The entire biker bar held its breath when nineteen-year-old Ethan chased down Jack "Wolf" Carter

The silence that fell over the foundry courtyard was heavy enough to crush bone.

The thirty armed men standing behind Marcus Sterling—the younger generation of Albany riders who had been told that Julian Vance had died in an accidental electrical blaze—looked from their president's terrified, blubbering face to the nineteen-year-old boy standing in the truck bed.

"You burned him, Marcus?" Jack Carter shouted, his voice echoing off the brick walls like an artillery round. "Say it louder so your own men can hear you! Tell them how you chained the doors from the outside! Tell them how you poured aviation gas through the nursery window while your brother was sleeping!"

A murmur of horrified outrage rippled through the Albany ranks.

Two senior patchholders in the front row—men who had worn the colors for twenty years—slowly lowered their shotguns, their eyes locking onto Marcus with growing, venomous disgust.

"Marcus," one of the senior riders growled, stepping away from the porch steps. "Is that Julian’s kid?"

"Shoot them!" Marcus screamed, his polished aristocratic veneer completely disintegrating into hysterical panic. He pulled a compact titanium automatic from his shoulder holster, pointing it wildly at the truck. "I sign your paychecks! Kill them all! Kill the boy!"

Nobody moved.

The four private security bodyguards looked at the seventy-four Iron Wolves aiming high-caliber rifles at their skulls, looked at Marcus’s unhinged, sweating face, and slowly, deliberately set their assault rifles down onto the concrete porch.

"Traitors! Cowards!" Marcus shrieked, cocking his pistol and leveling the barrel straight at Ethan’s forehead.

BANG.

Ethan didn't flinch.

The bullet didn't come from Marcus's gun.

Jack Carter had drawn his combat blade in a blinding, half-second blur, hurling the heavy steel through the air. The heavy bowie knife buried itself to the hilt in Marcus’s right shoulder, the concussive force spinning the syndicate boss around, sending his pistol clattering down the stone steps.

Marcus collapsed onto his knees on the concrete, clutching his ruined shoulder, howling in agony as dark crimson blood soaked through his expensive bespoke suit.

Declan Vance stepped down from the truck bed, his combat boots clicking heavily against the pavement as he ascended the porch steps. He towered over the whimpering traitor, his shadow completely blotting out the midday sun.

"Sixteen years, Marcus," Declan whispered, his voice as cold as a frozen lake. "Sixteen years you lived in my brother’s house, drank from his cellar, and poisoned his name with dirty cartel money."

Declan reached down, grabbed Marcus by the lapels of his diamond-studded leather cut, and ripped the patches from the leather with a violent, tearing screech that echoed through the silent yard.

He threw the torn colors onto the concrete and spat upon them.

"You are stripped of your name, your cut, and your brotherhood," Declan announced, turning to face the hundred men gathered in the yard. "Under Article One of the Founding Charter, the traitor’s life belongs to the heir."

Declan turned to Ethan, extending the recovered Colt Commander. "Christian. Step forward."

Ethan jumped down from the truck bed, walking slowly toward the porch.

The courtyard parted for him in absolute, reverent silence. Hardened outlaws, killers, and veterans bowed their heads as the nineteen-year-old passed. He ascended the stone steps, stopping two feet from Marcus Sterling.

Marcus looked up, weeping, bleeding, clutching his shoulder, his eyes wide with the pathetic, desperate terror of a tyrant stripped of his crown.

"Christian... please," Marcus blubbered, blood bubbling on his lips. "I was like an uncle to you... your father... your father would have shown mercy..."

Ethan looked down at the man who had murdered his parents, who had stolen his childhood, who had condemned him to sixteen years of starvation, cold trailer parks, and grease-stained dishwater.

He looked at the pistol in his hand. He felt the cold weight of the steel, the smooth curve of the trigger.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Ethan engaged the safety and handed the weapon back to Declan.

"My father was a protector, not a butcher," Ethan said, his voice ringing clear, steady, and unshakeable across the courtyard. "Death is too easy for you, Marcus. You're going to federal prison. You're going to spend the rest of your life in an eight-by-ten concrete box, watching this club wash away every trace of your existence."

Ethan turned his back on the weeping traitor, looking out over the hundred men standing in the sunlit yard.

"Call the federal marshals, Jack," Ethan commanded quietly. "And tell them to bring the seizure warrants for every shipping lane from here to Montreal."

Declan Vance placed his massive, warm hand over his grandson’s shoulder, a radiant, fierce pride burning in the old warrior's eyes.

"Long live the heir," Declan roared into the sky.