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His unwavering love for the club, for us brothers, for his family and for loyalty, is everything we stand for, and will stand for as long as this club exists.
The guys from the funeral home busy themselves with readying Pope’s coffin over the grave while we park up. The Mercy Chapter rode into town to pay their respects, and are with us here now.
Kyla and Victoria take their seats with the old ladies. With one glance at my son, I know he’s not going to stray far from Victoria today. I don’t know what’s going on between them, and frankly, I don’t really care. But I hear the whispers about them, and I’ve seen her pushing him away for months since her accident up north where she lost her hearing.
This is far from our first funeral, and wordlessly, we all take our positions as the preacher stands at the podium. For now, there’re no greetings to our brothers from out of town. There is nothing we can say to one another that will begin to fill the void Pope has left behind. We’ve all seen the video. Every brother knows how his death came to be.
The twins break rank and step closer to the grave as we listen to the preacher’s sermon. It’s the closest to God we ever get, and it’s only fitting to Pope’s send-off.
God isn’t believed in around our parts, apart from Pope. He didn’t talk much about his faith, but he did have a love/hate relationship with the big man. He was called Pope for a reason.
Pain isn’t the only thing he leaves behind. He leaves a bloodline that is strong, but crying for his loss. A daughter he kept from the club until she needed his help sits mourning for him, as well as a granddaughter who could bring a genuine smile to his lips by simply walking into his line of sight. And the twins. His boys, as he’d call them. He was so proud of them, and loved that they wore the patch as he did. Even Ricky managed to crack that black heart of his.
A hot tear rolls down my cheek, but I don’t wipe it away. It’s joined by another, and another. The death of a brother is never easy, but this is Pope. The fucker is a part of us like no other.
Scrubbing my face, I sniff and clear my throat. I look around, seeing brothers trying to hide their grief. Pope would hate seeing this sea of tears for him. He’d pull his gun on us and threaten to shoot us if we didn’t stop. He’d call us a bunch of pussies and shake his head, not understanding that many of us have hearts that bleed, though his only ever did when Sally died.
The coffin is lowered into the ground, and Kyla stands holding a wooden box. Lifting the top off, she places it on her seat and makes her way to the twins. Picking out a photo each, they step forward and drop them into the grave. Kyla turns to Victoria and nods encouragingly. I side-eye Luca, noting how he watches her every step as she joins her family and plucks a photo from Kyla’s box. Her sob racks through her as she kisses the picture and throws it in with the others. Mason wraps his arms around her, and she turns into him, crying harder.
Taking the lead, I step forward and stand before the grave. From inside my cut pocket, I pull out Pope’s gun and drop it in, listening as it lands with a thud. He never left his room without it. He deserves to spend eternity with it now.
One by one, brother’s drop in whatever they shared with the man, and I turn to the twins.
“Our word to wait is deteriorating. We’ve said our goodbyes, and now we have nothing but vengeance to think about. We need names, Cas,” Mason demands.
“We all do. Today, we drink to your granddad. Tomorrow, we find answers.”
We’ll give him the respect he deserves, and then we’ll send those four assholes who shot him down to him to torture for all eternity.
* * *
“If you could shut the fuck up, we have something we’d like to say,” Myles calls out, the bar falling silent.
“You’re all here today to pay your respects to a Lost Soul, an original. There isn’t a brother here our grandfather hasn’t stood beside and fought for. If he could see us now, he would say your respect can wait. He wouldn’t want us to stop until we had the men responsible for his death. He’d want their blood staining our hands as we sliced them to shreds, fucking them up so bad, they’d beg for death.”
Mason speaks up. “It’s expected that you’ll find his killers, but what me and my brother want to know is, are prepared to hunt them down and kill them in true Pope fashion?”
Brothers cheer and holler, banging their fists on the tabletops, the sound rivalling a thunderstorm.
Mason and Myles seek the satisfaction they were chasing, but the tears staining their cheeks is far from joyous.
“Well, ain’t I proud as fuck!”
Spinning up and off my chair, I look to where the voice came from, only to fall back on my ass.
I don’t fucking believe it. Alive and fucking kicking, Pope stands by the bottom of the stairs, his cut as polished as ever, air in his lungs, and a cocksure grin on his face.
“I have to say, it was damn humiliating seeing so many grown ass men crying over me this afternoon. And I want my gun back. Prospect’s going to need a shovel.”
A laugh erupts from my throat, and I’m out of my chair, flying toward him and throwing my arms around him.
“You son of a bitch. You think you can go out like that and we wouldn’t grieve you?”
Pulling away, his grin softens as he nods once, accepting that he’s loved by me and everyone else.
“Fuck that. What are… How are you here?” Mason demands, Myles adding, “You let us believe you were fucking dead!”
“You wanna fix your tone talking to me like that, boys. There’s an explanation, and—”
