Chapter 10 The Weight of the Crown
TEN
THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN
STEEL
Day by day, Dad hands me another piece of the machine. Sometimes, it’s subtle. A contact passed over breakfast. A hard decision left sitting in my lap during Church. A whispered correction after I speak too quickly in front of a city official.
Other times, it’s brutal.
I catch him losing his breath going up the clubhouse stairs. See the way his hands tremble when he thinks no one’s watching. His voice used to crack through a room like a war drum. Now it scrapes low and tired, like gravel in a rusted pipe.
He used to move like a general. Strategic, forceful, focused. Now, there are days I find him on the clubhouse back porch staring out at nothing, hands trembling just enough to notice if you're close.
But even in those quiet moments, the brothers around him rally. Silent sentries holding space.
At Church, I see Honor and Rampage exchange glances when Dad barely calls order. They don’t prod, don’t pry, but they tighten their shoulders, as if silently saying, We got this.
City catches my eye from across the room. No words, just a nod that says You’re not alone. It’s a language born in battle scars and late nights in the garage.
One morning, I walk into our shared office. The gavel, his gavel, is on my desk.
No note. No meeting. No announcement. Just sitting there, waiting.
I don’t touch it. Not yet.
I stare at the gavel on my desk longer than I probably should. It sits there like it knows what it means.
Aria walks in, no knock, just that quiet authority she carries when we’re not at the Club. She sees it and doesn’t flinch. “He’s giving it to you,” she says.
“Not officially.”
“Still giving it.”
I rest my hands on the edge of the desk. “I don’t want it like this.”
“You think he did?” she asks, crossing the room. She lays her hand over mine. “Nobody wants to bury a king, Steel. But somebody’s got to become one.” The heat of her palm is steady, but beneath it, I feel something else. Hesitation, a quiet war.
I don’t answer. I just lean into the stillness and let her presence settle the weight for a second.
Her eyes flick away for a beat, and when she looks back, there’s a crack in the armor I rarely see.
“I’m scared, Steel,” she admits, voice low. “Not just for you… for me. Caring for you like this is more than a risk. It’s everything I’ve built outside this world, everything I could lose. My career, my family... even myself.” She swallows hard, biting back more.
“I’m not used to leaning on anyone. Not like this.” I respond.
Her fingers tighten around mine. “If this goes sideways, there’s no safe place for me to run.”
I want to reach out and pull her closer, to tell her she’s not alone. Tell her she means the world to me and that my heart will stop beating without her, but I see it. Her wrestling with the cost, the fear of falling too hard, too fast.
So, instead, I squeeze her hand. “I don’t want you to lose yourself.”
She shakes her head, eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I’m already losing parts of me. Being with you means stepping into a world that’s dangerous.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m strong enough.
” Her voice cracks just a little. “The last time I let someone in like this, it ended with me holding the pieces alone.”
She pulls back, but the vulnerability lingers. I see it all. The stakes she’s betting on, the gamble she’s making with every beat of her heart.
“You’re not alone,” I say quietly. “We carry this together.”
She nods slowly, resting her forehead against my shoulder. “I just needed you to know… this isn’t just your fight. It’s mine too. And that’s what you do for someone you love.”
There’s her confession. Her fear. Loving me might destroy her. I don’t want to hurt her; I want to watch her grow into the powerful woman I know she will be.
I pull her against my chest and kiss the top of her head, swallowing back the words that will make us or break her.
Later in the week, Dad and I are both in the garage.
He’s cleaning tools. I’m buried in a shell company ledger; ink smudged on my palm from sketching a money trail.
I’d rather be buried deep inside Aria, but she had to go to visit her parents in Detroit for a few days.
Things are strained between us, but at night, when we need each other the most, that worry slips away.
Dad and I work in silence until the tension presses against my lungs.
“Why are you doing this like it’s a relay?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up. Just keeps cleaning the same wrench like it’s made of glass and memory. “Doing what?”
“Handing me pieces,” I say. “One at a time. Like you’re counting down.”
He finally meets my gaze, tired eyes clear for a second. “Because if I dump it all on you, you’ll collapse. You won’t say it. But you would.”
My throat tightens. “I can take it.”
“That’s not the same thing as saying you should. You will take it. All of it. But not yet. Not while I’ve still got breath left to help you lift it.”
I study him. Grease stains under his nails. Sweat at his brow. That worn SOMC hoodie from the early days, sleeves pushed up. He still looks like the man who raised hell, raised brothers, raised me.
He’s smaller now. Not in size, but in presence. Like the fire’s still there but burning out in pieces.
“I don’t want to watch you die, old man,” I whisper, not even meaning to say it out loud.
“You’re not,” he replies gently. “You’re watching me live. The only way I know how, with purpose. And you? You’re that purpose.”
We sit in silence for a long time. No music. No words. Just the hum of machines and the occasional sound of cloth wiping steel.
Later, the garage door rumbles open.
Saint steps in, wiping sweat from his forehead, eyes sharp but soft. He doesn’t say anything but pulls up a chair beside me.
Rampage follows, nodding at Dad, then sitting down with a warm bottle of water. The brothers don’t crowd us. They are just a steady pillar of the club’s heart, silently telling me that I’m not carrying this alone.
The weight I feel isn’t just on my shoulders. It’s shared, multiplied by these men who bleed, sweat, and fight like family.
At Church that night, the brothers circle close. When I speak, their eyes lock on me with fierce trust. No judgment, no pressure, just that hard-earned bond that holds us all steady when the ground shakes.
Dad never says I’m proud of you. He doesn’t need to because every time he hands me another key, another name, another war story that hides a blade of truth under the surface, I hear it.
I hear it when he lets me lead Church discussions while he leans back, watching with arms crossed and mouth shut.
I hear it when he lets me set the ride route and doesn't question it.
I hear it every time he chooses silence over control.
It’s his way of saying, It’s yours now. Don’t break it.
No cheers. No toasts. Just their eyes on mine, trusting I won’t let it all fall apart.
And I won’t.
The weight of the crown settles heavily on my head.
God help me, I won’t break it.