Page 30 of Tank
I put a hand on his back, steadying him.
“You did the right thing, kid,” I say.
The boy turns to me, his voice breaking.
“I thought I lost you, Daddy,” Rocco says, a tear running down his cheek. “When you sent me away, I… I didn’t know what to do. But I love you, Tank. I fucking love you.”
The words hit like a bullet, raw and real.
I pull him close, my hand on his neck, my forehead against his.
“I love you too, Rocco,” I say, my voice rough. “You’re mine. No matter what.”
Rocco nods, his eyes locked on mine, and I feel it—the bond we’ve forged, through blood and betrayal.
Clay’s eyes are sharp, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, a silent approval.
We walk out together, the desert air cold against our skin. Marco’s at the edge of the lot, his men loading him into a van. Rocco stops, his face torn…
“I need to say goodbye,” he says, his voice quiet.
I nod, stepping back.
I watch as Rocco walks over, kneeling beside his father’s wheelchair. Their words are low, too quiet for me to hear, but I see the pain in Rocco’s eyes, the way Marco’s face hardens.
Rocco stands, his shoulders heavy, and walks back to me.
“It’s done,” he says, his voice steady but raw.
I climb onto my Harley, and Rocco slides behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist.
The engine roars, and we ride into the night, the other Riders around and behind us, the stars above.
Rocco’s mine, and I’m his, and no ghost from the past can take that away now.
The boy is one of us now, for real.
And it’s time we headed back to the clubhouse to make it all official…
Chapter 10
Rocco
The clubhouse feels different now, like the air’s lighter, even with the usual stink of motor oil and stale beer hanging around.
The men are scattered across the room, some nursing beers, others laughing over a card game, but there’s a buzz of relief after the fight at the Fury’s hideout.
We took a hit, but we’re still standing, and I’m here, not as a traitor but as one of them.
My chest’s tight, not from fear anymore, but from something heavier—gratitude, maybe, or the weight of finally being free.
I’m standing by the bar, my boots scuffing the worn floorboards, watching Tank talk to Arch and Kash across the room. His broad shoulders fill out his frame so magnificently it’s making me hard just staring, his dark hair graying at the edges, and those eyes—hard but warm when they land on me—make my heart kick like a bike engine.
Damn, I’m lucky it all worked out.
The club, Tank.
Everything…
