Fuck. Seeing it hurts almost as much as what’s outside.
“Let’s get out of here,” I tell her. “You got a leather jacket or something? We’re going on my bike.”
In a daze, she nods and opens a little coat closet to the side of the entry hallway.
“Bring her down to the station tomorrow, Jenson,” Morris tells me. “Not negotiable. She needs to sign her statement. I’m sorry, son,” he adds.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Me too.”
Half of me has been preparing for this since the Kings killed Sav. But I didn’t wake up today thinking I’m gonna lose my bestfriend. And I really didn’t think I’d have a hard time keeping my eyes off his daughter.
I’m going straight to hell. And Viking’s gonna be waiting there with his favorite Colt 1911 aimed right at my balls.
3
SASHA
Inever imagined my father's funeral would look like this.
The procession of motorcycles stretches beyond what I can see, thundering engines replacing the somber silence I expected. Dad's casket sits on a custom-built sidecar attached to a gleaming Harley—Havoc's bike, I've learned—draped in leather vests identical to the one Dad kept hidden for all those years.
I stand apart from the crowd, feeling like an imposter at my own father's funeral. My hands knot together at my waist as tension coils in my stomach. These people knew a version of my dad I never did, and the distance between us feels insurmountable.
"You okay, sweetheart?" Ruth appears beside me, her hand softly squeezing mine, though I've only known her for five days. She's barely left my side since Havoc brought me to the compound.
"I don't know these people," I whisper, scanning the sea of leather vests, all bearing the same emblem—Wicked Sinners MC. "They're strangers, but they're crying like they've known him forever."
"That's because they did," Ruth says gently. "Your daddy was family to everyone here. Before he left with you, he was their president."
President. The title clashes with the gentle man who knelt to bait my fishing hooks and braided my hair with callused, caring fingers every morning until I was twelve.
Carol appears on my other side, offering a tissue. I startle at her touch and realize, with a hot flush of embarrassment, that I hadn't noticed the tears streaming down my cheeks again.
"I remember some of it," I admit. "From before we left. There were barbecues and parties..." My voice trails off as a vague memory surfaces—sitting on someone's shoulders, squealing with delight as they pretend to be a motorcycle. "But it feels like a different lifetime."
"That's because it was, honey," Carol says. "Viking—your dad—he wanted to protect you from all this."
Viking. Everyone here calls him that. Not Erik, but Viking. A name that belonged to a man I never fully knew.
The minister finishes speaking, and Havoc steps forward. His silver hair catches the sunlight as he stands before the gathered crowd. His eyes find mine for a moment, and something in my chest tightens.
"Viking was my brother," he begins, his deep voice carrying across the cemetery. "Not by blood, but by something stronger."
I watch as dozens of grown men wipe tears from their faces, their leather-clad shoulders shaking with grief. They loved my father. And somehow, that makes me feel both less alone and more isolated than ever.
Havoc's voice cracks as he finishes speaking about my father—about Viking. His eyes scan the crowd, pausing momentarily on me.
"If anyone else would like to share memories of our brother, please step forward."
My heart pounds against my ribs. I clutch my skirt with damp palms, nerves prickling. Should I speak? I'm his daughter—his only family. Everyone's eyes shift toward me, expectant. The pressure of their gazes makes my skin prickle and my throat close up.
But what would I say? Tell them my father made pancakes shaped like motorcycles? That he taught me to throw a perfect punch when I was eight, but never explained why I needed to know? That every time I asked about our past, about the photos I found hidden in his dresser, he changed the subject?
I don't know this Viking they're eulogizing. I knew Dad—the man who checked under my bed for monsters, who never let me answer the door.
A tall, bearded man steps forward instead, saving me from the moment. Tank, they call him. Ruth’s husband. He talks about raids and brotherhood and loyalty that even twelve years couldn't break. Twelve years since my mother died.
Another man speaks, then another. Stories about bar fights and territory wars and something called patch-overs. Words that sound like they're from a movie, not my father's life.
