I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Steele knew about the attack on our clubhouse. Skinner would have clued him in, if for no other reason than to brag, thinking he’d won.
We lost people in the attack, as did the Gods of Mayhem. Hash, Erebus, and Kharon. They’d joined an MC knowing what could happen. It didn’t make the loss any easier to bear. Jade and Crystal were innocent. They were collateral damage, and that was on me.
Their deaths were on my head.
Their deaths were on Steele.
And he would pay with his life.
Because Grace’s father or not, I was fucking done. I no longer owed my loyalty and my honor to a man who killed his family. A man who didn’t give two shits about his men. He only cared about himself.
Grace deserved better than a father who ignored her. She deserved better than a man who wouldn’t claim her under some misguided sense of loyalty.
But fuck that. Grace was mine now. I was done playing by the rules. It was time I remembered why I joined the fucking club in the beginning.
Tank stirred on the bed, and I moved back to his side. His eyes fluttered behind his closed lids, and I took his hand in mine.
“Come on, brother, time to wake the fuck up so I can kick your ass.”
I watched as his eyelids lifted, and he looked at me. He groaned and reached for his throat. I grabbed the cup of water the nurse had left and held the straw to his lips. After he drank his fill, he looked around the room and croaked, “Fuck, if I’m still alive then he knows.”
“What? Who knows?”
Tank looked at me. “You called Sinclair, didn’t you?”
I narrowed my eyes at Tank. “You know Sinclair shares your blood type?” I asked him. When he nodded, I asked, “How the fuck do you know that?”
“Because he’s my father.”
Chapter Two
King
“You wanna fucking repeat that?” I growled. “Because I know I didn’t hear what you just fucking said.”
“You heard me, Prez,” Tank confirmed.
“Jesus Christ, Tank. Does he know?”
Tank looked at the door to the hallway. The hallway where Sinclair was sitting, right now, waiting to see him.
“I imagine he does now.” Tank sighed, closing his eyes once more.
I stared at the man. I’d known him for years, and not once did I suspect he was someone other than who he said he was. When he’d asked to prospect, he told us what we thought was everything about him. Nav did a thorough background check and confirmed everything he told us.
His mother was Genevieve Thatcher-Morgan. His father was Theodore Morgan Sr. Both names were listed on his birth certificate. The couple had been married in 1990 and were still married when his mother passed away in 2022.
I’d fucking met them both.
There was no indication they were anything other than his parents. No adoption records, nothing. Tank had money. More money than most of us had. His mother came from old money. He was a trust fund kid who rebelled against his upbringing.
“How the fuck is that man your father?” I asked when suddenly a disturbing thought popped into my head. “Are you a child of the fucking Trick Pony?”
Tank inhaled deeply and winced. His hand went to his shoulder where he’d been shot. “Technically speaking, no.”
“I’m gonna need you to explain this shit to me before I lose my fucking mind.”
A few years ago, Tank had gone home to Florida when his mom was sick. While on her deathbed, his mother had decided to ease her conscience. A last-ditch effort to earn her way into Heaven she’d said.
