I study him. Grease stains under his nails. Sweat at his brow. That worn SOMC hoodie from the early days, sleeves pushed up. He stilllookslike the man who raised hell, raised brothers, raisedme.
He’s smaller now. Not in size, but in presence. Like the fire’s still there but burning out in pieces.
“I don’t want to watch you die, old man,” I whisper, not even meaning to say it out loud.
“You’re not,” he replies gently. “You’re watching melive. The only way I know how, with purpose. And you? You’re that purpose.”
We sit in silence for a long time. No music. No words. Just the hum of machines and the occasional sound of cloth wiping steel.
Later, the garage door rumbles open.
Saint steps in, wiping sweat from his forehead, eyes sharp but soft. He doesn’t say anything but pulls up a chair beside me.
Rampage follows, nodding at Dad, then sitting down with a warm bottle of water. The brothers don’t crowd us. They are just a steady pillar of the club’s heart, silently telling me that I’m not carrying this alone.
The weight I feel isn’t just on my shoulders. It’s shared, multiplied by these men who bleed, sweat, and fight like family.
At Church that night, the brothers circle close. When I speak, their eyes lock on me with fierce trust. No judgment, no pressure, just that hard-earned bond that holds us all steady when the ground shakes.
Dad never saysI’m proud of you.He doesn’t need to because every time he hands me another key, another name, another war story that hides a blade of truth under the surface, I hear it.
I hear it when he lets me lead Church discussions while he leans back, watching with arms crossed and mouth shut.
I hear it when he lets me set the ride route and doesn't question it.
I hear it every time he choosessilenceover control.
It’s his way of saying,It’s yours now. Don’t break it.
No cheers. No toasts. Just their eyes on mine, trusting I won’t let it all fall apart.
And I won’t.
The weight of the crown settles heavily on my head.
God help me, I won’t break it.
ELEVEN
STEEL FORGED
STEEL
Engines don’t roar today. They rumble low, reverent, like thunder holding its breath. A funeral ride’s not about the noise. It’s about presence. About hundreds of patched souls stretching across miles of asphalt to say one thing with a united front.
He mattered.
Saints Outlaws from all over the United States are sitting on their Harleys, proud of who we are. Proud of the men we have become. Proud of what our club stands for.
Tama, The General, King, my father, rides one last time through the city he carved a kingdom in. His casket rests in a matte-black trailer pulled by his favorite rebuilt chopper, stripped of chrome, draped in a Saints Outlaws flag.
Behind it rides Honor, leading the procession with his jaw clenched and tears dry on his cheeks. Behind him, Saint, the last Original member, Rampage, Rock, City, Throttle, Crusher, Draft, and then me.
Me, last in the front line. It wasn’t planned like this. It’s where I ended up. Like maybe the club’s blood already knew the shift had happened.
The streets are lined with silence. Cops block off intersections, nodding to us like they understand something bigger is passing through. People take their hats off. Old timers salute. A little boy holds a sign that reads,Ride I Power, General.
My eyes burn behind my sunglasses, but I don’t blink. I can’t.
