Chapter 1
ONE
THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN
STEEL
The table is full, but the room feels empty. You would think after six months, I’d be used to not having my father around, but each day does not get easier. Tonight we have Church. I sit at the head of the table, Tama’s gavel in my hand, the patch on my back is heavy enough to strangle me.
My father’s seat used to own this space, his voice, his presence, his shadow. Now all that’s left is me and the echo of him in every pair of eyes watching.
To my right, Rock, our Sergeant-at-Arms, sits straight-backed and silent. His eyes are always scanning, always guarding. The kind of brother who measures twice and strikes once.
To my left, Crusher, Vice President, and my oldest friend, leans forward on his elbows. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel the question in him by the raise of an eyebrow. You good, brother? The one I keep ignoring.
Next down the right is City, our Secretary.
He has a stack of neat notes in front of him.
His gaze and sharp mind are steady. He’s always calculating.
He doesn’t speak unless it matters, and when he does, it’s usually a problem I didn’t see coming.
He’s the type to clock every word in this room, file it, and use it when the moment’s right.
Keeps the books, the records, the truth.
Everything that could burn us if it ever landed in the wrong hands.
Beside him, Draft, our Treasurer, adjusts his glasses, pen tapping in quiet rhythm. He’s calm and meticulous. He tracks numbers the way Rock tracks threats, down to the last decimal, no mistakes, no excuses.
Across from him, Rampage, our Road Captain, sprawls in his chair, tattoos catching the dim light, boot tapping like he’s counting seconds until we ride again. His hot temper and loyal heart are a dangerous mix.
Throttle, our Enforcer, leans forward with both arms on the table. He’s sporting a big grin masking a mean streak. He’s the kind of man who fights because it’s the only time he feels calm. I trust him with my life, just not with my patience.
Hurricane, our Tail Gunner, sits near the end, quiet and steady. His laughter’s easy, but his loyalty’s steel. If something goes sideways on the road, he’s the one who pulls us home.
Honor, our Chaplain, closes his eyes and murmurs something under his breath, probably a prayer, maybe a curse. Hard to tell these days.
The rest of the patched members, August and Collateral, round out the table, both focused, both deadly in their own way. Behind them, the prospects line the wall. Niko, Killian, Nova, Caine, Will, and James. Six hungry faces, silent and watchful, waiting their turn to bleed for the patch.
They are my brothers. My family. My burden.
I clear my throat. “Club business stands as usual. Prospect rotations stay on schedule. Any retaliation talk ends here. Dog, the traitor that he is, will get what’s coming to him sooner or later. Saints don’t hit blind.”
No one argues. No one agrees. Just that thick silence swallowing the room. The gavel feels foreign in my hand. I bring it down once, sharp.
“Meeting adjourned.”
Chairs scrape. Boots thud. One by one, they file out, voices low, relief almost audible.
Crusher lingers, palm flat on the table, eyes on me. “You did fine, Prez.”
“Fine’s not good enough.”
He smirks. “It never is with you.” Then he’s gone.
Rock pauses on his way out, giving me a steady nod, a silent promise. I can feel the trust there, solid as iron.
Rampage catches my eye at the door, smirks. “You sound just like him.” He means it as a dig, but it lands like a wound.
When the door shuts, I’m alone with the ghosts again.
Dad used to tell me, ‘Don’t let love make you weak.’
He said it like gospel. Back then, I thought he meant women. Now I know he meant everything.
The clubhouse hums behind the office door. Boots scuffing tile, low laughter, the clink of bottles, trying too hard to sound normal.
In here, it’s just me.
The silence.
The ghosts.
My office still smells like Tama, smoke, whiskey, and the faint burn of motor oil that never left his clothes.
The heater rattles in the corner but never catches up to the cold creeping into the walls.
Piles of bills, supply orders, contracts, and court letters cover the desk.
All of it stamped with my name where his used to be.
I drop into the chair, rub a hand over my face, and pull the one folder I can’t seem to ignore. My father’s will.
The paper’s creased from too many nights of being folded and unfolded, like touching it might make the words change. I read the same line as I always do.
“To my son, Isaiah King, President of the Saints Outlaws MC, I leave all holdings, properties, and responsibilities to govern and protect in my stead.”
Responsibilities. Not blessings. Not gifts. Chains, disguised as duty.
He warned me. “You’ll learn power’s just another kind of cage.”
I didn’t believe him then. Thought he was just tired. Angry at dying. Now every breath feels like proof he was right.
There’s a photo sitting behind the ledger books of me and him, back before the cancer took the weight out of his voice.
We’re standing behind his Harley, grease to our elbows, both pretending we don’t care that Mom’s the one taking the picture, right before she left us.
The glass is cracked across the middle now, like even the frame knew we’d never get another one.
I drain what’s left in the glass beside me. Whiskey burns the back of my throat, but it doesn’t reach the ache in my chest.
The gavel sits at the edge of the desk. I pick it up, turn it over in my hand, thumb tracing the scar he carved into the handle the day I patched in. He said it was a reminder that every decision leaves a mark.
I set it down hard enough that it echoes. Power’s a cage. Maybe. But it’s one I built, and I’ll die before I let anyone else hold the key.
I start flipping through financials again, half-reading numbers that don’t make sense without his voice explaining what to do next. Draft tried to walk me through it last week, patient as ever, but the words went sideways in my head.
Still, I keep working. Still pretending I’m not just a legacy filling a seat that’s too big and too cold.
The heater sputters once, then dies. The quiet after hits harder than a punch.
I stare at the photo again, the gavel beside it, and the reflection of his ring glinting on the chain around my neck. My chest tightens, that familiar mix of guilt and anger and something I won’t name.
“You’d love this, wouldn’t you, old man?” I mutter. “Watching me drown in your empire.”
No answer. Just the hum of the lights and the weight of the crown pressing down on my shoulders. I can’t sit here anymore. The walls feel smaller every night, the air heavier. The whiskey’s not doing a damn thing except making the paperwork blur worse.
I grab my cut from the chair, the gavel from the desk, and leave the office before the silence caves in on me.
Outside, the night cuts deep, cold enough to sting, quiet enough to hear the river in the distance. My boots echo across the lot toward Saint Motors. If I’m going to survive the ghosts, I need noise. Metal. Fire. Something real.
Saint Motors is half-dark when I unlock it. The air hits me like cold iron. Gasoline, rubber, a hint of burnt oil that clings to everything we touch. The barrel heater glows dull orange in the corner, not enough to chase the chill, but enough to make the chrome breathe.
Tama’s Harley waits on the lift. The same one we built together when I was sixteen. She’s older now, paint scuffed, bolts worn slick from his hands and mine.
I hang my cut on a hook, roll up my sleeves, and grab a wrench. Every sound matters. The ratchet click, the metal groan, the faint hiss when the heater coughs. It’s rhythm. Control. The one language I never lost.
I strip her down slowly, part by part. Tighten, check, tighten again until my knuckles split and the blood mixes with grease. The sting feels honest. By the time I hit the carb, my shoulders ache, and the rest of the world narrows to the machine in front of me.
Piece by piece, I start putting her back together. Bolts slide home. Metal fits where it’s supposed to. The rhythm’s the same one he taught me years ago, slow, deliberate, no shortcuts.
When the last hose clamps down, I wipe the grease from my palms and take a step back. The silence feels like a held breath, waiting to see if I still remember how to make her live.
She starts on the first try. The low rumble fills the shop, steady as a heartbeat.
For a second, I close my eyes and see him standing where I’m standing, cigarette burning low, grin crooked.
“Still runs, old man,” I whisper, voice cracking more than I want to admit. “You’d bitch about the idle though.”
The sound of the engine eats the silence, but not the emptiness. I cut the throttle, let her die down, and just stand there, hands shaking, chest tight.
The ring around my neck is warm from the work light. I press it between my fingers until the edges bite skin.
“Tama.” His name leaves my mouth like smoke. “Dad.” Thin and fading fast.
Outside, wind howls through the crack in the bay door. Snow rattles against the steel. The heater ticks, losing the fight against the cold.
I tell myself I’m fine. Just tired, but the truth is simpler. I can’t sleep because when I close my eyes, I still hear his laugh. And the echo doesn’t stop until the light comes back on.
The heater finally clicks off. The sound of silence is louder than the engine ever was.
I sit on the workbench with filthy hands, breath fogging in the cold, and tell myself I’ll go home in a minute. Just one more. Just after the next breath.
The lights hum overhead. The smell of fuel and oil has soaked into my skin. My body’s exhausted, but my mind’s running laps around shit I can’t bury. Secrets that won’t die.
I reach for a rag, wipe my hands, and stare at the cracks in my knuckles until the blood dries dark. The ring around my neck is the only thing that shines. The night’s long, and I’ve run out of things to fix.
My phone buzzes against the workbench. The sound cuts through the quiet like a shot.
Draft: Need you to look over the new property files. Aria’s helping with the legal side. She’ll drop them by this week.
Aria. The name hits like a match to gasoline. Six months, and I still see her every time I close my eyes. That look she gave me at the memorial, half heartbreak, half defiance.
I read the text twice, then set the phone down. My hands tighten on the edge of the bench until my wrists ache.
She shouldn’t come here. Not again. Not when I finally stopped waiting for the sound of her voice.
I grab the phone and open a new message.
Tell her not to bother. I’ll handle it.
My thumb hovers over send.
I delete it and pour another drink from the bottle sitting behind the vise. Taking a long swallow, the fire crawls down my throat and settles like a lie.
The light above me flickers once, buzzing loud enough to shake the quiet. Shadows stretch across the floor, long and uneven. I watch them move, the whiskey warming my chest and nothing else.
Her name still burns behind my eyes. The past that won’t stay dead. The one secret I never wanted to keep.
The bottle tips in my hand. I set it down too hard, the glass ringing sharply in the silence.
I lean back against the bench, head tilted toward the ceiling, watching the light stutter overhead. The shop smells like oil and old fire, like him. Like her. Like everything I lost trying to be what he built.
My phone buzzes again. I don’t look. I already know who it’s from. And I already know I’m going to answer.