Page 124 of Tiny's Testament
Capone is waiting inside. He doesn’t ask about the honeymoon or congratulate me. But his gaze holds mine a second longer than usual, and I know he waited on purpose.
He let me have my peace. Now he is calling me back to receive something I never thought I’d earn.
Syvannah squeezes my hand. “Whatever it is,” she murmurs, “you earned it.”
I look at her. At the steadiness in her eyes. At the way she stands beside me without shrinking or demanding.
My wife.
My anchor.
Then we step inside. The clubhouse smells different when you walk in, knowing you belong to it in a way you never did before.
It’s still gasoline, oil, and sweat. Beer-soaked wood and leather baked into the walls. The echo of fights, laughter, and things never spoken aloud. But there is something else layered over it now. Something fought for.
This isn’t a place I survive anymore. It is a place where I stand.
Syvannah’s hand brushes mine as we step inside, neither clinging nor cautious. Just there. Present. Steady. She does not need to look at me to know where I am. She feels it the same thing I do. The shift. The quiet certainty.
Peanut rides her shoulder like she owns the damn club, her tail flicking lazily as she surveys the room with open judgment. A few of the brothers chuckle when they see her. Someone mutters that she has more authority than half the prospects. They’re not wrong.
I feel different in my cut tonight. Heavier in a good way, like the weight finally matches what I carry inside.
Capone is already standing near the table, and the brothers have gathered loosely around him. No announcement. Just the way things happen here when something matters. When it’s real.
I catch Blayze’s eye first. He gives me a nod that speaks of years of shared road and unspoken understanding. Torch smirks like he’s holding back something loud and emotional he’d rather choke on than admit. Trigger lifts his beer in a silent toast. Aftermath stands with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable, but his presence is solid as a wall.
Capone waits until the room settles on its own. He doesn’t demand attention. He simply exists, and the noise adjusts to him. “Road Captain,” he says, his voice calm and even.
I step forward. The floorboards creak under my boots. The sound is loud in my ears. Not from nerves, but from awareness. Every step feels deliberate. Like I’m walking into something that has been waiting for me longer than I knew how to name.
Capone reaches into the box on the table and lifts the patch. It is smaller than my Road Captain patch, simple in design, heavy in meaning.
The heart of the Bastards. I’ve seen it on others. Men who hold the club together without trying to own it. Men who bleed quietly. Men who don’t lead from the front or the throne but from the center. The ones everyone leans on when things start to break.
I never thought it would be me. Not because I didn’t love this club, but because I didn’t believe I was someone who could be trusted to keep people whole.
Capone holds it out. “This patch isn’t given,” he says. “It’s earned.”
His eyes meet mine. No judgment, no emotion, only honesty. “It goes to the man who holds the line when the rest of us are tired. The man who keeps the ride tight and the brothers breathing. The man who does the work without asking for the credit.”
I swallow.
Capone continues. “It goes to the man who bleeds for this club and still stands tall.”
A sensation tightens in my chest. It's neither pride nor fear. It’s recognition.
Capone steps closer and presses the patch into my hand. It’s warm from his palm. I slowly curl my fingers around it.
“This doesn’t make you better than anyone here,” Capone says. “It makes you responsible.”
I give a single nod to show my understanding of that weight.
“You ready for that?” he asks.
I don’t hesitate. “I’ve been carrying it a long time.”
A few low sounds of approval move through the room.
