Page 83 of Vengeance

She nodded, "They did a long time ago.”

He took her hand. “Let’s go find out,” he said.

The chapel was the only part of the old clubhouse that had survived the fire that the Black Veil had set. Savage had insisted years ago that every clubhouse needed a place where people could remember why they fought. The rebuilt room held photographs, instead of pews, of Savage, Doc, and Elena—along with brothers who never came home. There were also photos of the young women whose names had finally been returned to them after the Lazarus Files destroyed the Black Veil. One wall was dedicated entirely to survivors—not victims, but survivors.

Across town, Doc's old medical office had reopened, and its new sign read:

THE DOC MERCER RECOVERY CENTER.

The clinic treated trafficking survivors free of charge. Doctors volunteered, therapists donated their time, and former victims worked there as counselors. Every dollar seized from Black Veil's accounts had gone into keeping the doors open. Doc would've argued the waiting room was too fancy, and Savage would've stolen the coffee, but just thinking about both men made Chloe smile.

Church began precisely at noon, and the room was filled with officers from every Royal Bastard chapter. Bowie stood at the head of the table. No one spoke. He looked older than he had six months ago, but grief had a way of carving lines into even the strongest men. Yet today, his shoulders stood straighter, and he looked proud.

He waited until the room fell completely silent. "Six months ago—” His voice echoed through the chapel. "We buried three of the finest people this club has ever known." Every head lowered. "We also buried a war that had been going on between the Dragons and us for years."

He looked around the room. "Savage believed something most men laughed at." His eyes settled on Vengeance. "He believed blood didn't make family." A murmur of agreement filled the room. "And he proved it every day."

Bowie reached beneath the table and pulled out a leather kutte. Time stopped because Chloe recognized it immediately—it belonged to Savage. It had been completely restored. Every patch carefully repaired and every inch of leather, lovingly preserved. Bowie carried it across the room and stopped in front of Vengeance.

"You came here scared." Vengeance swallowed hard. "You came here angry." He nodded. "You came here believing you were your father's son." Silence filled the room, and Bowie smiled. "You were wrong."

He unfolded Savage's kutte and held it out to Vengeance. "You've always been Savage's family." Tears blurred Chloe's vision as Bowie carefully settled the old leather across Vengeance's shoulders. It fit perfectly—almost as though it had always belonged there.

Vengeance closed his eyes, and his shoulders shook once—only once. When he opened them again, he looked toward Savage's empty chair as if almost expecting to see him there. "I hope I make you proud." The words came out barely above a whisper.

"You already have," Dallas said softly.

Bowie turned toward the table. "This church recognizes one nominee for President of the Huntsville chapter of the Royal Bastards Motorcycle Club." He looked around the room. "Any objections?"

Absolute silence filled the room before RoadKill stood. "I rode against him." He looked at Vengeance. "Then I rode beside him." He crossed his arms. "I'll ride behind him anywhere." Another officer stood, then another, and another. One by one, every chapter rose to its feet.

A few of the Dragons were in attendance, and their new Prez stood. "If Savage hadn't chosen mercy over vengeance twenty years ago.” He looked directly at Vengeance. "None of us would be standing here today." He placed one fist over his heart. "If the Dragons get a vote, then we vote aye." The gesture spread through the room, and Bowie smiled.

"I guess that settles it." He pulled the old president's gavel toward him and raised it once before striking the table. "The vote is unanimous." His voice cracked with emotion. "Rise." He looked directly at Vengeance. "President Vengeance." The room erupted as brothers cheered and boots pounded the floor.

Laughter echoed through the chapel as Vengeance stood frozen for a moment, overcome by the weight of the leather onhis shoulders and the trust being placed in him. Then he looked at Bowie. "I don't know if I can fill Savage's boots."

Bowie chuckled. "Good."

Vengeance frowned. "What does that mean?"

"The day a man thinks he can replace Savage—” He smiled. "Is the day he shouldn't be sitting in that chair." Laughter rippled through the room. "You aren't here to be Savage." Bowie stepped aside. "You're here to be Vengeance." He motioned toward the head of the table. "Now sit down, Prez."

The room quieted as Vengeance walked toward the chair that had belonged to Savage. He rested one hand on its worn wood before taking his seat, not as the frightened boy who had once believed monsters made him, and not as Dante's son, but as the man Savage had always believed he could become.

Chloe remained standing near the back of the room. She watched him thank every brother before speaking. He didn't promise revenge. He didn't promise power. He promised family and protection. He promised that no frightened child and no trafficked victim would ever be turned away while the Royal Bastards still rode. The room answered with thunderous applause. Chloe smiled through happy tears.

Twenty years ago, Savage had looked at a terrified little boy and made a choice. He could have handed him back to the darkness, but instead, he had opened his arms and given the boy a home and a family. Standing there with the man she loved wearing Savage's kutte, surrounded by brothers who believed in him without hesitation, Chloe finally understood. Savage hadn't just saved one lost little boy; he had saved the future of the Royal Bastards, and now, Savage’s legacy would live on.

The End

What’s coming next from K.L. Ramsey? You won’t want to miss Book 2 of the Royal Hellions MC series. Vandal (Royal Hellions MC Book 2) is coming in January 2027!

Vandal

The rain had followed him across three states. It beat against the windshield of his blacked-out F-250 as he crossed the Alabama state line, washing away the blood that had dried beneath the truck's wheel wells somewhere back in Mississippi. There would have been even more blood if they'd found him, but they hadn't—yet.

Vandal flexed his fingers around the steering wheel, the fresh stitches across his knuckles pulling tight. The cut above his left eyebrow had finally stopped bleeding sometime around Birmingham, though dried blood still clung to the side of his face. He'd looked worse. Hell, he'd caused worse.