Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
This wasn’t God’s plan.
This was Hampton Stanley’s.
And his wife had been Pop’s lover.
She thought she could hide behind her veil, crying crocodile tears, pretending like she hadn’t sold him out. Pretending like she wasn’t the rope that tied him down. Luckily she kept her distance and allowed us to grieve our president without her invading our time as a reminder of why he was gone.
The official service done, it was Saint’s time to honor our brother. I passed the cut to Tower to hold while I had the honor of the first scoop. The shovel felt heavy in my hands. The dirt was wet, sticking in clumps, weighing twice what it should. I tossed it in, each thud on the coffin like a gunshot in my chest.
Memories slammed me with every scoop.
Pop laughing so hard he fell out of his chair when I accidentally lit my sleeve on fire during a run. Pop grabbing me by the collar when I nearly shot a man who’d spat at me, growling, Save your bullets for the ones who matter, Gonzo.
He mattered.
And now he was gone.
Shanks lit the torch. The flames caught quick, leaping sky-high in the old oil barrel. One by one, the brothers dropped their flames in, fists raised high.
“For Pop!” they roared, voices shaking the earth.
“For Pop!” I bellowed, throat raw, chest hollow. I dropped the worn cut down into the barrel, allow the flames to carry the particles to the sky where Pop would be riding for eternity.
The fire reflected in their eyes, but all I saw was smoke. Smoke and betrayal.
I didn’t wait. I walked straight for her. She stiffened, clutching her purse like it was a shield.
“Mrs. Stanley,” I said, my voice low and sharp.
She tried to steady herself. “I only came to pay my respects. He was a good man.”
“Don’t.” I stepped closer. “Don’t you dare pretend like you respected him.”
Her lips trembled. “That’s not fair—”
“Not fair?” My laugh was sharp as a knife. “You fucked him behind your husband’s back. You whispered secrets while Hampton sharpened the blade. You think this coffin ain’t on you? Think again.”
Her eyes widened, tears spilling. “I never wanted—”
“Save it.” I leaned in so close she flinched from my breath. “Pop’s dead because you couldn’t keep your mouth or your legs shut. You might think tears wash blood clean. They don’t. Not with me.”
She sobbed, stumbling back, heels sinking into the grass. Whispers rippled through the crowd as she turned and fled.
I didn’t chase.
Didn’t need to.
I just called after her, my voice booming across the cemetery. “This is far from over. Let your man know I’m comin’ for him and I don’t give a fuck if you land in the crossfire.”
One Week Later
The courthouse reeked of bleach and fear. Too clean, too false. Like they were trying to scrub the corruption out with soap.
The brothers filled the benches behind me, a wall of cuts staring down the system. My ex-wife sat stiff as stone, rosary digging into her palms.
Devyn stood at the defense table, suit sharp, hair pulled back tight, steel in her eyes.
And then there was GJ.
My boy. Shackled at the wrists, orange jumpsuit drowning him. But his chin stayed up. His eyes found mine the second he walked in, and for a heartbeat, I didn’t see a prisoner. I saw my kid at ten years old, grinning up at me while he begged to ride on the back of my Harley. I saw him at six in his little league uniform, dust on his knees, beaming because I’d made it to the game despite the chaos of military life.
Now I saw him broken, crushed under the weight of lies.
The prosecution spun their tale smooth as bootcamp sheets on a rack. They painted him as a killer with motive, rage, and opportunity. Witnesses paraded in, eyes darting, voices rehearsed. Evidence laid out like a predator’s candy, shiny and poisoned.
Devyn tore into them. She ripped holes in their stories, exposed contradictions, shredded the timeline until it barely held. But none of it mattered.
Not with Judge Walsh smirking over his bench, overruling every damn motion Devyn made. Not with Hampton Stanley’s money greasing the whole system, he wasn’t being impartial and it was obvious.
Each time Devyn stood, Walsh cut her down. Each time the jury looked hesitant, Walsh steered them back with instructions dipped in poison.
I sat there, fists clenched, rage coiled tight in my chest. I wanted to tear the place apart. Wanted to wrap my hands around Walsh’s throat until the smirk drained from his face.
But I sat.
Because my boy needed me there.
The time passed by agonizingly slow and yet too fast. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I felt like I was stuck in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
I had been to war. I had watched men die. I had faced widows to give them their husband’s dog tags or letters. I had watched enemies use children as weapons strapping bombs to their little bodies and sending them in. I had seen the worst things a man should see. And nothing cut me deeper than seeing my son stand before a jury of twelve facing charges for a crime he did not commit.