Nobody clapped. Nobody cheered. The men of the Leatherbacks and the Scythes stood silent, waiting for someone to make the next move.
But the only move left was ours.
I squeezed Augustine’s hand. I could feel his pulse, frantic, terrified, but alive. I looked at my father’s back, getting smaller with every step, and realized I didn’t need him to be proud of me. I’d already won.
The crowd started to break, men wandering off in twos and threes, mumbling and lighting cigarettes. Some shot glances our way—some pity, some respect, some just confused about how the hell this all ended. Damron gave me a slow nod. Even Seneca looked impressed.
In that moment, I knew the war was over.
We weren’t dead. We were a family.
“Melissa D’Agossa,” my father yelled, the name coming out like a threat, “you made your choice. You’re no daughter of mine. You’re no Leatherback. You’re nothing.”
The words hit harder than any punch. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. My knees locked, but I held my ground. If I went down now, I’d never get up again.
Cutler’s gaze flicked to Augustine, then to the baby in my stomach like he could see it through my skin. Then he looked away, disgusted. “Don’t come back. You hear me?” He raised his voice, so every patch and every prospect knew he meant it. “She’s dead to us.”
He didn’t wait for applause. He just climbed onto his bike, one leg over the seat, and gunned the engine. The rest of the Leatherbacks followed, engines roaring, a wall of noise that drowned out every thought I had left. The smell of exhaust hit like a punch, sharp and dirty and final.
And then they were gone.
The world went quiet. Even the birds stopped singing. Just the sound of the wind and the slow, uneven breathing from the man next to me.
Augustine tried to stand, but his legs gave out. He dropped to one knee, clutching his side, the blood from his nose and mouth dripping down onto his boots. For the first time, he looked like he was really going to die.
I dropped down with him, hands cupping his face. His skin was slick, burning hot, and ice cold at the same time.
“Don’t you dare,” I said, pressing my forehead to his. “You do not get to bail on me now.”
He gave a weak laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he slurred. “Just… needed a minute.”
“You’re an idiot,” I said, tears finally breaking loose, mixing with the blood and sweat on his face. “I love you. Even if you are a dumb bastard who picks fights with brick walls.”
He blinked, slow. “You’re my brick wall. Only one worth fighting.”
“Shut up,” I said, but I kissed him, hard, tasting the iron and the desperation and the promise that there was more than just this—more than just blood and death and the ugly world we’d come from.
A shadow fell over us. For a second, I thought Cutler had come back for the encore. But it was Damron, face set, eyes hard, but the way he crouched next to us was almost gentle.
“Let’s get you patched, son,” he said, voice low. “You did good.”
Augustine nodded, tried to get up, failed. Damron and Seneca hauled him up between them, supporting him like he was a fallen king. Damron looked at me, and for the firsttime, I saw respect there, not as a pawn, not as a mess, but as one of them.
The Scythes formed a circle, tighter than before, closing in around us like a fortress. Somebody draped a cut over my shoulders—heavy, warm, smelling of old sweat and loyalty. The patch on the back was blood red.
“Welcome to the family,” Seneca said, and there was a hint of a smile, like maybe this was how he always wanted it to end.
I walked out of that circle with Augustine’s arm over my shoulders and the future for the first time in my hands. My real family was here, battered and loud and fucking impossible, but they were mine.
The sun was high, and the world was wide open.
And if the past ever came for us again, it would find us ready—two against the world, with a little more to fight for.
22
Melissa
Six months later, the clubhouse was a hotbox of bodies and beer, every picnic table full of patched brothers, old prospects, and the kind of women who never let a little thing like a baby bump ruin their appetite for chaos. Augustine and I didn’t usually show up until most of the early birds had gone to lunch, but today he’d insisted—said there was something in the wind, and he wanted me to see it for myself.
