“Angel!” Tommy shouted. He grabbed my vest with both fists. “Angel. Daddy’s name is Angel.”
My legs almost gave out.
Every member of our club knew Angel. Marine Sergeant Marcus Rodriguez. Founding member. The brother we lost four years ago to an IED outside Kandahar. The one whose Harley still sat in our clubhouse, maintained every week by rotating members who couldn’t let it gather dust.
The one who’d left something behind for a son we’d never been able to find.
“His name was Marcus,” Claire said quietly. “We were separated before his last deployment. I moved back to my mother’s town after the funeral. Changed my phone number. I didn’t know about any motorcycle club.”
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