Chapter 11 Steel Forged
ELEVEN
STEEL FORGED
STEEL
Engines don’t roar today. They rumble low, reverent, like thunder holding its breath. A funeral ride’s not about the noise. It’s about presence. About hundreds of patched souls stretching across miles of asphalt to say one thing with a united front.
He mattered.
Saints Outlaws from all over the United States are sitting on their Harleys, proud of who we are. Proud of the men we have become. Proud of what our club stands for.
Tama, The General, King, my father, rides one last time through the city he carved a kingdom in. His casket rests in a matte-black trailer pulled by his favorite rebuilt chopper, stripped of chrome, draped in a Saints Outlaws flag.
Behind it rides Honor, leading the procession with his jaw clenched and tears dry on his cheeks. Behind him, Saint, the last Original member, Rampage, Rock, City, Throttle, Crusher, Draft, and then me.
Me, last in the front line. It wasn’t planned like this. It’s where I ended up. Like maybe the club’s blood already knew the shift had happened.
The streets are lined with silence. Cops block off intersections, nodding to us like they understand something bigger is passing through. People take their hats off. Old timers salute. A little boy holds a sign that reads, Ride I Power, General.
My eyes burn behind my sunglasses, but I don’t blink. I can’t.
The only way I make it through this is forward. One foot, one mile, one heartbeat at a time.
We park row after row outside the old chapel Dad helped rebuild after the riots back in ’94. The same church where he married my mom. The same church where I was baptized. Red brick, white trim, and a crooked steeple. No gold, no glamour. Just grit.
Just like him.
Engines go still one by one, a sea of chrome and black metal falling silent. Men pull off their helmets, dust streaked across cheeks, eyes red and dry. The sun hits the chapel like a final spotlight on the end of an era.
Aria slides off the back of my bike, her hands lingering on my waist a beat longer than usual. I glance at her over my shoulder, expecting a smile. She just looks at the chapel like it’s about to bury more than my father.
There’s something in her eyes I can’t name. Her jaw tightens like she’s swallowing something she doesn’t want to say. I wait for the question I know is coming, but it never does.
Inside, it’s quiet. The wooden pews creak as men with broken knuckles and inked skin fold into them. Some of them haven’t set foot in a church in decades. That doesn’t matter. They’re here for him.
Aria sits alone, two rows behind me, not beside me. Not this time. Her hands are folded in her lap. She’s too still, like if she moves, she’ll break. When I glance back, she doesn’t meet my eyes, but a lone tear escapes, trailing down her cheek.
Dad’s cut is draped over the closed casket. Black leather worn soft from years of wear, the SOMC patch still bold across the back. The white thread of his road name, The General, fraying at the edges, but still holding.
I walk down the aisle alone. My boots echo in the enormous, high-peaked building. There is no music, no sermon. Just me and the weight of everything.
I stop at the casket and lay my hand on Dad’s cut.
His warmth is gone, but the leather still smells like oil and smoke, like rides before dawn, like home.
His power, that presence, is still here.
In the silence. In every soul sitting behind me.
In the pounding of my pulse against the inside of my throat.
“I got us know,” I whisper.
It isn’t a vow, it’s the truth. Our truth.
For a second, I wish I could turn and see Aria’s face. See if she believes I can carry it. But I don’t because I already know the answer.
Crusher steps up first, slow and solid, wearing his grief like armor. His jaw’s clenched, his eyes hard, but when he looks at the casket, something in him bends.
“He taught me how to spot a lie with one look,” Crusher says, voice low. “Taught me loyalty doesn’t come from blood, it comes from who bleeds for you.”
He lays a hand on the edge of the wood. “Rest easy, old man. I’ll watch his back now.”
He looks at me, just once, and nods. A silent exchange. I feel it down to the bone.
Rock moves like the silence is swallowing him whole. He sets a single black rose beside the cut. His hands shake as he touches the patch.
“I owe him my life,” Rock murmurs. “I was nineteen and about to put a bullet in my own skull. You found me, he patched me up, and gave me a reason to live. Then he made me prove I was worth the second chance.”
Rock swallows hard. “You were more than a father to Isaiah. You were one to all of us.”
My eyes burn with unshed tears as I hold them back and stand next to my father’s casket.
Rampage doesn’t say anything at first. He stands there, fists tight at his sides, knuckles raw. Then he pulls out a brass knuckle keychain, Tama’s old one, and lays it down on the casket.
“He never backed down from a fight,” Rampage says gruffly. “Taught me that rage without reason is just chaos. But rage with discipline? That’s a weapon.”
His voice cracks at the end, and I see it. How deeply he’s bleeding under the surface.
City walks up with his phone in hand, then puts it away. No numbers here. No spreadsheets. Just memories.
“He told me once that every empire falls when it stops keeping score,” City says. “That power without intelligence is a hammer with no handle.”
He taps the corner of the casket. “You gave me more than a job, Tama. You gave me purpose.” He looks over at me. “I’ll keep the math clean, Prez. No ghosts in the books.”
Throttle rolls in last, helmet still tucked under his arm, wind-tossed hair half braided, grease stains on his cut. His eyes are wet, but there’s a defiance in the way he stands.
“I’m the one who always asked why,” he says with a soft grin. “And you… You always answered with a ride. You said the road gives you time to think, and thinking leads to the truth.”
Throttle lays a worn spark plug on the casket. No explanation needed. A token between him and the man who made him. “I’ll lead the ride every year,” he promises. “You’ll never be forgotten.”
Honor steps forward next. No words at first. Just a slow, reverent kneel beside the casket, forehead resting on the wood.
“He called me Honor long before I earned it,” he whispers. “And when I failed… when I lost that compass… he still stood by me.”
He rises and places a dog tag next to the cut. “Your war’s over, General. I’ll carry the code forward.”
Draft steps up, shoulders stiff like he’s holding back a quake inside. Seventeen and already wearing the weight of the patch like it’s a second skin. He’s got ink-stained fingers from the ledgers, a mind like a steel trap, and eyes too old for his age.
He swallows hard, glances at the casket, then reaches into his cut and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“I wrote this the night he died,” Draft says, voice cracking but steady. “Didn’t know if I’d read it. Still don’t. But... here it is.”
He doesn’t read it aloud. Just sets it gently on the casket, right next to the cut. “He taught me how to see, how to watch the room, read the play, and know when silence says more than words.”
Draft looks back at me. “He didn’t treat me like a kid. He treated me like a brother. Like I belonged.” He backs away with a nod. Quiet. Humble. But damn if that kid doesn’t walk like a king in the making.
Saint, the OG, is the last of them. He’s quiet, older, been riding with Dad since the original patch. His beard’s gone white, knuckles gnarled from a lifetime of war. He doesn't touch the casket, just leans in close.
“Don’t think I ever told you I loved you,” he mutters. “But I did. And I do.”
He looks at me then, eyes sharp despite age. “He’s yours now, kid. The legend, the weight, the whole goddamn cross. Don’t carry it alone.”
When they return to their seats, the silence deepens. It isn’t empty.
It’s holy.
The chapel’s nearly empty now. The echo of boots and murmured goodbyes has faded to silence. The air smells like old wood, leather, and something sacred.
I sit in the front pew, elbows on my knees, head bowed. The cut’s still draped over Dad’s casket.
Aria slides in beside me. No words. Just her presence, as familiar as breath. Her thigh touches mine. Her fingers curl around my wrist like she’s trying to keep my pulse steady.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low.
She gives me a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “Are you?”
I exhale. “No.”
She nods like she expected that. “You don’t have to be.”
We sit in silence for a long moment. I reach down and lace our fingers together, grounding myself in her warmth.
“I keep thinking he’s gonna walk through those doors,” I whisper. “That he’s gonna clap me on the back and say, ‘Alright, boy, that’s enough mourning. Time to ride.’”
Aria’s eyes shine. She looks away, blinks it back. “You did everything he wanted tonight,” she says. “And more. You didn’t just step up. You led.”
“I don’t know how to do this without him.”
“Yes, you do,” she says, fierce now. “You just did.”
I turn to look at her. Her expression softens. But there’s something behind her gaze I can’t name. A flicker. A distance.
“You’re pulling away,” I say quietly.
Her fingers tighten around mine. “No. I’m making space.”
“For what?”
“For your brothers. For this.” She gestures toward the chapel, the casket, and the world we’re now standing in without a guide. “You need them. And they need you.”
“I need you more,” I say, voice raw.
She leans in, rests her forehead against mine. “I’m not leaving you, Isaiah. I’m just... stepping back a little. So you can become the man your father believed in.”
I study her. Her eyes won’t quite meet mine. Her lips press together like she’s swallowing something heavy. “What aren’t you saying?”
She kisses me instead. Slow. Full of something that tastes like both a promise and a goodbye. Then she pulls back.
“I’ll see you later,” she whispers, standing.
“Aria…”