James sits to my right, solid as ever, hands folded over the table as if they’ve been carved there. East lounges to my left, boothooked on the table edge, spinning a pen through his fingers, untouched by the weight of the vote pressing down on the rest of us. And in the shadows, Knox leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching everything with the quiet calculation of a man already ten steps ahead.
I should feel honored. Instead, I feel buried.
My hands rest on my thighs, fingers splayed, damp with sweat. My pulse thuds slow and deliberate, each beat a countdown to something I can’t stop. The scent of beer, sweat, and worn leather thickens the air, anchoring me in this moment that feels more funeral than celebration.
Cornelius used to say, “Wearing this means bleeding first. Not barking the loudest.”
He bled for this patch. Not once. Not figuratively. The last time I saw him alive was through smoke.
The warehouse had already gone quiet. Concrete floor soaked in blood and ash. Fire damage blooming along the east wall like a wound. I’d run so hard to get there. Pushed my bike past its limits, hands clenched tight on the grips like sheer want could reverse time.
But I was too late. Cornelius was crumpled near the loading bay, blood soaking through the shoulder of his cut, one hand outstretched, as if he’d tried to reach someone. Jared and Amelia were gone. Taken. No note. No threat. No ransom.
Just silence. He died trying to save them. And I failed all three of them. That guilt didn’t fade. It calcified. Became the foundation for every wall I’ve built since.
James should be the one stepping up tonight. Everyone knew it. When his name came up, every brother at the table turned to him.
But he’d only nodded toward me and said, “I’ve carried the past long enough. It’s time someone carries the future.”
Now I’m staring down at a leather cut that smells faintly of oil, smoke, and something older. Something worn into the threads. The stitching under my thumb presses deep, a brand I chose.
One word. PRESIDENT. My hands shake as I reach for the new patch.
I pull my knife from my pocket, slide the blade under the border of the VP patch, and begin cutting the stitching free. Each tug of the thread feels deliberate, final. When it comes loose, I lay it carefully on the table. The new patch feels heavier in my hand than the entire leather ever has. It’s not just a title. It’s a reckoning.
I stitch it on slowly, the thread biting through leather with the weight of everything at stake. When it’s done, the cut settles across my shoulders, not as honor or power, but as a verdict.
Judgment.
East breaks the silence with a clap. “Well, shit. Our fearless leader finally accepted his doom.”
A few low chuckles stir the tension. James leans back, expression unreadable, but I catch it—the flicker in his eyes. Something close to pride.
“Next vote,” he says. “Vice President.”
Knox doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. The vote passes before it even starts. I hand him the patch. He accepts it with a single nod. No speech. Just the promise that comes with knowing he’ll sense the danger before I do and take care of it without asking.
James raises his glass. “To the next generation.”
“To the ones stupid enough to take the job,” East adds with a grin.
I give a faint nod. “Dinner’s on the club. Drinks too. First round’s mine.”
Chairs scrape back. Boots hit the floor. Voices rise, as if someone finally remembered how to breathe. They filter out one by one, but I stay where I am.
My hands press flat against the wood, breath slow and even, though I feel anything but steady.
Don’t let it rot. Cornelius’ voice lives in me now. Not as comfort. As a command.
He meant the club. The legacy. The people still here when the smoke cleared. He meant the family we made.
I push to my feet. The chair gives a soft groan. My spine feels too straight, held rigid for too long. I make it halfway to the door before raised voices echo down the hallway.
Candace.
Her voice snaps sharply through the thick air, laced with a fury only a daughter can summon. “You think throwing money at dues makes up for the shit you’ve pulled? You’re pathetic, and you know it.”
Chuck’s response is slurred but angry. “I’m still your father. Watch your damn mouth.”
