When I open them, I’m president again.
“Hear me,” I say.
Every brother in range stills.
“Until we prove otherwise, Amelia and her boy are under Kings protection. Not as guests. Not as strays. As blood.”
Derby’s gaze snaps to mine.
Royal’s expression sharpens.
Whiskey nods once.
Sophie’s hand tightens on my neck.
If she ain’t blood, we can walk that back later.
If she is and I fail her tonight, there ain’t no walking that back at all.
“If she’s lying,” I continue, “we handle it. If she’s being used, we cut the strings. If Vale comes for her, he goes through us. If Pearly Gates, the Depraved Sinners, Oregon, or anyone else thinks they can use a woman and child to get inside this club, they learn why Hell belongs to the Kings.”
A low sound moves through the room.
Agreement.
Violence.
Family.
Sometimes they are the same thing here.
The front door opens again, and Wildcat steps inside holding something wrapped in a faded T-shirt.
“Prez,” he says.
I stand.
The room tightens.
Wildcat walks to the table and lays the bundle down. He unfolds the shirt carefully.
Inside is an old photograph, creased at the corners, soft with age.
My father stares up from it.
Younger. Cocky. Shirtless, with a championship belt over one shoulder and a grin that could talk angels into bad decisions. Beside him stands a woman with dark hair, laughing at something off-camera. She has one hand pressed to his chest like she is either holding him close or pushing him away.
Not Caroline Bell.
I know before anyone says it. It’s Hot Mama, from the old Oregon Kings chapter.
There is a bracelet around her wrist. Thick silver. A piece my father wore for years before it disappeared from his arm sometime before I took my first real ride.
On the back of the photo, written in faded ink, are four words.
Mike and Mama, Oregon.
Under that, in different handwriting, smaller and shakier.