Page 137 of Riding the Edge

Epilogue

Walking inside the quiet chapel, I stare at my seat at the head of the table. Two months ago, I was voted in as the president of the Satan’s Knights and to say it’s been one helluva ride would be putting it mildly. On top of dealing with the transition of power, I also worked diligently at keeping the values Jack sacrificed his sanity to create, intact. His run as president may have come to an end but as long as I hold the gavel, property of Parrish will be the core of our existence. Every choice I make, ever law I break, I’ll take a piece of Jack with me.

I once told Linc, we all need religion and not all of us kneel for the cross.

Now, more than ever, I believe that.

God isn’t for everyone and most times we don’t like the answers he gives us. Sometimes we don’t need to look to the heavens for guidance. Sometimes, we find our faith in the men who came before us and when I question mine, I won’t just reach for my grandmother’s rosary beads. I’ll think back to the man who brought me into the club. The man who taught me the fundamentals of loyalty, respect and honor. I’ll think of Jack Parrish and what he would do. The choices he would make and the answers he’d provide. And when the burdens are heavy, I’ll remind myself of everything he overcame. I’ll think about his unconventional ways, his crass mouth and the sinister smile he gave the world. I’ll even remember his fucking maker, because as much havoc as that cunt caused, she was also the biggest part of him.

Pulling out my chair, I take my rightful seat and stare across the room at the framed photo of the originals; Jack, myself and Pipe. We were in our early twenties and on top of the world. Nothing could touch us. We were fucking invincible.

I suppose it was a different world back then, a world where outlaws fought for justice the old-fashioned way and the cops closed their eyes.

“Al?”

At the sound of Maria’s voice, I turn my head and stare at my wife.

My wife.

A week after her double mastectomy, they removed the drains, and we hightailed it out of the doctor’s office, straight to City Hall. Surrounded by our children, Maria Bianci became Mrs. Scotto and me, I became one fucking blessed man.

Whoever said three times is the charm never needed to try for a fourth.

“Lady,” I greet as I lean back in my chair. “C’mere,” I add, crooking my finger.

Making her way towards me, she leans her ass against the table and touches her hand to my cheek.

“I thought I’d find you in here,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, taking hold of her hips. Drawing her in front of me, I position her between my legs and lean my forehead against her stomach. “I just wanted a minute by myself before this place got packed,” I admit, lifting my head to meet her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

A month ago, she started radiation, and it’s been kicking her ass. She’ll never admit that though, but I know my woman. I see the exhaustion in her eyes and the wear and tear it’s put on her body. There isn’t much I can do or rather there isn’t much she’ll let me do to help her. My wife is an independent soul and I’ve learned not to trample on that part of her. She knows I’m here, that all she needs to do is ask and I’ll drop anything and everything to give her whatever it is she needs.

A shoulder to lean on.

A hand to hold.

A reminder that we only get one life.

And my personal favorite, a good hard fuck.

“I’m fine,” she admonishes, running her fingers through my hair. “Everything is done, the food is done and the sternos are lit.”

“I don’t want you overdoing it,” I say adamantly.

“I know my limits,” she replies. “Besides, I love this stuff. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to cook a big dinner and I don’t think I’ve ever actually cooked for this many people before.”

That’s true.

My woman loves to feed people. Every Sunday, whether she’s up to it or not, our kids join us for dinner. Being as she’s been sick, it’s usually me in the kitchen, getting my hands dirty. I’m not complaining, I can throw down just as good as my better half. We still haven’t settled on who makes a better pot of sauce but luckily for us, we got the rest of our lives to decide.

However, it’s not just our kids she’s been cooking for all day.

It’s October twelfth and in a few minutes this bar will be crowded with the Satan’s Knights, ready to ride for a cure and take a stand against breast cancer.

“We still got some time before the run,” I tell her, finding the button on her jeans.

“Oh, yeah?”

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