Chapter 9
Tank
The clubhouse is a war room tonight, the air thick with tension and the smell of gun oil. Clay’s back at the head of the table, his gravelly voice laying out the intel like a death sentence.
“The Fury’s back,” Clay says, his eyes hard as steel. “Marco’s leading them, regrouped with some new blood, mostly family ties but some other misfits too. They’re planning a strike on us, soon. But we hit them first.”
My gut twists, not just from the news but from the name—Marco. And with it, Rocco. It’s been two days since I banished him, since he stood in front of me and spilled the truth about being Marco’s son, sent to kill me.
I wanted to believe him when he said he couldn’t kill me, wanted to keep him close, but the lies…
it was too much. No amount of chemistry between me and the boy could make up for the fact that he deceived me, that he was a blood relative of Marco’s.
I mean, maybe if he’d told me from the jump…
nah, even then it would have been too much.
I’m a Wolf Rider, and I’ll ride loyal to the club until my last breath. That’s just the way it has to be, and it’s the way I want it too. But that’s not to say that I don’t have any feelings for Rocco. I’d be a fool and a liar to say otherwise…
The truth is plain to see. I sent Rocco away to save his life, to keep Clay from killing him. Part of me feels disloyal to Clay and the others for even doing that, but it felt like the right option at the time.
But now, knowing Marco’s rallying the Fury, I’m not sure I made the right call.
“Where’s their hideout?” I ask, my voice rough, my hands clenched on the table.
Clay slides a map across, pointing to a spot in the desert, an old factory twenty miles out.
“Here,” Clay says. “Twitch got word from a snitch. They’re holed up, gearing for a hit. We move tonight.”
Arch, leaning against the wall, catches my eye. He knows what I’m thinking—Rocco’s out there, with Marco, and if he’s part of this, we’re heading for blood.
“You good, Tank?” Arch asks, his voice low.
“Yeah,” I lie, my mind on Rocco’s face, his lips on mine, the way he felt under me that night at my place. I don’t know if he’s a traitor or a victim, but I’m about to find out. “Let’s do this.”
We roll out at midnight, a pack of Wolves on Harleys—Clay, Arch, Kash, me, and a handful of patched members. The desert’s cold, the stars sharp, our engines roaring like a war cry. My heart’s pounding, not just from the fight ahead but from the thought of seeing Rocco again.
If Rocco is with the Fury, if he’s chosen his father over me, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I know I can’t lose him, not without a fight.
The factory looms ahead, a rusted skeleton against the night sky.
We cut our engines a half-mile out, moving on foot to avoid detection. The place is lit up, bikes parked outside, the rose-and-barbed-wire emblem glinting on a few.
Fury.
My blood runs hot, memories of the turf war flashing—Marco’s screams, the blood on my hands. We all knew what we were walking into that day—on both sides—and while it might have been brutal, I can say in all honesty that at least on the Wolf Rider side we fought with honor.
Marco got hurt, and it was me who did the hurting. But he knew the rules, he chose this life just like I did. Fuck. Why the hell did Rocco have to be his son?
I shake it off, gripping my gun as Clay signals us to spread out.
We creep closer, sticking to the shadows.
Voices echo from inside, and I catch a glimpse through a broken window. Marco’s there, in his wheelchair, barking orders to a dozen men armed to the teeth.
And then I see him—Rocco, standing at the back, his face tight, his eyes haunted. He’s holding a gun, but it’s loose in his hand, like he doesn’t want it. My chest aches.
The boy’s here, with the enemy, but he doesn’t look like he belongs.
Clay whispers, “On my mark.”
But before he can give the signal, Rocco’s eyes meet mine through the window. Time stops. The boy’s face shifts—shock, then something else, something desperate.
Rocco drops his gun, raising his hands, and shouts, “Tank, I’m not with them! I’m not on their fucking side!”
Marco wheels around, his face twisting with rage. “You traitor!” he roars, pulling a pistol from his lap. “You’re no son of mine!”
The room erupts.
The Fury men turn on Rocco, but he’s already moving, diving for cover as bullets fly.
I don’t think—just act.
I charge through the window, glass shattering, my gun blazing.
“Wolf Riders, now!” I shout, and the others follow, a storm of leather and steel.
The fight’s chaos—gunfire, fists, blood spraying across the concrete floor. I take down a Fury rider with a shot to the leg, my eyes locked on Rocco.
He’s fighting back, his movements quick, precise, but he’s not aiming at us.
Rocco is actually taking on his own father’s men, his face a mask of determination. A Fury lunges at him, and I fire, dropping the guy before he can touch Rocco.
“Stay with me, kid!” I yell, grabbing his arm and pulling him behind a crate.
“I’m sorry,” Rocco gasps, his eyes wild. “I didn’t want this. I tried to leave, but he forced me here. I choose you, Tank. I swear.”
I want to believe him, but there’s no time.
A Fury rider comes at us, and Rocco tackles him, his fists flying.
We’re back-to-back now, fighting side by side, our bodies moving like we’ve done this forever.
The boy’s fierce, fearless, and fuck if it doesn’t make me proud. He’s not just Marco’s son any longer—he’s my boy too, in a way that runs deeper than blood.
The Wolf Riders are relentless, Clay’s voice barking orders like a military general, Arch and Kash mowing down anyone who gets close.
The Fury’s numbers dwindle, their men falling or fleeing into the night.
Marco’s still in the center, his pistol empty, his face a mask of hate as he watches his plan collapse.
When the last Fury rider drops, the factory goes quiet, just the sound of heavy breathing and the groan of the wounded.
Clay steps forward, his gun trained on Marco.
“You’re done,” Clay says, his voice cold. “The Fury’s finished. Again. But this time, it’s forever.”
Marco spits, his eyes blazing.
“You think this ends it?” Marco screeches. “I’ll come for you, Clay. For all of you. You just see if I don’t.”
I step in front of Clay, my gun aimed at Marco’s chest.
Rocco’s at my side, his breath ragged, his eyes on his father.
“Tank, don’t,” Clay says, his voice low. “He’s not worth it.”
I look at Marco, the man I crippled fifteen years ago, the man who sent his son to kill me.
I could end him now, wipe the slate clean.
But I see Rocco’s face, the pain in his eyes, and I know I can’t.
Not like this.
I lower my gun, my voice steady.
“You live, Marco,” I say. “But you come for us again, I won’t hold back. But if you come for Rocco, I rip your head clean off with my own hands.”
Marco’s face twists, but he says nothing, just wheels himself toward the door, his battered, bloody men dragging themselves after him.
Rocco watches, his shoulders tense, his eyes wet.
I put a hand on his back, steadying him.
“You did the right thing, kid,” I say.
The boy turns to me, his voice breaking.
“I thought I lost you, Daddy,” Rocco says, a tear running down his cheek. “When you sent me away, I… I didn’t know what to do. But I love you, Tank. I fucking love you.”
The words hit like a bullet, raw and real.
I pull him close, my hand on his neck, my forehead against his.
“I love you too, Rocco,” I say, my voice rough. “You’re mine. No matter what.”
Rocco nods, his eyes locked on mine, and I feel it—the bond we’ve forged, through blood and betrayal.
Clay’s eyes are sharp, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, a silent approval.
We walk out together, the desert air cold against our skin. Marco’s at the edge of the lot, his men loading him into a van. Rocco stops, his face torn…
“I need to say goodbye,” he says, his voice quiet.
I nod, stepping back.
I watch as Rocco walks over, kneeling beside his father’s wheelchair. Their words are low, too quiet for me to hear, but I see the pain in Rocco’s eyes, the way Marco’s face hardens.
Rocco stands, his shoulders heavy, and walks back to me.
“It’s done,” he says, his voice steady but raw.
I climb onto my Harley, and Rocco slides behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist.
The engine roars, and we ride into the night, the other Riders around and behind us, the stars above.
Rocco’s mine, and I’m his, and no ghost from the past can take that away now.
The boy is one of us now, for real.
And it’s time we headed back to the clubhouse to make it all official…