Page 32

Hammer

My knuckles throbbed as I pushed through the clubhouse door, the smell of whiskey, cigarettes, and brotherhood hitting me like a physical force.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the skin pull tight over split flesh, Piston’s blood still crusted in the creases.

The satisfying ache reminded me of the solid connection my fist had made with his face.

Not enough. Not nearly enough for threatening what was mine.

The usual evening noise dropped to a low murmur as I stepped inside, brothers turning to watch my entrance, their eyes noting the blood on my hands, the bruise forming on my arm where I’d blocked his hit.

I’d sent Amelia home with Venom and Ridley, despite her protests. She’d wanted to stay with me, to face this together, but I needed her safe with the boys. Needed to know they were protected while I handled club business. The memory of Piston’s hands on her burned in my gut like battery acid.

Viking approached first, handing me a glass of whiskey without asking. “Left that asshole bleeding pretty good,” he said, voice low and approving. “Should’ve let us finish him.”

“Next time,” I growled, throwing back the whiskey in one burning swallow. “Amelia isn’t ready. Not that she wants him alive, but she doesn’t want us to kill him.”

The clubhouse was unusually full for a weeknight, brothers gathered in tight clusters.

Four had been at the diner when shit went down -- Prophet, Warden, Dice, and Venom -- called in by Wire as soon as Piston’s bike had been spotted in town.

They’d arrived just as the fight was ending and had apparently seen a Devil’s Minions Prospect helping Piston into a car. I’d been more focused on my wife.

“He won’t go far,” Sticks remarked, leaning against the bar next to me. “Not with his face rearranged like that. You did a number on him, brother.”

“Should’ve done more,” I muttered, slamming my empty glass down harder than intended.

I scanned the room, counting brothers present. Almost everyone accounted for, save those on runs or guard duty. Word traveled fast in a club like ours. A brother in trouble, an old lady threatened -- it pulled everyone in like gravity.

“Church in five,” Savior announced from across the room, his voice carrying effortlessly over the low rumble of conversation.

Brothers began moving toward the chapel doors, some clapping my shoulder as they passed, others nodding in silent solidarity. I remained at the bar, draining a second whiskey, needing the liquid fire to calm the rage still coursing through my system.

“You good?” Saint asked, pausing beside me.

I grunted an affirmative, though we both knew it was bullshit. I wouldn’t be good until Piston was dealt with permanently. Until my family was safe.

My family. The words still felt strange rolling through my mind.

Not long ago I’d been a confirmed bachelor with an adult son and an adopted daughter.

Now I had a wife and two teenage boys. A ready-made family dropped into my life thanks to a hacker kid’s meddling.

And somehow, somewhere along the line, I’d started thinking of them as mine.

The realization sat heavy in my chest, both comforting and terrifying.

The chapel fell silent as we filed in, boots thudding against the worn hardwood, leather cuts creaking as brothers took their seats around the scarred wooden table. Decades of cigarette burns, knife marks, and spilled whiskey decorated its surface, each imperfection a piece of club history.

I took my place, feeling the weight of eyes on me. Not judging -- never that -- but assessing, calculating. Measuring how far I’d go to protect what was mine. How far they’d need to go with me.

Savior called the meeting to order with a single rap of his knuckles against the table. No gavel needed -- just the simple authority of a respected President.

“Most of you know we’ve got a situation,” Savior began, his gaze steady on the gathered faces. “Hammer’s old lady was approached tonight. Threatened.” He nodded in my direction. “Tell them what happened, brother.”

I leaned forward, elbows on the table, feeling the familiar scratch of wood against my forearms. The words came out harsh, clipped, each one tasting like bile as I recounted finding Piston with his hands on Amelia. How he’d promised to take the boys back.

“Talking about her like she was property. Like the boys were his to claim when he’s never done a Goddamn thing for them except terrorize them.”

Murmurs of anger rippled around the table. There were lines even we didn’t cross. Threatening women and children topped that list.

“He put his hands on her?” Tempest asked, his voice dangerously soft.

I nodded, feeling my jaw clench so tight my teeth might crack. “Had her pinned against her car. Would’ve done worse if I hadn’t shown up. Thank God, Wire had spotted that asshole near the diner and called me.”

“Did she tell you what he wanted?” Saint asked, his voice calmer but no less intense.

“The boys,” I answered flatly. “Claims they’re his blood, his property. Said he’d dismantle everything she’d built here, starting with me.”

Low curses circled the table. Brothers shifted in their seats, the air in the chapel growing thick with tension and unspoken violence.

“He knows you’re married?” Savior confirmed.

“He knew she’s with someone in the club. Didn’t seem to know about the marriage certificate specifically.” I leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Doesn’t matter. I told him, made it clear those boys are mine now. My family. Under my protection.”

The words hung in the air, a formal declaration that carried weight in our world.

I hadn’t planned to say it -- hadn’t even admitted it fully to myself until tonight -- but seeing Piston’s hands on Amelia, hearing his threats against her and the boys, had crystallized something inside me.

They were mine. Not just on paper, not just as an arrangement, but mine to protect. Mine to care for.

“Those boys,” I continued, my voice dropping lower, “have been through hell with that man. Chase still stands between his brother and the door, every Goddamn time someone enters a room. Levi flinches at sudden movements. They’ve been carrying scars from that bastard their whole lives.

” I looked around the table, meeting each brother’s gaze.

“I won’t let him near them again. I claimed them tonight, to his face.

Told him they weren’t his sons anymore. They’re mine. ”

Prophet nodded slowly, his expression grim. “Devil’s Minions won’t take that lying down. This isn’t just about an ex-wife anymore. It’s about respect. About saving face.”

“Fuck their respect,” I snapped. “They want a war, I’ll give them a war. And for the record, she made sure to tell him she was never his wife.”

Savior raised his hand, a subtle gesture that immediately quieted the room.

“We do this smart,” he said, his voice level but carrying an undercurrent of steel.

“We do this right. The Devil’s Minions aren’t just some random assholes.

They’ve got reach. Got connections. But so do we.

” He looked around the table. “I want options. I want strategies. How do we handle this?”

We’d tossed some ideas around before, but when it had only been a Prospect in town, the club hadn’t given the issue the attention it really needed. But now that Piston was here, things were different.

The floor opened, brothers exchanging glances, the seasoned members calculating potential moves like a chess game.

The younger ones leaning forward, eyes bright with the prospect of conflict.

All of them -- every last brother at this table -- ready to stand against anyone who threatened one of our own.

My rage simmered, hot and ready beneath my skin, but I forced myself to listen. To think beyond the blood I wanted to spill. Amelia and the boys needed protection, not just vengeance. They needed a permanent solution, not just temporary satisfaction.

And as I looked around at my brothers, at men I’d ridden with for decades, I knew we’d find that solution. Together. Because that’s what family did.

Saint stood first, his voice cutting through the charged atmosphere.

Unlike Tempest, who wore his emotions like his patches -- loud and proud -- Saint had always been more of a strategist, a thinker, the one who saw three moves ahead while the rest of us were still reaching for our weapons.

“We need to think long-term here. The Devil’s Boneyard already has beef with the Minions.

We join forces, we can push them out for good. ”

I clenched my jaw, fighting the immediate urge to dismiss his words.

The diplomat’s approach felt too slow, too bloodless for the rage burning in my chest. Every time I blinked, I saw Piston’s hands on Amelia, saw the fear in her eyes that she tried so hard to hide.

Those boys -- my boys now -- deserved immediate protection, not political maneuvering.

Saint continued, oblivious to my internal struggle. “I’m not saying we don’t respond. I’m saying we respond smart. Coordinated. The Boneyard’s been looking for an excuse to push the Minions out of their territory. They’re the ones who helped Amelia escape in the first place.”

“And look how well that worked,” I muttered, flexing my bruised knuckles. “Piston still found her.”

“Because we’ve been playing defense,” Saint countered, his gaze steady on mine.

“I’m talking about offense. Strategic offense.

We reach out to allied clubs -- Boneyard, Savage Knights, Southern Devils -- create a united front.

Make it so the Minions have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

No fueling stations, no safe houses, no friendly bars or dealers. ”