Page 90 of Wings
That last bit was about Alex, though most of the brothers didn't know the full story. Just that there'd been a threat, I'd dealt with it, and it hadn't blown back on the club. They didn't know about the three AM infiltration, the cloned phone, the evidence that could destroy my brother with a single click.
"Some men are born into brotherhood," Duke said, voice dropping into ceremony. "Others earn it through trial. Gabriel Moreno, called Wings for the ink on his back and his history in the sky, has proven himself in every way we measure a man."
The box opened with a soft click. Inside, black leather embroidered with white thread: IRONRIDGE. The top rocker that would complete my cut, mark me as full member, no longer prospect but brother in every sense that mattered.
"Gabriel Moreno," Duke's voice went formal, with words that had been spoken in this chapel hundreds of times before. "Do you swear loyalty to this brotherhood above all others?"
"I do." The words came out steady despite the tightness in my throat.
"Do you swear to protect your brothers, their families, and their interests with your life?"
"I do."
"Do you accept the responsibilities and consequences of wearing our colors, knowing that this bond is eternal?"
Eternal.
No take-backs, no second thoughts, no walking away when things got hard. This was marriage to an idea, adoption into a family that would kill or die for each other without hesitation.
"I do."
Duke lifted the rocker from its box with the reverence of a priest handling communion wine. The chapel held its breath as he stepped close, close enough I could smell the leather and tobacco and bourbon that clung to him like armor.
His hands pressed the rocker onto my cut, directly above the Heavy Kings bottom rocker, completing the set. In time, it would be stitched on, but for now, it stayed there with adhesive. For a moment, we stood frozen in tableau—president and newly patched member, power recognizing power.
"Welcome to full brotherhood, Wings."
The chapel exploded. Fifty voices raised in celebration, boots stomping approval that shook dust from the rafters. Brothers surged forward, hands reaching to slap my back, pull me into embraces that smelled like motor oil and loyalty.
"About fucking time," Thor growled, nearly crushing my ribs with his embrace. "Prospect period felt like it lasted forever."
"Proud of you, brother," Tyson said quieter, his handshake firm and meaningful. "You've earned this ten times over."
Through the press of bodies, I found Kiara still in her seat, tears streaming down her face as she watched me accept congratulations. Our eyes met across the chaos, and her smile hit me like a physical blow. Pure pride, pure love, pure certainty that this was where I belonged.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably Dex wondering if tonight's celebration meant sending that email. I ignored it. Tomorrow I'd face the choice again, decide whether my brother lived or died. But tonight I was a Heavy King, complete and whole, surrounded by the family I'd chosen and who'd chosen me back.
This was what I'd lost my leg for, what I'd come home broken for, what I'd rebuilt myself for.
This was worth everything.
The bourbon burned sweet down my throat, the third shot pressed into my hand since the ceremony ended twenty minutes ago. King's Tavern had transformed into a celebration that would be talked about for years—patches and prospects mixing freely, someone had dragged in speakers from the garage, and Thor was already organizing an arm-wrestling tournament that would end in broken furniture.
"To Wings!" Another toast, this time from Wiz, the old-timer who'd survived three different club presidents. "May your flight with the Kings be long and profitable!"
Kiara stayed close, her hand finding mine between congratulations. She'd changed tactics after the ceremony, no longer sitting quietly but charming brothers with stories about my young days. It was a blessing to have someone good from my past here. I’d always be grateful to her for being part of my life. The way she fit into this new world, adapted to its rhythms while keeping her own strength—it made my chest tight with something beyond pride.
"I remember a time," she started, voice clear above the music and chatter, "when Wings here thought he could actually fly." The crowd hushed around us, eager for the tale. I shot her a playful glare, but inside, warmth spread at the memory she was about to share.
"It was the summer of '98," she continued, mirroring my serious tone with exaggerated gestures. "And our young Wings decided he could soar like an eagle off the roof of the garage. Using a BMX, of course."
“I nearly made it,” I said, my cheeks burning.
Laughter rolled through the group, and I pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Betrayed by my own woman," I murmured against her hair.
"Your woman who's very proud of you," she corrected, tilting her face up. The kiss she gave me tasted like promise and whiskey from the shot she'd stolen earlier.
That's when I saw Tank moving through the crowd with purpose, his face set in lines that meant business. He caught Duke's eye, leaned close to speak directly into his ear. Whatever he said drained the celebration from Duke's expression in an instant.
