Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
DELILAH
T he rain hadn’t let up all day. It streaked down the windows in relentless sheets, blurring the glow of the streetlights outside. Normally, I found the sound soothing—a steady, predictable rhythm to drown out the noise of my thoughts. But tonight, the storm seemed to echo the turmoil brewing inside me, an uneasy undercurrent I couldn’t ignore.
I sat at the kitchen table, staring at my untouched mug of coffee. The bitter smell lingered in the air, but it wasn’t enough to ground me. The quiet of my apartment wrapped around me like a cocoon, a stark contrast to the chaos I knew too well. This place was my sanctuary, my refuge from the world I’d left behind.
But the moment my phone buzzed on the counter, the fragile peace shattered.
I glanced at the screen, expecting a notification or maybe a text from the café where I worked. Instead, I froze. The name flashing across the screen hit me like a punch to the gut.
Axel Cruz.
My stomach twisted. It had been years since my brother last called me. We weren’t the kind of siblings who kept in touch, exchanging holiday greetings or making small talk. The silence between us wasn’t accidental—it was deliberate. So why now? What could possibly warrant breaking years of radio silence?
The phone buzzed again, insistent. My thumb hovered over the decline button, but I couldn’t press it. Axel didn’t do casual calls. If he was reaching out, it had to be serious.
Finally, I hit accept. “What do you want, Axel?”
The line crackled faintly, the sound of rain and an engine humming in the background. For a moment, I thought he might hang up. Then his voice came through, low and clipped. “It’s Dad.”
My chest tightened. “What about him?”
There was a pause, one so long I thought he might leave it at that. When he spoke again, the words were sharp, almost mechanical. “He’s dead.”
"He’s dead."
Two words. Flat. Emotionless. They hung in the air between us, impossible to process. My fingers gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white as the rest of my body went still.
“What are you talking about?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, brittle with disbelief.
“Shot,” Axel said. His tone was even like he was reading off a report. “Last night. He didn’t make it.”
The words didn’t feel real. My father—Javier Cruz, the man who had loomed larger than life in every room he entered, the man who had built an empire with his bare hands—was dead. He wasn’t supposed to die. Not like this. Not like anyone else.
“How did this happen?” I demanded, my voice rising. “Who did it? Who the hell would dare?—”
“Does it matter?” Axel cut me off, his voice cold and hard. “He’s gone. That’s all there is to it.”
The heat in my chest flared. “Of course it matters, Axel. Someone killed him. Someone made this happen, and you’re acting like it’s nothing.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, heavy and suffocating. When Axel finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, edged with something I couldn’t quite place. “The funeral’s tomorrow. You’re coming.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a demand, and it made my blood boil. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” I snapped. “Not anymore.”
“This isn’t about you, Delilah,” Axel said, his voice rising. “It’s about him. He’s still your father, whether you want to admit it or not.”
I clenched my jaw, the words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. He was right, and that was the problem. No matter how far I ran, no matter how much I tried to bury the past, I couldn’t change the blood in my veins.
“Fine,” I said finally, my voice trembling. “I’ll come. But don’t expect me to stay.”
“Good,” Axel said. His tone softened slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll send you the details.”
The line went dead, leaving me alone in the silence of my apartment. I set the phone down slowly, my hands shaking. My father was dead. Axel wanted me back, if only for a day. And whether I liked it or not, I couldn’t say no.
I stayed at the table long after the call ended, staring blankly at the phone like it might buzz again. The rain outside had softened to a dull patter, but the noise in my head was louder than ever.
I should’ve felt something—grief, anger, sadness—but all I felt was a hollow ache that settled in my chest and refused to leave. Javier Cruz had been larger than life, a force of nature who bent the world to his will. Now he was gone, and I couldn’t even picture it. Couldn’t imagine a world without his shadow looming over it.
Finally, I stood, my legs unsteady as I crossed the room to the bookshelf in the corner. On the bottom shelf, hidden beneath a stack of old paperbacks, was a photo album I hadn’t touched in years. I pulled it out, the leather cover worn and cracked, and carried it to the couch.
When I opened the album, the first photo stopped me cold. It was an old Polaroid, the edges yellowed and curling. Axel and I sat on the back of Dad’s bike, our faces lit up with excitement. I couldn’t have been more than six, Axel maybe eight. He had his arm slung around my shoulders, grinning like he owned the world. Dad stood beside us, his hand resting on the handlebars, a rare smile softening his sharp features.
I could almost hear his voice as I stared at the photo. Deep and gravelly, it was the kind of voice that could command a room that made you feel both comforted and terrified at the same time. Dad wasn’t the kind of man who needed to yell to get his point across. One look, one word, was enough to make even the toughest Vipers fall in line.
The memory came rushing back, vivid and all-consuming.
It had been a warm summer afternoon, the kind that made the sticky heat of the Black Vipers’ clubhouse feel unbearable. I was six years old, still small enough that Dad could scoop me up with one arm. Axel had just turned eight, his gangly limbs making him look like a colt that hadn’t quite grown into himself yet.
Dad had taken us outside that day, away from the chaos of the clubhouse and the constant buzz of engines. His bike was parked in the gravel lot, gleaming in the sunlight like a polished jewel. He ran his hand over the handlebars as if the machine were alive, his expression softening in a way I didn’t see often.
“This is Cruz steel,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “Built for speed. Built for strength. Just like us.”
Axel’s eyes lit up, his admiration for Dad so palpable it practically radiated off him. He reached out to touch the bike, his fingers skimming the leather seat. “Can I ride it someday?” he asked, his voice full of awe.
“Someday,” Dad said with a chuckle. “When you’re ready.”
I stood off to the side, unsure of where I fit in. Axel was always the center of Dad’s attention. He was the golden boy, the heir to everything Dad had built. I was just the kid sister who tagged along, trying not to get in the way.
But then Dad turned to me. His eyes softened, and for the first time, he really looked at me—not as the tagalong, but as someone who belonged.
“Come here, Delilah,” he said, holding out his hand. “You want to sit on it?”
I blinked up at him, my heart pounding. “Me?”
“Yeah, you,” he said, crouching down so we were at eye level. “You’re a Cruz, aren’t you?”
I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. He lifted me onto the bike with ease, his hands steady and strong as he settled me on the seat. The leather was cool against my legs, the handlebars wide beneath my tiny hands. I felt... powerful. Important. Like I belonged.
“Look at you,” Dad said, his voice filled with pride. “You’re a natural.”
Axel leaned against the bike, grinning. “She looks like a baby biker.”
“Am not!” I shot back, glaring at him.
“Are too,” Axel teased, tugging on my braid.
Before I could retaliate, Dad’s laughter boomed through the air, deep and genuine. It was a rare sound, one that seemed to make the whole world brighter. He ruffled Axel’s hair and then mine, his calloused hand lingering on my shoulder.
“You’re going to be something special, Delilah,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “I can feel it.”
The words stuck with me long after the moment passed. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t just Axel’s little sister or Javier Cruz’s daughter. I was Delilah, and I mattered.
That memory was one of the few I clung to. As I got older, those moments—the rare glimpses of tenderness, of love not weighed down by expectations—became fewer and farther between. Dad stopped lifting me onto bikes and started teaching Axel how to run the club. I’d watch them from the doorway of the garage, the smell of oil and grease thick in the air as Dad walked Axel through every detail: how to balance the books, negotiate deals, and keep the Vipers in line.
Axel soaked it all up like a sponge, standing taller with every lesson and every nod of approval from Dad. He lived for those moments, the fleeting ones when Dad’s sharp eyes softened just enough to let you know you’d done something right. For Axel, those moments were everything. For me, they were a reminder of everything I wasn’t.
I tried to follow. Tried to prove I belonged. I helped around the clubhouse, cleaned bikes, and memorized the names of the club’s key players. I listened to Dad’s stories, asked questions about the club, and even sat through Axel’s long-winded explanations about the ins and outs of Viper business. But no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
“Family comes first,” Dad used to say, his voice sharp with authority. “Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve built—it’s for you and Axel.”
But that wasn’t true. It was a lie he told himself, a story he used to justify the sacrifices he made—and the ones he demanded from us. Everything he’d done, the empire he’d built, the power he wielded—it had all been for him. And the cost of it? That was on us. Axel bore it willingly, desperate to make Dad proud, to step into his shoes and carry the weight of the Vipers. I carried it like a burden, one I couldn’t wait to put down.
It wasn’t just the constant comparisons to Axel that crushed me—it was the knowledge that I could never be enough for Dad. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, it always felt like I was playing a part in a show where the script had already been written, and my role was insignificant. The rare times Dad did acknowledge me, it was with a vague, detached approval. “Good job, kid.” “Not bad.” But there was never warmth behind the words. Never pride. And that warmth I desperately craved? It never lingered long enough to matter. His praise was a dangling carrot, always followed by a reminder of how much farther I had to go.
I’d hear him in the garage with Axel, their voices low and serious as if the world depended on whatever plans they were sketching out together. “This is yours to carry someday,” Dad would say, his tone reverent in a way it never was with me. “You’re going to make me proud.”
Every time I heard it, something inside me would twist. I’d sit in my room; the door cracked open just enough to catch bits of their conversation and wonder why he never said those things to me. Why he never looked at me and saw someone capable, someone strong? Why he never asked me to carry anything—not even a small piece of the world he’d built.
And then one day, it hit me. He never would.
It wasn’t anger that filled me in that moment, though I’d felt anger so many times before. It wasn’t sadness, either, though it was always there, an undercurrent in every conversation, every silence. What I felt instead was resignation. A hollow, aching understanding that I could give him everything—my time, my effort, my love—and it still wouldn’t make a difference. I wasn’t Axel. I wasn’t his legacy. I wasn’t enough.
It would’ve been easier to hate Axel if he’d rubbed it in, flaunted his position in Dad’s world, or sneered at my attempts to measure up. But he didn’t have to. It was in the way he carried himself—the way he stood straighter when Dad was in the room, the way his voice always seemed to ring louder and clearer. He took up space effortlessly while I shrank into the corners, invisible and unnoticed.
Axel didn’t have to fight for Dad’s approval because he already had it. He was everything Dad wanted: strong, decisive, capable. And me? I was the spare part. The backup plan no one ever intended to use. Axel was born for the spotlight, and I was destined to live in his shadow.
I wanted to hate him for it. Sometimes, I thought I did. But the truth was, I envied him more than anything. I envied the way Dad trusted him, respected him, and believed in him. I envied the way Axel never seemed to question his place in Dad’s world, the way he fit into it so seamlessly like he’d been molded for it from the start.
And then there was me—always on the outside looking in, trying to convince myself that the scraps of attention Dad threw my way were enough. That I didn’t need his approval or his love, even as I ached for it with every fiber of my being.
One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood outside the garage, my fists clenched at my sides, as Dad and Axel talked inside. Their voices were low and steady, the weight of their words pressing down on me even though I couldn’t make out everything they were saying.
I wanted to walk in there, to demand that Dad see me, hear me, acknowledge me. I wanted to tell him that I was strong too, that I could carry some of the weight if he’d just let me. But I couldn’t move. My feet felt like they were glued to the ground, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.
And then Dad’s voice cut through the night, clear and certain. “You’re going to make me proud, Axel. I know it.”
Something inside me broke. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was quiet, like the slow shattering of glass under pressure. I turned and walked away, the lump in my throat so heavy I thought I might choke on it. By the time I made it back to my room, the tears were spilling over, hot and unstoppable.
I buried my face in my pillow, my body shaking with sobs I couldn’t control. I cried for all the things I wasn’t, for all the ways I’d tried and failed. I cried because no matter how much I loved Dad, no matter how much I wanted to make him proud, it would never be enough.
In the weeks that followed, I told myself I didn’t care. That Dad’s approval didn’t matter, that I didn’t need his love or his pride. But it was a lie, one I told myself over and over again, hoping that if I said it enough, I’d start to believe it.
I threw myself into everything—cleaning bikes, running errands, listening to every story Dad told even though I knew he wasn’t really talking to me. I memorized the names of every club member, every rival, every ally. I wanted to prove that I could be part of his world, that I could carry the weight just as well as Axel.
But no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough. The harder I pushed, the farther away Dad seemed. And eventually, I stopped trying. Not because I didn’t care anymore, but because I couldn’t take the rejection. The constant reminders that no matter what I did, I would always be on the outside looking in.
I started spending more time away from the clubhouse, finding excuses to leave and stay gone longer than I needed to. I told myself I was just giving Dad space, that maybe if I stepped back, he’d finally see me. But he never did. The distance only made it easier for him to forget I was there at all.
Even now, years later, the memory of Dad’s voice still haunts me. “You’re going to make me proud, Axel.” He’d never said those words to me. He probably never thought them. And as much as I hated him for it, part of me hated myself more—for wanting his approval so badly, for craving the warmth of a love he never gave me.
Sitting here in my apartment, holding a photo of us that felt like it belonged to someone else’s life, the ache in my chest was almost unbearable. I hated him for how small he made me feel, but I hated him even more for leaving me with this emptiness, this hollow space where his love should’ve been.
And now he was gone, and I’d never have the chance to hear those words. To prove to him that I was enough. That I was worth something. The tears came before I could stop them, hot and relentless, spilling down my cheeks as I clutched the photo tighter.
“I was enough,” I whispered to the empty room, the words trembling and uncertain. “I should’ve been enough.”
But the silence didn’t answer, and the ache in my chest only grew.