Chapter 13

I was born into the roar of engines and the smell of leather and oil. The Vultures—my father’s club—was a constellation of stars in my night sky, each member a beacon of something powerful and untouchable. My old man, Blade, was the North Star, the brightest and most constant of them all. He cut a figure that commanded respect wherever he went, and as a kid, I stuck to his side like a shadow, soaking in every detail of the club life.

Dad’s laughter boomed louder than thunder in our house, rattling the windows, and I’d find myself grinning from ear to ear, basking in the glow of his approval. The tales he told of wild runs and narrow escapes filled my head with dreams of the open road and unbreakable bonds. His tattoos were like secret maps to the man he was, and I longed for the day when I’d be marked with the same ink.

The club taught me early on what it meant to be a man of honor. Brotherhood wasn’t just a word; it was the very air we breathed. Loyalty was the currency we traded in, more valuable than cash or gold. My dad would clasp my shoulder, his grip firm, and say, “Son, these men out here? They’re your family. You bleed for them, you fight for them, you ride for them. Every single time.”

I was raised amidst the rumble of choppers and the clinking of beer bottles. I learned to patch a punctured tire before I learned to ride a bicycle. The clubhouse was my playground, a place where I was always under the watchful eye of an uncle or aunt—patched members who weren’t related by blood but were family nonetheless.

My early childhood was a patchwork of lessons on honor and respect, woven with the threads of a legacy I was proud to inherit. I wore the prospects’ patch with the gravity of a knight bestowed a sacred quest, eager to prove my mettle. The older guys would ruffle my hair, chuckling, as they recounted legendary tales of my father’s exploits, planting the seeds of hero worship deep within my impressionable mind.

The sense of loyalty and camaraderie the Vultures instilled in me was a beacon that guided me through the tumultuous sea of adolescence. I was taught to protect my own, to ride hard, and to love harder. The road stretched out before me, vast and unyielding, and I knew the path I would take would be paved with the same grit and guts that made my dad the man he was. The brotherhood was my first love, my first taste of true belonging.

The air was thick with tension, the kind that clings to your skin like a second layer. It was one of those summer nights that felt too heavy for its own good, the kind that begged for a storm to clear the air. I was just a kid, really, but old enough to know that the meeting between the Vultures and the Steel Nightmares wasn’t just another sit-down.

We were at the edge of our territory, a desolate stretch of land that served as a no-man’s-land between our club and the Steel Nightmares. The sky was a canvas of dark purples and grays, the moon a mere sliver in the sky, as if it too was trying to hide from the inevitable confrontation. Dad’s face was set in stone, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might shatter. He had a way of holding silence that was louder than any words.

The Steel Nightmares rolled in, their motorcycles snarling with aggression, a tangible display of their seething anger and defiance. Their leader, a scarred brute named Viper, was a man who wore his cruelty like a badge of honor. They parked their rides in a line, the chrome catching the faint glow of the distant city lights. There was a moment of stillness before the storm, a collective breath held in anticipation.

Words were exchanged, harsh and biting, like the snarls of feral dogs. Accusations flew, old grudges dredged up from the depths of a shared history stained with spilled blood. The air seemed to crackle with the promise of violence, the kind that would leave scars for years to come.

Then, all hell broke loose. A gunshot—loud and final—tore through the night. Panic gripped the air as chaos erupted, screams echoing through the air alongside the thunderous blasts of gunfire. I saw my father, a giant among men, falter. Just for a moment, but it was enough. His eyes met mine, a silent message passing between us—a mix of regret, love, and a warning to stay down.

But I couldn’t stay down. I couldn’t look away. I watched, helpless, as my old man took a bullet meant for another. The shot had come from behind, from one of our own. Friendly fire—a term so bitterly ironic it made my stomach churn. The man who pulled the trigger was a blur, lost in the pandemonium.

Time slowed to a crawl as I watched my father fall. The sound of his body hitting the ground was a silence louder than any gunshot. The world tilted on its axis, and nothing would ever be the same again.

In the aftermath, the air reeked of gunpowder and betrayal. The Vultures closed ranks, a wall of leather and denial. Questions were raised, fingers pointed, but the truth was murky, swallowed by the code of silence that governed our world. Justice, in our realm, was a fickle mistress, often tangled in a web of loyalty and retribution. The killer was never brought to light, the shot that took my father’s life written off as a tragic accident in the heat of battle.

But for me, the wound was fresh, a raw and festering thing that refused to heal. The emotional scars ran deep, carved into my very being. I became a ghost of myself, haunting the edges of a life that no longer made sense. My father’s death left a void that no amount of club justice could fill. The Vultures became a reminder of what I had lost, and the brotherhood that once felt like a shelter now seemed like a cage.