“Son of a bitch was flying cartel ink,” I say flatly.
Saint stops pacing. Dog’s eyes go sharper. Even Danny tightens his grip on the crowbar.
“Sangres?” Smoke asks, already knowing the answer.
I nod. “Tag’s all over his wallet. These bastards weren’t freelancers.”
Saint glances back toward the trailer. “So, this wasn’t random. They’re moving girls through our streets.”
“Through our people,” Dog growls.
I stare into the flames. Let the fire light my rage.
“This one’s personal now,” I say. “They want war?” I meet each of their eyes. Saint. Dog. Smoke. Danny. “They just poked the wrong bear.”
Saint kicks the last guy square in the ribs. He yelps and curls tighter on the pavement.
“No colors, no creed, no mercy,” Dog mutters.
“Not tonight,” I reply.
The Dumpster groans and collapses inward, flames licking up toward the sky.
Smoke watches it burn like it’s holy.
We don’t wait for sirens. We don’t need applause.
We ride out the way we came, in silence, under shadows, dragging with us the first embers of something unstoppable.
Marisol is riding behind me, hanging on tightly. Her head pressed against my back. My hoodie shields her from the wind.
The heat radiating from her makes me realize something. This club isn’t something wemade.It’s something thatfound us.
Born from blood and fire.
Forged by loyalty.
And built for one purpose. To make sure no one like Marisol ever disappears again.
FOUR
A PATCH IN BLOOD
ISAIAH (AGE 10)
The garage smells like sweat, oil, and fire.
I sit on the steps with my knees pulled up, chin resting on them, arms wrapped tight around my legs. My back’s sticky from the heat, and my shirt clings like a second skin. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I just watch.
They’re all inside, my dad and the men who ride with him. They’re not just regular men, either. They’re Saints, outlaws, warriors. I don’t know what to call them yet, not really. But I know something big is happening, something loud and raw and alive.
The music’s blasting from the old radio, some gravel-throated singer howling about freedom and death like they’re the same thing. Laughter echoes off the metal walls. Bottles clink in celebration. A lighter flicks. Someone yells, “
“Let’s get these bastards patched up!
I scoot down one step to see better.
Dad stands in the middle of the garage like a storm holding still. His white shirt’s stained at the collar, and he’s got that lookhe gets when he’s already somewhere ten miles ahead, planning things no one else can see.
