Page 11 of Tiny's Testament
Syvannah grins. “That’s adorable. Should we start picking out flowers?”
He points at her. “Don’t you start.”
The laughter that follows is genuine this time, loud, easy, familiar. For a moment, the tension that’s been weighing on everyone’s shoulders eases. Brotherhood and noise fill the air, and for a few blessed seconds, it feels like the world isn’t about to fall apart.
Later, when the sun dips and the brothers head inside for drinks and music, I stay behind to lock up the garage. The heat lingers, clinging to the metal and the memory of her touch.
I light a cigarette and watch smoke curl up toward the rafters.
The quiet settles again, this time heavier. I lean against Syvannah’s repaired bike, thumb tracing the edge of thehandlebars. My mind drifts to her laugh, the way her lips curve when she’s trying not to smile, the scent of her shampoo mixed with engine oil.
It’s dangerous, the way she’s becoming home.
When I finally crash in my room, sleep pulls me under quickly.
The world burns red. Engines scream. Hellhound colors twist in the fire, black leather peeling off bodies that used to be brothers. The mark blazes bright on their backs, that damned “L” glowing through the smoke.
I reach for my gun, but my hands are empty.
A gentle, pleading voice cuts through the roar.You can’t save everyone.
I turn and see the girl from San Felipe, eyes wide, skin slick with blood. She’s mouthing something I can’t hear, then she’s gone, swallowed by flame.
The fire shifts, and suddenly it’s Syvannah standing there, her hair glowing orange in the heat. Her mouth moves the same way.You can’t save everyone.
I wake up choking on air that smells like gasoline and ash.
The clock says 5:37 a.m.
By six, I’m in the attached garage, boots laced, ready to go. Dagger’s already waiting outside, polishing his blade as if it’s sacred.
“Rough night?” he asks.
“Same as always.”
He grins, sliding the knife back into its sheath. “Then let’s go make it worse.”
I laugh under my breath, the sound sharp and tired. “You first.”
We fire up the bikes. The engines roar across the compound, waking the world. Capone steps onto the porch, coffee in hand, and nods once.
I glance back at the clubhouse windows. Syvannah’s curtain moves. She’s awake. Watching. I wish she wouldn’t.
I twist the throttle and ride. The wind hits like redemption, and the city unfolds ahead, bright, brutal, alive. The day’s just starting, and I can already feel it turning toward blood.
The ride south burns the sleep right out of me. The sun’s a red smear clawing its way over the skyline, and every mile closer to the docks feels heavier. Dagger rides beside me, dark glasses on, wind tugging his hair loose.
We don’t talk much, just the roar of engines, with the world shrinking to asphalt and instinct. But the silence between brothers isn’t empty. It’s loaded. It’s trust, fear, and memories trying not to surface.
When we hit Long Beach, the scent shifts to ocean decay, diesel fumes, and salt baked into the air.
Dagger slows, eyes flicking toward the warehouses stacked like tombs. “This is where Trigger’s contact said the shipment vanished?”
“Yeah.” I pull off my gloves. “San Diego to L.A. transfer line. This is the halfway mark. They never made it past here.”
We circle the perimeter. The asphalt is cracked and littered with bullet casings that don’t belong to any local crew. Someone wanted this place to stay quiet.
“Looks abandoned,” Dagger mutters, kicking a crushed can.
