Dad finds the safe room. Inside, crates of uncut product, a stack of unregistered weapons, and a woman chained to a pipe.
Ridge kneels to cover her while Jordyn starts taking pictures for leverage.
Then hell opens.
One of the cartel guards bursts from a hidden panel and nails Ridge in the leg before I drop him with two shots. Blood sprays across the white tile.
Throttle tackles another guy into the wall, breaks his arm in a single twist, and holds him there while Rock interrogates.
“Who’s feeding you intel?” Rock growls, pressing a knife to the man’s throat.
The guy’s too scared to talk, but after a little coercion, he blubbers like a baby. “I… I don’t know his name. He has scars on his hands, and he’s bald with a grey beard. That’s all I can tell you.” That’s enough for us. Dad nods to Rock, a slight move, and Rock slices the guy's throat in one quick movement. I don’t think he even blinked before his blood was drawn.
Jordyn breaks apart from us, writing down serial numbers from the crates.
Dad pulls me aside. “Burn the files. Take the woman to the shelter. We walk away clean.” I nod my head in agreement.
City radios in. “Cops on route. Three minutes, max.” We’re ghosts before the sirens ever reach the harbor.
The ride back is quieter. No cheers. No war cries. Just the low hum of engines and the smell of blood and powder.
Throttle’s got a split lip again. I hand him a rag at the next red light. He doesn’t thank me, just presses it to his face and keeps riding.
Ridge is in the back of the van with Rock and the rescued girl. Jordyn rides beside the door, keeping watch. The kid hasn’t spoken since the first shot was fired, but I saw his hands were steady. Unshaken.
Aria rides in the van also, sitting beside the rescued girl with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She holds her hand the whole way back, murmuring soft reassurances. I catch her reflection in the back panel. Her blue eyes are fierce, mouth is tight.
I’ve seen Aria in courtrooms and back alleys, in leather and lace. But this version, steady in crisis, gentle with survivors, is the one that roots me to the world when it starts spinning.
City rides next to me, jaw tight, pulling my attention away from Aria. “Someone’s selling our routes. They knew too much. I traced a call from the warehouse. You’re not gonna like where it came from.”
“Who?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Let’s get home first, but this is the proof you need.”
Dad pulls into the front lot of the clubhouse. Engines cut. Helmets off. Everyone looks to him, but his eyes find me.
He motions to the side of the Clubhouse, away from prying eyes, and lights up a cigar by the old, rusted bike that’s been here longer than I’ve been alive.
“You let me lead that,” I say, voice low.
“I didn’t let you,” he says. “I watched you.”
We stand in silence for a while. “You’re not a kid anymore,” he adds. “But you’re not me yet either.”
“I don’t want to be you,” I say. “I want to build something that lasts.”
Dad studies me, then taps his ash into the gravel. “You remind me of Steel Saint,” he finally says. “Had that same quiet fury. That same spine. The difference is, you’re not just fire. You’re sharp, too.”
I nod, throat tight.
“And them boys?” He jerks his chin toward the clubhouse. “They’ll follow you. One by one.”
I don’t say anything. I just watch the sky stretch wide over Michigan’s broken skyline, and know the war’s only just begun. But I’m not alone. Not anymore.
Later that night, I sit in the chapel, looking at the old patches nailed to the wall. Dad comes up behind me and claps my shoulder once. His hand is heavy with history.
“Steel.”
