Satan’s Sons: Legacy of the Devil’s Riders and Reaper

My parents made damn sure I learned from everything—whether it was a failure that split me open or a win that puffed my chest. They didn’t expect perfection, and God knows I was anything but perfect. I’ve done my fair share of stupid things, and my victories, as few as they may seem, came drenched in blood, sweat, and the occasional illegal shortcut. But in the Wilson household, success wasn’t about being a straight-A student or the favorite son-in-law. It was about loyalty, grit, and knowing who had your back when the world flipped you the finger. See, we weren’t your average nuclear family. The kind who smiled at church, baked pies for the neighbors, and argued about board games during the holidays. We were a tribe. A clan welded together by a code stronger than the law, stronger than blood even. We were born into the chaos and raised to thrive in it. While other kids learned to color inside the lines, we were handed crayons and told to burn the coloring book. There was only one rule in our house. One golden commandment that defined us all, from the oldest to the youngest: Never follow the rules. I know, ironic as hell, right? Our only rule… was to not follow rules. Sounds like a joke when you say it out loud. Maybe even reckless. But for us, it was gospel. It was the creed our parents lived by. The code they passed down to us like a sacred inheritance. Dad wasn’t a conventional father figure. He wasn’t out there throwing baseballs in the yard or offering curfews followed by gentle warnings. No, he was more the type to hand you a wrench, a beer—depending on your age—and a lesson about how to break down a Harley engine in under thirty minutes. He was chaos with a code. A rebel in leather, grinning in the face of every badge that dared come near him. The law? That was his favorite thing to spit on. He didn’t just break laws—he danced with them, challenged them to a duel, and usually won. Except for that one time. The only time I ever saw the law get one over on my old man. I was ten. Just a scrawny kid in oversized boots, trying to act tougher than I was. The club had been raided a few times before. Cops busting in, barking orders, and leaving empty-handed because Dad always kept his tracks cleaner than a priest’s confession booth. But that day was different. They didn’t just come for the clubhouse. For the first time, they went after the house too. That’s where everything changed. I remember Mum yelling from the front porch, blocking the entrance like a warrior queen. She wasn’t big in size, but God help any man who tried to cross her. The books—Dad’s club ledgers—were hidden in the study. More than that, we kids were inside. And Mum? She didn’t take kindly to strangers with guns trying to march into her kingdom. They dragged her out screaming. I saw it. I’ll never forget it. Her nightgown twisted around her knees, bare feet scraping the gravel as she kicked and cursed like a sailor. That’s when Dad lost it. He arrived just as one of the officers shoved her face-down onto the ground. It was like a switch flipped. He moved fast—too fast for anyone to stop him. Fists flying. Rage personified. He took down three officers before backup could even react. One of them didn’t get up right away. That part haunts me, even now. Dad was taken in that night. One year for assault. They said it was a bargain deal. Maybe it was. For us, though, it was the longest year of our lives. After that, the raids slowed. The cops learned not to poke the bear unless they were prepared to bleed. And Dad? He doubled down on protecting us. From then on, nobody got near his family unless they were part of the club or willing to die trying. Funny enough, most fathers would lose their minds if their son said he wanted to prospect for a motorcycle club. Mine practically popped a bottle of whiskey in celebration. He saw it as tradition. Legacy. The next link in a chain forged through gasoline, steel, and unspoken oaths. Becoming a prospect wasn’t a rebellious move for me. It was like stepping into my birthright. I didn’t second-guess it for a second. I’ve never regretted it. The club gave me everything—structure, identity, brotherhood. But most of all, it gave me clarity. I knew who I was when I wore that cut. As for my family—we worked. Dysfunctional as hell, but we clicked. My bond with my sisters ran deep. Deeper than most could understand. They weren’t just siblings—they were my Achilles heel. And right now? One of them was driving me absolutely insane. I had ducked out to the garage before school. Just me and my bike. Tools scattered around me, grease staining my hands, the scent of oil and metal thick in the air. It was my sanctuary. But peace didn’t last long in our house. She found me. I heard the telltale click of her boots before I even looked up. Eve. The tornado in a tank top. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, mischief written all over her face. I didn’t even bother asking what she wanted. I knew she wouldn’t leave until she got it. I tried ignoring her—wrenched another bolt loose, adjusted the clutch cable, wiped my brow with the back of my sleeve. But she stood there, watching me like a cat waiting for a mouse to twitch. She was relentless. Finally, I sighed and stood up, brushing my palms on my jeans. “Alright, Naughty. Spit it out.” That nickname? It stuck early. She earned it the day she convinced our entire neighborhood that a snake had escaped from the club’s back shed. She was six. Caused a damn panic. Hannah, by contrast, was all sugar and sunlight—my “Nice” girl. They were twins, practically clones of our mother, but I could tell them apart in a heartbeat. Hannah had this soft way of tilting her head when she smiled. Eve? Eve looked like she was planning to burn something down just for fun. Eve smirked and perched herself on my workbench like she owned the place. “I need money.” I rolled my eyes. “Of course you do.” “For my car.” “You shouldn’t be driving.” She scoffed. “Don’t start sounding like Dad. One little accident and suddenly I’m banned for life?” “One little accident?” I crossed my arms. “You wrapped the car around a light pole, Eve.” She pouted. “The pole was in the way!” “Jesus,” I muttered. “Why aren’t you bugging Dad for cash?” “I tried. He’s being a tightass. Says I have to learn responsibility.” She mimicked his gravel voice, making a face. “But you know he’ll cave. You just have to help soften him up.” I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “You totaled a vehicle he bought you. You crashed it less than a week after getting your license.” “Yeah, well, he lived, didn’t he? No harm done.” Her grin widened. “C’mon, Ty. You’re my favorite brother.” “I’m your only brother.” “Exactly. You have responsibilities.” I shook my head. This was the circus I lived in. And strangely enough, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. She leaned forward, nudging my boot with hers. “So, will you help me or what?” I narrowed my eyes. I knew better. Helping Eve usually meant lying for her, covering for her, or convincing Dad she deserved another chance. But then again… she was family. And for us, family wasn’t a choice. It was a duty. One I took seriously, even when it made me want to rip my hair out. Because he won’t give me a cent,” Eve huffed, her lips pushing into a pout that had, more often than not, served as her secret weapon. That pout had gotten her out of trouble, into VIP sections, and into the driver’s seat of more things than she could handle—sometimes literally. But this time, it seemed like its magic was wearing thin. She leaned against the edge of the workbench, her fingers drumming in an impatient rhythm on the metal as she swung one booted foot over the other. I could practically feel the storm brewing behind her baby blue eyes. She was irritated, but not just because Dad had told her “no.” That wasn’t new. What was new was the fact that he was sticking to it. I looked up from the open engine I was working on, wiping my hands on the rag tucked into my waistband. “What did you do this time?” “Nothing!” she snapped, voice rising a few octaves—way too quickly. There it was. The Eve tell. She always got high-pitched when she was lying, and this one wasn’t even her best effort. I raised an eyebrow and just looked at her. Didn’t say a word. Just stared, letting the silence call her out the way my words didn’t have to. She crossed her arms over her chest, scowling. “Seriously, I didn’t do anything.” I didn’t respond. Just kept staring. She sighed loudly, as if I was the unreasonable one in the conversation. “Okay, maybe I did something. But it wasn’t a big deal.” Now we were getting somewhere. “Dad never says no to you,” I pointed out, setting down my wrench and folding my arms, mirroring her stance. “So if he is now, you definitely crossed some kind of line.” She looked away, her tongue poking against the inside of her cheek like she was weighing how much to tell me. “I may be… I may be cashing in some good deeds for something else,” she muttered, eyes drifting toward the cracked window that overlooked the back lot. I snorted. “In other words, yeah—you’re trying to trade favors like poker chips.” “Hey!” she said, trying to look offended. “I have done a lot for this family.” “Oh please,” I chuckled. “You once fed the club dog for a week and tried to act like you deserved a medal. Don’t act like you’re Saint Eve now.” She tossed a nut at me from the workbench, but I dodged it easily. “This is about that party, isn’t it?” I asked, narrowing my eyes and pointing a finger at her. She didn’t deny it. She didn’t even flinch. That was answer enough. “Eve,” I groaned, tossing the rag down and leaning on the bike. “As if Dad’s ever going to let you throw a party in his clubhouse. You do realize you’re talking about a place that has seen more illegal deals, drunken brawls, and strippers than the entire state of Nevada.” “It’s not like I’m inviting the whole town,” she said quickly, brushing her hair off her shoulder. “Just a few people. You know… close friends. Tequila. Music. Nothing wild.” I blinked slowly. “Did you just say ‘nothing wild’ in the same sentence as tequila?” She smirked. “What? You had a party for your eighteenth.” “That was different. I was patched in. You’re not even prospecting.” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, being a girl kind of makes that difficult, doesn’t it?” That hit a nerve—one she knew would land. I ran a hand down my face, resisting the urge to argue. She wasn’t wrong. The club wasn’t exactly progressive when it came to women. They were revered, protected, and honored—but not allowed to patch in. Not yet, anyway. And Eve hated it. Still, that wasn’t the point. The point was that she wanted to throw a party in Dad’s clubhouse, a place that was practically sacred to the brothers. Bringing in a bunch of half-drunk teenagers and school friends was not going to fly. “You’re going to get your ass handed to you if you even mention this to him again,” I warned. “I already did.” I blinked. “Wait—you asked him?” She gave a sheepish grin. “Last night. After he’d had two beers and was watching that western he likes.” “And?” She sighed. “He didn’t say no at first. He just gave me that look—you know the one where his jaw tenses and he doesn’t blink for ten seconds?” I did know that look. It usually meant: “If you push me, you’re going to regret it.” “And then?” “He said, and I quote: ‘You’ll throw a party in my clubhouse over my dead body.’” “Well, there you go.” She waved me off. “He’s just being dramatic.” “No, Eve. That’s not Dad being dramatic. That’s him laying down the law—and you know how rare that is. If he said that, he means it.” “But it’s my eighteenth!” she whined, stomping her boot against the concrete floor. “You got a party. Even Hannah’s planning something classy with dinner and candles and probably a damn poetry reading.” I snorted. That sounded exactly like Hannah. “So? Do something classy, too.” “I hate classy!” she cried out, slamming a palm on the bench. “I want music that makes the walls shake and lights that make your eyes melt. I want noise and chaos and fun. I want a night that people won’t forget.” I looked at her, really looked at her, and for a brief second, I saw it—something deeper than bratty frustration. She wanted this party because it wasn’t just a celebration. It was a statement. Eve had always been in everyone’s shadow—Dad’s, mine, the club’s. Hell, even Hannah’s in her quiet, gentle way. Eve wanted something to be hers. Something loud. Something that said, Here I am. I exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. “So that’s why you’re here? Because Dad won’t fund your rebellion?” She nodded, her bottom lip twitching in a pout again. “If you gave me just a little… maybe I could book the warehouse down on Clay Street. Or even that old hangar. Somewhere Dad won’t find out about right away.” “You mean, until the noise reaches him halfway through the second keg and he shows up with half the club to shut it down?” She shrugged. “It’s worth the risk.” I stared at her, torn. Because damn it, she was my sister. And no matter how much she tested every nerve in my body, I always came through for her. And she knew it. That was the dangerous part. She smiled sweetly, tilting her head. “Please, Ty? You’re my favorite.” “I’m your only brother,” I muttered again, but the resolve in my voice was already thinning. And she could hear it.