Page 6 of Savage Loyalty

My chest tightened. “What about him?”

There was a pause, one so long I thought he might leave it at that. When he spoke again, the words were sharp, almost mechanical. “He’s dead.”

"He’s dead."

Two words. Flat. Emotionless. They hung in the air between us, impossible to process. My fingers gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white as the rest of my body went still.

“What are you talking about?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, brittle with disbelief.

“Shot,” Axel said. His tone was even like he was reading off a report. “Last night. He didn’t make it.”

The words didn’t feel real. My father—Javier Cruz, the man who had loomed larger than life in every room he entered, the man who had built an empire with his bare hands—was dead. He wasn’t supposed to die. Not like this. Not like anyone else.

“How did this happen?” I demanded, my voice rising. “Who did it? Who the hell would dare?—”

“Does it matter?” Axel cut me off, his voice cold and hard. “He’s gone. That’s all there is to it.”

The heat in my chest flared. “Of course it matters, Axel. Someone killed him. Someone made this happen, and you’re acting like it’s nothing.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, heavy and suffocating. When Axel finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, edged with something I couldn’t quite place. “The funeral’s tomorrow. You’re coming.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand, and it made my blood boil. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” I snapped. “Not anymore.”

“This isn’t about you, Delilah,” Axel said, his voice rising. “It’s about him. He’s still your father, whether you want to admit it or not.”

I clenched my jaw, the words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. He was right, and that was the problem. No matter how far I ran, no matter how much I tried to bury the past, I couldn’t change the blood in my veins.

“Fine,” I said finally, my voice trembling. “I’ll come. But don’t expect me to stay.”

“Good,” Axel said. His tone softened slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll send you the details.”

The line went dead, leaving me alone in the silence of my apartment. I set the phone down slowly, my hands shaking. My father was dead. Axel wanted me back, if only for a day. And whether I liked it or not, I couldn’t say no.

I stayed at the table long after the call ended, staring blankly at the phone like it might buzz again. The rain outside had softened to a dull patter, but the noise in my head was louder than ever.

I should’ve felt something—grief, anger, sadness—but all I felt was a hollow ache that settled in my chest and refused to leave. Javier Cruz had been larger than life, a force of nature who bent the world to his will. Now he was gone, and I couldn’t even picture it. Couldn’t imagine a world without his shadow looming over it.

Finally, I stood, my legs unsteady as I crossed the room to the bookshelf in the corner. On the bottom shelf, hidden beneath a stack of old paperbacks, was a photo album I hadn’t touched in years. I pulled it out, the leather cover worn and cracked, and carried it to the couch.

When I opened the album, the first photo stopped me cold. It was an old Polaroid, the edges yellowed and curling. Axel and I sat on the back of Dad’s bike, our faces lit up with excitement. I couldn’t have been more than six, Axel maybe eight. He had his arm slung around my shoulders, grinning like he owned the world. Dad stood beside us, his hand resting on the handlebars, a rare smile softening his sharp features.

I could almost hear his voice as I stared at the photo. Deep and gravelly, it was the kind of voice that could command a room that made you feel both comforted and terrified at the same time. Dad wasn’t the kind of man who needed to yell to get his point across. One look, one word, was enough to make even the toughest Vipers fall in line.

The memory came rushing back, vivid and all-consuming.

It had been a warm summer afternoon, the kind that made the sticky heat of the Black Vipers’ clubhouse feel unbearable. I was six years old, still small enough that Dad could scoop me up with one arm. Axel had just turned eight, his gangly limbs making him look like a colt that hadn’t quite grown into himself yet.

Dad had taken us outside that day, away from the chaos of the clubhouse and the constant buzz of engines. His bike was parked in the gravel lot, gleaming in the sunlight like a polished jewel. He ran his hand over the handlebars as if the machine were alive, his expression softening in a way I didn’t see often.

“This is Cruz steel,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “Built for speed. Built for strength. Just like us.”

Axel’s eyes lit up, his admiration for Dad so palpable it practically radiated off him. He reached out to touch the bike, his fingers skimming the leather seat. “Can I ride it someday?” he asked, his voice full of awe.

“Someday,” Dad said with a chuckle. “When you’re ready.”

I stood off to the side, unsure of where I fit in. Axel was always the center of Dad’s attention. He was the golden boy, the heir to everything Dad had built. I was just the kid sister who tagged along, trying not to get in the way.

But then Dad turned to me. His eyes softened, and for the first time, he really looked at me—not as the tagalong, but as someone who belonged.

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