Chapter 8 Rocco
Rocco
“Jeez, this is hard work,” Twitch says, his hands on his hips.
“Yup,” I reply, distracted. “But you have to pay the price to see success.”
The sun’s high, baking the desert as I finish scrubbing the last of the Wolf Rider bikes in the clubhouse lot.
My hands are raw, grease-stained, and my back aches from hours of prospect grunt work. Aside from Twitch and me, the other prospects are inside, grabbing beers, but I’m out here, trying to keep my head straight.
Tank’s been watching me all morning, his eyes hard but burning with something else—something that makes my skin heat every time I catch his gaze.
Last night at his place, what we did on that couch, his body claiming mine, his voice growling Daddy like it was a vow—it’s fucked me up worse than I thought possible.
I’m supposed to kill him, but all I can think about is how he made me feel alive.
I toss the rag into a bucket and wipe my hands on my jeans and watch as a tired Twitch heads inside to join everyone else.
Tank’s leaning against the clubhouse door, his Wolf Rider kutte stretched over his broad shoulders, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s all muscle and menace, but there’s a softness in the way he looks at me, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m his or his enemy.
My gut twists.
Tank doesn’t know the truth yet, but I’m starting to think I can’t keep it from him much longer.
“Done for the day, kid?” Tank calls, his voice rough but warm.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smirk. “Gonna case a joint in town. Word is it’s a spot we might wanna turn over. Figure I’ll check it out, prove my worth.”
Tank raises an eyebrow, taking a drag. “You don’t gotta prove shit to me. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
I nod, my throat tight, and head for my bike.
The lie tastes bitter.
I’m not casing any joint.
I’m going to see my father, to face the chain he’s wrapped around my neck. His call last night, threatening to send men if I don’t kill Tank, is still ringing in my ears.
I swing onto my bike, the engine roaring to life, and peel out of the lot, Tank’s eyes burning a hole in my back.
The ride to Dad’s trailer is straightforward, but it feels like a tortuous mission through the wilds.
The place is a dump—rusted metal, weeds choking the yard, a broken-down Harley under a tarp. He’s sitting on the porch in his wheelchair, a bottle of whiskey in his lap, his face gaunt and angry.
The man he was—the Fury’s sergeant-at-arms, all swagger and strength—is long gone, replaced by this bitter shell.
I cut the engine and step off, my boots crunching on the gravel.
“You’re late,” he snaps, his voice slurred. “Tank dead yet?”
I swallow, my stomach churning. “Not yet, Pop. I’m close. It takes time.”
“Time?” He slams the bottle down, the glass cracking. “You’re living with them, eating their food, acting like one of their dogs. You think I don’t hear things? You’re soft on him, aren’t you? That bastard who did this to me.”
My father gestures to his legs, his eyes blazing with hate.
I flinch, the words cutting deeper than they should.
“I’m not soft,” I say. “I’m playing the part, getting his trust. Getting intel. Like you told me.”
“Bullshit,” he snarls, leaning forward. “You’re my son, Rocco. Fury blood. You do this, or you’re nothing. The Fury is coming back, and Tank’s head is our ticket. You don’t do it, I got men who will. And they won’t be kind to a traitor either...”
His words are a knife, twisting in my chest.
I think of Tank—his hands on me, his voice promising safety, the way he took a bullet for me in that warehouse. I’m supposed to hate him, to end him for what he did to Dad, but I can’t.
Not anymore.
What we did last night wasn’t just sex.
It was real, raw, like he saw me, all of me, and didn’t turn away.
I can’t kill him. But I can’t betray Dad either.
“I’ll do it,” I lie, my voice flat. “Give me a couple days.”
“You got one,” he says, his eyes cold. “Don’t make me regret raising you. Now get the hell outta here.”
I nod, my hands shaking, and get back on my bike.
The ride back to town is a blur, the desert stretching out like a trap closing in.
I can’t do this. I can’t kill Tank, can’t keep lying to him.
The truth’s been eating at me since that first kiss, since he looked at me like I was more than a prospect, more than a threat.
I have to tell him, even if it means losing everything.
My father, the Wolves, Tank.
All of it.
By the time I pull into the clubhouse lot, the sun’s dipping low, painting the sky blood-red. The place is quiet, just a few bikes parked outside.
Tank’s Harley is there, and my heart kicks up.
I find him inside, alone at the bar, a whiskey in his hand. He looks up as I walk in, his eyes narrowing like he can sense something’s wrong.
“Thought you were casing a joint,” Tank says, his voice low, suspicious.
I take a breath, my hands clenched at my sides.
“I lied. I didn’t go to town. I went to see my father...”
Tank’s jaw tightens, and he sets the glass down, slow, deliberate.
“Your father, huh?’ Tank growls. “Wanna tell me who he is?”
I swallow, my throat dry. This is it. No going back.
“Marco. My father’s Marco, the Fury man,” I say, my heart pounding inside my chest. “The guy you crippled fifteen years ago.”
The air goes still, like the calm before a storm.
Tank’s face hardens, his eyes burning into mine, but he doesn’t move.
“Keep talking,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet.
I force the words out, my voice shaking.
“He sent me here to kill you. For revenge. The Fury bike, the knife, the Viper ambush—it was all part of his plan. He wants you dead, wants the Fury back. But I…” I pause, my chest tight. “I can’t do it, Tank. I thought I could, but I can’t. Not after everything. Not after you.”
Tank stands, towering over me, his fists clenched.
I brace myself, expecting a punch or worse, but he just stares, his eyes a mix of rage and something else—hurt, maybe.
“You came here to kill me,” Tank says, his voice raw. “Played me, got in my bed, all to put a knife in my back.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer, desperate. “It started that way, but it’s not like that anymore. You saved me, Tank. You… you mean something to me. I’m telling you the truth now because I can’t keep lying. I can’t hurt you.”
He laughs, a harsh, bitter sound.
“You think that makes it better?” Tank says dismissively. “You’re Marco’s kid, and you’ve been playing us from the start. You know what Clay will do if he finds out? He’ll bury you. And I mean bury you.”
“I know,” I say, my voice breaking. “That’s why I’m telling you. I’m done with it, Tank. I’m done with my father’s hate. I just… I need you to believe me.”
He steps closer, his breath hot, his eyes blazing.
“Believe you? After you lied to my face? Got in my head, my bed, knowing you were here to end me? You’re lucky I don’t snap your neck right now.”
I flinch, but I don’t back down.
“Then do it,” I snap. “If that’s what you think I deserve, go ahead. But I’m telling you, I’m not that guy anymore. I’m here because I want you, not because of him.”
He grabs my shirt, pulling me close, his face inches from mine.
For a second, I think he’s gonna snap my neck, but he just holds me there, his grip bruising.
“You’re a fucking liar,” Tank growls, but his voice cracks, like he’s fighting something inside. “I should kill you. But I…”
He pauses, his eyes searching mine, and I see it—the conflict, the want, the same mess I’m drowning in.
“Then let me go,” I whisper. “If you don’t trust me, let me walk away.”
He releases me, stepping back, his hands shaking.
“Get out,” Tank says, his voice low, deadly. “Leave town. Don’t show your face here again. If Clay finds out who you are, you’re dead. Go, Rocco. Now.”
I nod, my chest aching like it’s been cracked open.
I want to say more, to beg him to believe me, but his eyes are cold, unyielding.
I’ve lost him.
I turn and walk out, my boots heavy on the floorboards, the weight of his words crushing me.
The desert night hits me as I step outside, the stars mocking me with their clarity.
I climb onto my bike, the engine roaring to life, and ride into the dark, not knowing where I’m going, only that I’ve just burned everything to the ground—and not just with Tank, but with my father too…