Page 3

DUKE

I kept my face blank as stone while my blood boiled. Seven pairs of eyes tracked my every move as I drummed my fingers against the scarred oak table. The sound echoed through our windowless meeting room like a slow heartbeat. The weight of my president's ring felt heavier tonight, a constant reminder of the burden I carried—not just the patch on my back, but the lives and reputations of every man who wore our colors.

The back room of King's Tavern smelled of stale beer, leather, and tension. Thick walls muffled the sounds from the bar outside, where our prospects served drinks and kept watch. This room—we called it Church—had seen generations of Heavy Kings' business. My father's presence still lingered in the knife marks on the table, the smoke-stained ceiling, the worn leather chairs that had molded to the shapes of leaders before me.

Ryder shifted his weight from one foot to another, standing at the opposite end of the table. His knuckles blanched white as he gripped the back of an empty chair. Barely two months a full patch, and already in deep shit.

To my right sat Thor, a mountain of barely-contained fury. His blond beard couldn't hide the muscle twitching in his jaw. Thor had wanted to handle this with fists first, questions later. To my left, Tyson maintained his usual calm, calculating stare, his fingers steepled under his chin. The other patched members—Burns, Dex, Cooper, and Wiz—sat with identical expressions of judgment.

The silence stretched like a rubber band ready to snap. I'd learned from my old man that silence made men nervous, made them fill the empty space with confessions.

"So let me get this straight," I finally said, keeping my voice low and even. "You took it upon yourself to 'tax' Leo's auto shop without club authorization."

It wasn't a question. Leo had shown up this morning, confused about why he was paying "extra protection" to Ryder when he'd already paid his monthly dues to the club treasurer. Money that had never made it to our coffers.

Ryder's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Duke, I—"

I raised one finger, stopping him cold. "Money that should have gone to supporting the club, to our legal funds, to helping brothers who can't ride anymore."

The weight of my stare forced his eyes to the floor. The skull ring on my right hand caught the dim overhead light as I flattened my palms against the table. My hands were large enough to crush a man's windpipe, but luckily I'd never needed that kind of demonstration to command respect.

Thor leaned forward, the wooden chair creaking under his bulk. "You made us look like those Iron Serpent pieces of shit," he growled. "Like we don't know how to run our own territory."

I shot Thor a quick glance. He caught it and leaned back, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. His restraint was progress—five years ago, he'd have already had Ryder pinned to the wall by his throat.

Ryder found his voice again. "It wasn't—I didn't—" He took a deep breath. "Leo's shop has been doing better. Thought he could afford to contribute more to the club."

"Bullshit," Dex muttered from his seat. As our Road Captain, he spent more time in town than most, knew every business owner by name.

I kept my eyes fixed on Ryder. "And you decided this on your own." Again, not a question.

"I was gonna bring it to the table next meeting," Ryder said. "Wanted to see if it would work first."

"So you lied to a business owner under our protection. Took money in the club's name. Kept it from your brothers." Each sentence landed like a hammer. "Made us look like extortionists instead of protectors."

Leo had been loyal to us for fifteen years. His father and mine had been friends. His auto shop had sponsored our charity runs, displayed our insignia, sent us customers. In return, we made sure nobody fucked with Leo's business—not local gangs, not the Iron Serpents, not even the cops. It was a relationship built on respect, not fear.

Tyson finally spoke up, his voice calm and measured. "Three hundred and fifty dollars, Ryder. That's what Leo says you collected. Over two months." He tilted his head slightly. "Where's the money?"

Ryder's face flushed red. "I used it for club shit. Gas, beer for meetings—"

"More important to me," I interrupted, "is why you thought you had the right to make that call."

The room fell silent again. The air conditioning hummed overhead, pushing around the scent of leather and sweat. Every man at the table knew what this was really about. Not the money—three hundred bucks was nothing—but the principle. The trust. The structure that kept us from becoming just another gang of thugs.

I thought about the Iron Serpents and their president, Venom. Under his leadership, they ruled through fear and brutality. Their own members lived in terror of stepping out of line. That wasn't what the Heavy Kings were about. Never had been, not under my father, not under me.

"We vote on dues," I said, my voice dropping even lower. "We vote on protection fees. We vote on territory. That's why we have a fucking table." I rapped my knuckles against the oak for emphasis. "That's why we're a club, not a dictatorship. Not a fucking gang."

The weight of the past pressed down on my shoulders. Since my father's death, I'd fought to maintain his vision—a brotherhood founded on loyalty and respect, not fear and greed. We were outlaws, yes. We operated outside the law, ran guns, protected our territory. But we had a code.

I studied Ryder's face, saw the shame slowly replace the defiance. He was young, ambitious. Testing boundaries like a teenager. Part of me understood the impulse—I'd done similar stupid shit at his age. Difference was, my father had been there to knock sense into me before I could damage the club.

"You know what Venom would do to one of his men who pulled this shit?" I asked quietly.

Ryder's face paled. Everyone in that room knew the stories. Broken fingers. Cigarette burns. Or worse.

I shook my head slowly. "That's not who we are. That's not who we'll ever be."

The tension in the room shifted. I could feel the brothers relax slightly, recognizing that while punishment was coming, it wouldn't involve blood. Thor's massive frame remained rigid beside me, his piercing blue eyes cold with disapproval. Despite his ferocious loyalty, Thor sometimes struggled with my more measured approach to discipline. He'd seen too many betrayals, lost too many brothers to believe in second chances.

Tyson, on the other hand, had already begun calculating the appropriate response. His military background had taught him the value of proportional consequences. His quick mind was probably already three steps ahead, considering how this would affect club dynamics, our relationship with Leo, and Ryder's future with the Kings.

Between them sat me, balancing Thor's rage and Tyson's reason. This dynamic had made us unbeatable for years—each of us filling the gaps in the others. We functioned as a single unit, three parts of the same mind. It was what made us more than friends. It made us brothers.

I let the silence stretch one more beat, feeling the weight of leadership settle firmly on my shoulders. The Heavy Kings weren't just my responsibility. They were my legacy, my father's memory, my life's purpose. Every decision I made either honored or betrayed that legacy.

I rose slowly to my full height, feeling every one of my six-foot-four inches become part of the message. The wooden floor creaked under my heavy boots as I moved deliberately around the table, each step measured and purposeful. Nobody spoke. Nobody needed to. My body said everything necessary as I approached Ryder, whose eyes had found sudden interest in the floorboards.

"You made a mistake, brother." My voice filled the room like smoke, low and inescapable.

I towered over him but kept a calculated distance. Intimidation through proximity was a cheap tactic. Real power didn't need to crowd. Real authority commanded space.

My father's lessons echoed in my head. Show strength through control, not aggression. A man who needs to yell has already lost command.

"Look at me," I said.

Ryder raised his head. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the room's chill. Good. Fear meant understanding, and understanding meant growth.

I placed a heavy hand on his shoulder—firm pressure, not a threat. The skull ring on my finger caught the light, a reminder of mortality against the black leather of his cut.

"The Heavy Kings aren't the Iron Serpents," I said, letting each word hang in the air. "We don't break fingers over mistakes."

Thor shifted in his chair, the wood protesting under his bulk. His massive arms remained crossed over his chest, veins visible through the maze of Norse tattoos. His eyes—cold blue and unforgiving—fixed on Ryder like crosshairs.

"But we also don't let shit slide when it affects our reputation," I continued. "This club has spent thirty years building respect in this town."

Ryder nodded, a quick jerk of his head. "I understand, Prez."

"Do you?" I tightened my grip slightly on his shoulder. "Leo's father fixed my old man's first Harley. His shop has backed our charity runs since before you were born. That relationship matters more than three hundred bucks."

I nodded to Thor, who unfolded himself from his chair. His massive frame matched mine for height but carried at least thirty more pounds of muscle. His movements were surprisingly graceful for a man his size as he pulled an envelope from inside his cut and placed it on the table with a deliberate snap.

"That's three hundred and fifty dollars," Thor said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Exact amount you took from Leo."

I released Ryder's shoulder and gestured to the envelope. "You'll return every cent personally. With an apology. From you and from the club."

"And," I continued, "you'll work security at the Tavern for two weeks. No compensation. That money goes to the club to repay the damage to our reputation."

Ryder's face tightened. I saw the moment rebellion flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced by calculation. Smart enough to weigh his options, at least.

"That's bullshit," he started, his voice rising. "I was trying to—"

Thor stood so quickly his chair toppled backward, crashing against the floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the confined space. He didn't advance, didn't need to. His presence expanded to fill the room, shoulders squared, hands curled into fists the size of sledgehammers.

"You got something to say about the President's decision?" Thor's voice dropped dangerously low, each word precise and lethal.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Even veteran members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Thor's legendary temper remained leashed, but the chain was visibly straining.

Ryder took an instinctive step back, eyes widening. "No, I just—"

"Then shut your fucking mouth and be grateful." Thor's blue eyes burned cold. "You're still wearing that patch, aren't you?"

The implication hung in the air. Membership in the Heavy Kings wasn't guaranteed. Much easier to take back a patch than give one.

From his seat at the table, Tyson cleared his throat softly. The subtle sound somehow cut through the tension like a knife.

"It's fair, Ryder." Tyson's voice carried the steady calm that had talked us through countless standoffs and negotiations. "Could be a lot worse. Leo's protection money helps fund three families of fallen brothers."

Where Thor intimidated, Tyson reasoned.

"Widows and kids who lost their daddies," Tyson continued, his brown eyes earnest but firm. "That's what that money does. Not gas for your bike or beer runs."

I watched the fight drain from Ryder's posture. Tyson's quiet reminder of our fallen brothers accomplished what Thor's intimidation and my authority couldn't quite finish—it connected Ryder's actions to the larger brotherhood, to our legacy of taking care of our own.

"I'll make it right," Ryder said finally. He reached for the envelope, his movements stiff with embarrassment. "I'll talk to Leo tomorrow."

I nodded once. "Today. Now." I glanced at my watch. "He closes in an hour."

Ryder looked like he wanted to protest but thought better of it. "Yes, sir."

"And Ryder?" I added as he turned to leave. "This conversation doesn't leave this room. Leo gets his money and an apology. Nothing more."

Protecting the club's image meant handling discipline internally. Public knowledge of Ryder's actions would damage both his standing and our reputation.

"Understood." Ryder tucked the envelope inside his cut. "Thank you for the second chance."

I didn't acknowledge his gratitude. Second chances weren't gifts—they were responsibilities, opportunities to prove worthiness.

"Wiz, go with him," I instructed one of the older members. "Make sure it's handled properly."

As the two men left, the tension in the room gradually dissipated. Dex and Cooper exchanged knowing looks, while Burns muttered something about "kids these days." Thor righted his overturned chair with a grunt, and Tyson began gathering the few papers he'd brought to the meeting.

I caught both their eyes—Thor's still simmering with controlled anger, Tyson's thoughtful and assessing. A lifetime of friendship allowed for silent communication. A slight nod from me, an almost imperceptible shrug from Tyson, a grudging exhale from Thor. Small gestures that spoke volumes.

The trinity of leadership that had defined the Heavy Kings under my presidency: my authority, Thor's enforcement, Tyson's strategy. We balanced each other in ways that made us stronger together than apart. The club recognized it. Sometimes I wondered if they realized how much we depended on each other off the record too.

"Meeting adjourned," I announced. "Regular business tomorrow night."

The remaining members filed out, their postures relaxing as they passed through the door, conversation picking up about bikes, women, and the upcoming charity ride. The brotherhood reasserting itself after discipline had been handled.

Thor, Tyson, and I remained behind, falling into our usual post-meeting positions. Thor immediately headed for the small refrigerator in the corner, extracting three beers with one massive hand. Tyson straightened the chairs, returning the room to order. I locked the heavy wooden door, ensuring privacy.

"Kid's lucky," Thor growled, passing beers around. "I'd have made him work security for a fucking month. With a few reminders about respect." He flexed his hand meaningfully.

I accepted the beer but didn't drink immediately. "And that's exactly why you're not president," I said, but without heat. This was an old conversation between us.

Thor grinned, his ferocity suddenly replaced by the warmth few outside our inner circle ever witnessed. "Thank Christ for that. I’m not one for politics."

"It was handled right," Tyson offered, taking a thoughtful sip. "He's young. Testing boundaries."

"We’ve all been there," I acknowledged, thinking back to my own early days. "Difference is, we had my old man to set us straight."

A momentary silence fell between us, heavy with shared history. These men had stood with me at my father's funeral, had backed me when I took the president's patch at twenty-five—younger than any Heavy King before me.

Thor raised his bottle slightly. "To Big Mike," he said quietly. "Mean son of a bitch would be proud of how you handled that."

The unexpected sentiment caught me off guard. Thor rarely mentioned my father, knowing how raw that wound remained even seven years later.

I nodded, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. "Hope so."

"He would," Tyson confirmed, his steady gaze meeting mine. "Club's stronger now than it's ever been. Territory's secure. Businesses are thriving. Membership's solid."

Our bottles clinked together, the gesture sealing something unspoken between us. These men knew me better than anyone alive—had seen me at my weakest and my strongest. They'd backed my play even when they disagreed, trusted my judgment even when they questioned it.

"Ryder'll straighten out," Thor predicted, draining half his beer in one swallow. "Kid's not stupid. Just needs his ass kicked occasionally."

Tyson checked his watch. "I should head out. Meeting that new supplier at nine tomorrow."

"I'll handle the bar tonight," Thor said. "Make sure our boy actually shows up for his security shift."

We finished our beers in companionable silence, the earlier tension completely dissolved. This was the rhythm we'd established over decades—conflict, resolution, solidarity. The foundation that made the Heavy Kings more than just an MC, that made us family.

As they left, I remained alone in the room for a moment. The weight of the president's patch settled back onto my shoulders. I ran my fingers over my father's ring, feeling the worn edges, the dented gold that had witnessed decades of club business.

Leadership was lonely, but I wasn't alone. Not with these men at my side.

***