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HARLEM
Loud music fills the air, and dancers from the club work the poles. We're celebrating Baja's birthday tonight in the clubhouse, but I'm just not in the mood to party. My mind is elsewhere, and the noise does nothing to drown the thoughts swirling in my head. For me, today only serves as a reminder of my old life. I need solitude. Space.
I rise from my seat at the bar in search of silence elsewhere.
Once outside, I make my way across the cemetery behind the clubhouse. The crunch of gravel under my boots is the only sound accompanying me. As I reach the giant oak tree, I take a lighter and joint from my pocket and light up. The sweet scent of marijuana fills the air and my body relaxes. I sink onto the bench next to an old headstone, the moss-covered grave a reminder that I’m alone but for the dead. I lean my back against the rough bark of the tree, the marijuana smoke curling around me like a protective shield. The silence is welcome, but it and the high I’m getting do nothing to quiet my demons.
It’s been years since I buried my life before Fallen Ravens. I’m no longer the Luca DeSantis who grew up in a world of violence and chaos, where the name DeSantis is the law of the land. The mere thought of my father puts a bitter taste in my mouth. I reach for the bottle of whiskey I keep stashed behind the nearby headstone that bears the two words “mother” and “child.” I think of my mother as I open the bottle and take a drink, trying to drown the intrusive thoughts of my past.
I once thought I had it all—the name, power, money, the perfect woman. I was raised to take over the world I once thrived in. From my first breath, I was groomed and conditioned to be my father’s successor. I became everything he wanted me to be: a leader, a cold-blooded killer. I was respected and feared by men. But I soon learned my life was not my own. That I was just another pawn in the criminal underworld for my father to move and play.
As I sit alone with my thoughts, the hurt and betrayal of that day flood me. The pain and disloyalty I felt were indescribable, like two bullets penetrating my chest simultaneously. And my father and the woman I once loved were the ones with their fingers on the triggers.
I can’t stop the anger and resentment vibrating through my body. The people I trusted most stabbed me in the back and made me question my existence and judgment.
Sometimes it’s the ones you hold the closest who are the most toxic people in your life. I walked away from everyone and everything I knew that day and never looked back.
The what ifs start to penetrate my thoughts, and how different my life could have been if I chose to look the other way and stay loyal to my father. I was young, barely into my twenties, but leaving became the best fucking decision I ever made.
For the longest time, I felt lost, broken, and alone. I had no money and couldn’t risk tipping my family off to my whereabouts by using credit cards or withdrawing money from my bank accounts. I was constantly on the road, looking over my shoulder, waiting for my father to hunt me down. It was damn near impossible to move on.
I eventually found myself in Salem, Massachusetts, where I met Otis, an older man who owned a gothic tattoo shop in town. Otis taught me everything I know. He’s also the one who introduced me to Salem and the club. Cancer took him a few years ago. If it weren’t for him and the club, I wouldn’t have what I do today.
Salem and Fallen Ravens MC showed me a different life.
There are things that the club does that are not much different from the life I grew up in, but the biggest difference is the brotherhood. They have given me purpose and shown me what true loyalty is. The club gives me a new meaning to what family should be.
After joining the club, I became Fallen Raven‘s Enforcer, and I took on the role with a fierce determination and a cold-hearted resolve to serve the club to the best of my abilities. I vowed to be my brothers’ right hand and left.
The longer I sit here sipping whiskey, the further my past fades into the deepest depths of my mind, but it doesn’t take long for thoughts of another to fill the space.
Sukie Pierce.
She’s everything I never thought I would be hungry for again. I don’t need the distraction, and I sure as shit don’t need a woman for longer than a night; and Sukie isn’t the type of woman you fuck, then move on to the next. She’s the kind of woman who needs to be handled with care, or she’ll break, and I’m not that kind of man.
I try to distance myself from her whenever she’s near but avoiding her is becoming a full-time task. Everywhere I go, she looks at me with those captivating blue eyes.
Sukie doesn’t speak much, but her eyes are remarkably expressive, communicating her every emotion. There’s something broken about her that draws me in. Sukie has wounds, the kind that aren’t visible. The eyes are the window to the soul, and in Sukie’s, there’s a pang of sadness. If I gaze into them for too long, I find myself drowning, gasping for air. She’s a mystery, and I desperately want to know more about her.
“Get her out of your fuckin’ head.” I close my eyes and breathe in the cool night air.
I nurse the bottle of amber liquid and gaze at the star-filled sky. The whiskey creates a dull burn as the warm drink moves down my throat. I slowly sink into the stillness whiskey and marijuana offer, and my thoughts fade.
The snapping of twigs breaches my almost-peace, and I drop my chin to see Salem approaching. He doesn’t say a word as he sits on the ground, leaning against the tree. He pulls out a joint and fires it up. We sit in comfortable silence for several minutes.
Salem exhales smoke. “You good?” He offers me a hit, but I decline, already high enough. “Suit yourself.” He pulls another toke.
I breathe deep, then down the final taste of liquor in the bottle. “I’m good, brother,” I finally say, though I’m anything but good. “Seeking a little peace, is all.”
“We all are, brother.”
My head is fucking throbbing. I only caught a few hours of sleep before the arrival of our guest, but it feels like I didn’t get to bed at all. I down another cup of coffee before walking out of the kitchen and heading for the cellar.
Another bag of cash is in the middle of our table, alongside a bottle of mezcal. A nervous middle-aged man is sitting in the hot seat, ready to make a deal with the devil. His lined face reveals that he has been through more than his share of hardships. He’s wearing an untailored suit and a battered fedora. He looks around the dimly lit cellar room before focusing on the three people before him: Salem, Mystic, and Laredo.
I lean against the stone wall and cup the end of my cigarette. The lighter’s flame flickers against the cigarette’s tip as I inhale the smoke and nicotine, my lungs burning with every drag. Keeping to the shadows, I watch.
