MATT’S POV
My eyes meet that of the crybaby, and the sight of his half ear almost makes me laugh but I stiffen at once.
This is not the right place or time for jokes, yet every time I cross paths with Brandon, I am forced toward a laugh.
I don’t think I will ever stop laughing when I see that half-cut ear.
He’s such a weakling—letting a little girl chop his ear off and doing nothing in return.
He dreams of being a biker but is too soft for it.
I hope he at least makes it to become an attorney so he can close deals for us.
He winds up the window when he notices I’ve seen him.
Just as I expected, a weakling who hides from everyone.
Sometimes I wish he’d show me the little girl who took his ear.
I’ll make her my old lady without thinking twice.
If we ever married, we’d run the club together,nothing beats an old lady who’s good with handling your business and not afraid to deal with men who cross her.
Once Brandon winds his window up and disappears, I turn my attention back to the prospects carrying the prez.
They pause at the door for a few seconds, then walk inside.
We all follow.
When everyone in the club sees the casket, they stand immediately, giving him a standing ovation.
That’s how it works in this life—when a prez comes in, there is a standing ovation.
This will be the last one before we send him off.
We respect our own.
There aren’t just SOC members in the room, a lot of neighboring clubs have come, too.
A couple of cops stand among them… out of uniform but present to pay respects to Warrick.
The prospects set the casket on the club table.
You don’t strip a brother’s colors,especially not the prez’s.
That leather is his skin, his story: every mile, every bullet hole, every vote at the table.
Leaving it on is respect.
It says he dies wearing who he is.
After a few minutes, the prospects lift the casket and slide it back into the van.
Everyone returns to their bikes and cars, and we head straight to the cemetery.
Minutes later, we arrive.
There are no outsiders this time,no cameras.
Everyone here is family.
They carry him in and open the casket so the family can have one last look.
I watch the bikers go one by one, each coming back fighting tears.
I don’t.
There is no point—Warrick is dead, crying won’t bring him back.
Then I catch a glimpse of a damsel in black.
When I narrow my eyes, my face pales.
It’s the Knowles brat.
Adams and Nonna walk her into the room to take one last look at Warrick.
She’s the last person to go in, and even if I hate to admit it, she carries herself with a grace that draws every eye.
They move the casket to the gravesite.
There’s no priest—that’s how we do it here.
As soon as the coffin lowers, the brothers round it to say goodbye.
Ripper stands in the center, a basket of flowers in his hands.
“A king is gone but never forgotten.
May you rise above the rain.” Ghost tosses petals, then passes the basket to Havoc, our sergeant-at-arms.
“May the light from above always lead you to peace.” Havoc lets the flowers fall, then hands the basket to Blaze, our secretary.
“May you rest in the arms of the angels.” Blaze sprinkles the blooms and passes the basket to Tank, our enforcer.
“May you always be brave in the shadows ’til we meet again, king.” Tank scatters the last of his flowers and passes it to me.
I step forward, biting down on my bottom lip, letting the petals fall.
“Goodbye, Prez.
Your legacy will never be forgotten.
Pray you find peace in the heavens… brother,” I say.
Ripper takes the basket back and scans the gathered faces.
His eyes flick across the crowd, landing here and there like a man checking for danger.
“What’s the problem?” I ask him.
“Tell them to cover him up.”
”No.
Not yet,” he says quietly.
“His old lady needs to say a prayer before we cover him.”
Heat flares in my face.
“She’s not a recognized old lady.
There is no need for that.”
”She might have been Warrick’s old lady, but he never introduced her to the church,” Ghost says, turning to Ripper.
“She shouldn’t even be here.”
Then an entrance is announced as if a princess has arrived.
Paths clear for her.
The little brat walks forward.
My stomach coils with rage, and I narrow my eyes at Ripper.
“She has no right to say any prayers,” I say.
“The church doesn’t recognize her.”