, I stay. And I build.
After a tense club meeting, guys arguing over a bad coke run upstate, I’m the last one left in the war room, reviewing paperwork with a half-drained coffee and a headache pounding behind my eyes.
Dad walks in and tosses a set of keys on the table. They skid across the grain, landing on the edge of my open folder.
“You’re driving tomorrow,” he says.
I blink. “To where?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
He leans against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Looking at me like he’s trying to see something only he understands.
“You’ve been earning your place. Not just by keeping us out of jail, but by showing up. Watching. Learning.”
I close the folder. “Is this you saying you’re proud?”
He snorts. “Don’t get soft on me.”
