Chapter 2
Rocco
The motel room smells like mildew and stale beer, the kind of place where dreams go to die. Or worse, turn into nightmares…
“Fuck,” I sigh, looking around and feeling like I need to get out of here right now.
I sit on the edge of the sagging mattress, my boots planted on the stained carpet, and stare at the knife in my hand.
It’s a wicked thing—six inches of steel, the handle carved with a rose wrapped in barbed wire…
The Fury’s old emblem.
My father’s emblem.
I turn it over, the blade catching the flicker of the neon sign outside the window. Red, blue, red, blue. It’s hypnotic, but it doesn’t dull the knot in my chest.
I’m Rocco, twenty-three, and I’m here to kill a man.
The Wolf Rider MC’s so-called enforcer.
Tank.
The bastard who broke my father’s body and spirit fifteen years ago in a turf war that left The Fury in ruins.
Dad’s told me the story a thousand times, his voice slurred with whiskey and pain.
Tank’s fists, his rage, the crack of bones under a desert moon. Dad was their sergeant-at-arms, a king among outlaws, until Tank left him crippled in the dirt.
Now Dad’s a ghost of himself, holed up in a trailer outside town, feeding me his vendetta like it’s my birthright.
I didn’t choose this life, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get vengeance for my old man.
I grip the knife tighter, my knuckles white. This is my job. Get close to Tank, earn his trust, then put this blade between his ribs.
Simple.
Clean.
Except it’s not...
Dad’s obsession is a chain around my neck, dragging me into a fight I don’t fully understand. I was eight when The Fury fell. All I know is the aftermath—Dad’s scars, his rants, the way he looks at me like I’m his last shot at revenge.
I owe him this, don’t I?
For the years he raised me alone, for the stories that shaped me. But the weight of it is crushing me. Sometimes the feeling is worse than others. But I know I can’t let my father down. That’s not who I am. It’s not who he raised me to be.
I stand, pacing the tiny room.
The clock on the wall says 3:00 a.m., but sleep’s a stranger tonight.
The Wolf Rider clubhouse is a mile away, a fortress of leather and steel where Tank is apparently holding court while some of the top dogs are away.
I’ve been watching it for days, learning the rhythms—when the bikes roll in, when the prospects slink out, when the lights dim.
Dawn’s my window, when the club’s quiet and the desert’s still.
I’ll leave the knife on their doorstep, a taunt to rattle them.
They need to know The Fury’s not dead.
Tank needs to feel the past creeping up on him with a blade, ready to kill.
I shove the knife into my jacket and grab my keys. My bike’s outside, a sleek black beast with red flames licking the sides.
I painted the Fury emblem on the tank myself, a middle finger to the Wolves.
It’s reckless, but I want them to see it.
I want him to see it.
And I know he saw the old bike I stole and painted the emblem on last night too.
I pull on my helmet, the leather gloves creaking as I flex my hands. My heart’s pounding, but it’s not just nerves. There’s something else, something I don’t want to feel but can’t help myself…
I’ve seen Tank from a distance—tall, broad, with a face carved from stone and eyes that could pin you to the wall. He’s everything my father described: brutal, commanding, dangerous.
But pop never mentioned how fucking hot Tank is.
Understandable on my father’s part, but there we go. I can’t unsee it, I can’t unthink it… Tank is all kinds of hot.
I shake my head, cursing under my breath.
“Get it together, Rocco,” I mutter. “This isn’t the time to let your dick do the thinking.”
I’ve always had a thing for older guys, the kind who take charge, who look at you like they own you. Tank’s the walking definition of that—a Daddy in leather, all muscle and menace.
The thought of confronting Tank, standing toe-to-toe with that intensity, sends a shiver down my spine. Not fear. Well not just fear. It’s want, raw and unbidden, twisting up with the hate I’m supposed to feel.
I step outside, the desert air sharp against my face.
The motel’s neon buzzes, casting long shadows across the lot. My bike gleams under the streetlight, the Fury emblem a quiet challenge.
I swing my leg over, the seat cool against my jeans, and fire up the engine. The roar cuts through the silence, grounding me.
I ease onto the road, the headlights slicing through the dark as I head toward the clubhouse. The plan’s simple: drop the knife, get out, let the Wolves sweat. But nothing about this feels simple anymore.
The town’s asleep, just a few drunks stumbling outside the bars.
The Wolf Rider clubhouse looms ahead, a squat concrete building behind a chain-link fence.
The lot’s empty, the bikes lined up like soldiers.
I slow, cutting my lights, and coast to a stop across the street.
The Fury bike I parked here is still there, untouched, its emblem glaring under the flickering streetlight.
Good.
I want them paranoid.
I dismount, my boots silent on the asphalt. The knife’s heavy in my pocket, a reminder of why I’m here.
I creep toward the clubhouse, sticking to the shadows.
The desert’s quiet, just the hum of crickets and the distant howl of a coyote.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I reach the fence. The gate’s locked, but the doorstep’s close enough. I pull the knife out, the blade glinting as I kneel. I set it down carefully, the rose-and-barbed-wire handle facing up.
A message.
A promise.
The Fury are back, and we’re coming for you…
I stand, my breath catching. For a second, I imagine Tank finding it, those hard eyes narrowing, his big hands closing around the handle.
I wonder what he’ll think, what he’ll do. Part of me wants him to know it’s me, wants to see the look on his face when we finally meet.
I want to hate him, to channel Dad’s rage, but all I can think about is how it’d feel to have those eyes on me, that voice barking my name.
Fuck, I’m messed up.
I know, I know… but that’s just me.
I back away, my boots crunching softly. The clubhouse stays dark, no sign of life. I did what I came to do.
Time to go.
I jog back to my bike, my heart racing like I’ve just run a mile. The engine growls to life, and I peel out, the wind tearing at my jacket.
The desert opens up around me, endless and black, the stars sharp overhead. I twist the throttle, pushing the bike faster, trying to outrun the thoughts crowding my head.
Dad’s voice is there, always there...
Tank took everything from me, Rocco. My legs, my club, my life. You’re gonna make him pay.
I’ve heard it so many times it’s carved into my soul. But the more I think about Tank, the less it feels like Dad’s story.
I’ve seen him at the bar, at the gas station, always with that aura of control, like he owns the world.
He’s not just a monster.
He’s a man—gruff, stern, with a presence that makes my knees weak.
I imagine confronting him, my knife in hand, his eyes locked on mine.
Would I do it? Could I?
Or would I freeze, caught in that gaze, wanting something I shouldn’t?
The road stretches on, and I let the bike carry me. I’m supposed to be a weapon, Dad’s avenger, but I feel like a kid playing a game he doesn’t understand.
I don’t know Tank, not really.
All I have is Dad’s hate and a blurry photo from years ago, Tank’s face younger but just as hard. I’ve built him up in my head, half demon, half fantasy. The Daddy I’ve always wanted, the kind who’d take me in hand, make me his.
It’s fucked up, but it’s there, burning hotter than the revenge I’m supposed to want.
I pull off the highway, stopping at an overlook where the desert meets the sky. The bike idles, the vibration steadying me. I pull off my helmet, letting the cold air hit my face.
My hands are shaking, not from the ride but from the war inside me.
I came here to kill Tank, to give Dad the justice he’s been chasing for fifteen years.
But what if I don’t want to?
What if I want something else—something impossible?
I think about the knife on the doorstep, the Fury emblem on my bike. I’ve set something in motion, and there’s no going back.
Tank’s gonna find that knife, and he’s gonna know someone’s coming for him. Maybe he’ll come for me first. The thought sends a thrill through me, fear and desire twisted together.
I want to see him up close, feel the weight of his stare, hear that growl in his voice.
I want to know if he’s as dangerous as Dad says, or if there’s something else behind those eyes.
The horizon’s starting to lighten, dawn creeping in.
I need to get back to the motel, plan my next move. I’ll get close to the Wolves, play the drifter looking to prospect, whatever it takes to get near Tank.
But as I kick the bike into gear, I know I’m not just doing this for my father.
I’m doing it for me, to see if I can face the man who haunts my dreams—both the nightmares and the ones I’d never admit to.
I ride back into the dark, the Fury emblem on my bike a shadow trailing behind me.
Whatever happens next, I’m ready.
Or at least, I tell myself I am.
Either way, I know one thing is true...
Tank is going down, and it’ll be me to plunges the knife into his heart.