That one word from him... and then silence. Heavy, weighted. All I can hear are our breaths, uneven and quiet. I don’t know what to say to him. What the fuckcanI say to the man I’ve looked up to my entire life? The man who made me who I am, who Iwantedto be… proud of me? What the hell do you say when you know you’ve failed him?
“Talon, I know, son. I know.” His voice, rough as gravel, lands softly in my chest. There’s understanding laced into those words, the kind that slips past walls and armor.
And I break. I don’t mean to. I didn’t plan to. But I fucking shatter.
I cry.
Not quiet tears. Not the kind you wipe away and pretend never happened. No, this is the kind of crying that hollows you out.
I cry for being such a goddamn fuck-up.
I cry because I’ve let down the man I swore I’d never disappoint.
I cry for my mother. For my brothers. For my club.
I cry for Gabriella—for the way I mishandled her, mistreated her.
I cry for seventeen fucking years. I missed with my sons.
I cry like a broken man.
“I almost died,” I whisper, voice ragged. “I almost fucking died not knowing my life was a fucking lie. A lie that could’ve cost this family everything.”
“Let it out, boy,” Pop says, steady and calm. “I’ll tell you what—any man who doesn’t cry… doesn’t feel… ain’t a man worth shit. Real men bleed. Real men break. Even the toughest motherfuckers got hearts, and when those hearts take too many hits—they crack. They shatter. They scream.”
His voice shakes near the end, and I hear it.Feel it.
And that damn near wrecks me all over again.
“I need to see you. I need to be there for my boy. So whatever the hell you’ve barricaded that damn door with, move it.” His voice sharpens. “Ain’t nobody following me in. I won’t allow it. You hear me, Brian?”
I exhale a soft, broken laugh. That’s my Pop—feral when it comes to protecting his own. No hesitation. No compromise.
“Yeah, Pop. I hear you.”
The line goes quiet again. I hear boots moving, the rustle of him making his way to me. I stand slowly, legs tight from how long I’ve been sitting like a ghost in this room. I look at the door and the dresser I shoved against it like a scared kid.
I’m the motherfucking president of one of the most feared MCs on the West Coast… and I’ve been holed up in here like a panicked teenage girl. Shit, even my daughter’s pulled this stunt before. Hell, I think I yelled at her for it last year. I let out a humorless chuckle, dragged the dresser back, unlocked the deadbolt, and yanked off the bar across the door. The thing clatters to the floor. First time I ever used the damn thing. Meant it to protect Heather and Luna.
Irony’s a bitch, I think as I shake my head and look around the space. It looks like a war zone. I destroyed everything. Furniture flipped. Glass shattered. Her clothes? Shredded. Her perfume? Smashed. Her presence? Erased. And I don’t regret one fucking second of it.
The knock comes.
I sit back on the edge of my bed—the only thing still intact. I glance around at the wreckage and, oddly, feel lighter, like ripping through her shit gave me back a piece of myself.
The door opens.
Pop steps inside.
“Well, I’ll be damned…” he whistles low, eyes sweeping the destruction. “You fucked shit up, didn’t you, kid?” He says with amusement in his voice and stepping in.
I hear something crunch under his boots as he closes the door behind him, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. The grays in his scruff makes him look more wolf than man, but he’s still solid, still the rock. Tall, broad, fierce. Built like a brick wall. I got my height from him, my voice from him, my fire from him. My eyes, though—those belong to Ma. Only one of her boys with green eyes. Used to be my greatest weapon with women. Funny how the same thing that got me laid helped lead me to ruin.
Pop steps closer and, without a word, pulls me into him. Wraps his arms around me like he used to when I was a kid who skinned his knee, like that hug could fix everything. And in some fucked-up way—it almost does. He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t say a word. Just lets mebe. Nearly forty years old, sobbing into my father’s chest like the broken man I am.
When I finally pull back, my throat feels raw, his shirt’s soaked, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
“You should never be ashamed of being a man whofeels,” he says, voice deeper, tighter. “You hear me, boy? That’s strength. That’s not weakness. This shit? This pain? It proves yougive a damn.And I know you do.”
