My hands were slick with oil that refused to come off, but the pressure in my chest felt even worse. I was halfway through rebuilding the transmission on my ’98 Softail when my phone buzzed across the workbench.😱 😱

It was Elena. My kid sister.

Elena never rings me during daylight hours. She knows I’m usually knocked out after an overnight shift at the warehouse or dealing with club matters. If she’s calling at 2 in the afternoon, something catastrophic has happened.

I wiped my palms on a rag, smearing dark streaks across the fabric, and tapped the green button.

“Damon?”

Her voice fractured immediately. That sound—the kind a mother makes when she’s held herself together for too long and finally cracks—cut through the garage like a blade.

“I’m here, El. What’s going on? Is it Leo?”

My nephew, Leo. Seven years old. Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. He’s been staying at St. Jude’s downtown for three months now. He’s as light as a sparrow these days, pale and delicate, but he’s got a spirit that won’t quit. That’s why we call him Lionheart.

“He… he can’t stop crying, Damon. He’s breathing too fast. His numbers are tanking.”

“Did the doctors screw something up?” I could feel the old anger—the one I keep locked away deep inside—start banging on its door.

“No. It’s… it’s that boy again. The older one from the orthopedic wing. Braden.”

My whole body went cold. “The one who unplugged his monitor last week?”

“Yes,” she choked out. “He came in while I stepped out for coffee. He took it, Damon. He took the bear.”

The breath left me. Not the bear. Anything but that.

“Grandma Edie’s bear?”

“Yes. He told Leo that babies don’t need toys and that… that Leo wouldn’t be around long enough to play with it anyway.”

The wrench slipped from my fingers and clanged onto the concrete. It was the only sound in the room for nearly ten seconds.

Grandma Edie passed away two years ago. She sewed that bear herself when Leo was first diagnosed. She hid a locket inside it with a picture of the two of them together. Leo sleeps with that thing every night. It’s his anchor. It’s the only thing that keeps the nightmares away.

“I told the nurses,” Elena whispered, her voice trembling with exhaustion. “They said they can’t locate it. They said they can’t prove Braden grabbed it. They actually told me ‘boys will be boys.’ Damon, Leo is shutting down. I can see it. He’s just staring at the wall like he’s done.”

I looked around the garage. My brothers were there. Tiny—six-foot-seven, three hundred pounds of muscle. Jax—three Marine tours under his belt. We’re not the kind of group you invite to a baby shower. We’re Iron Saints. We don’t handle problems by filling out forms.

“Damon?”

“Wash your face, Elena,” I said, my voice dropping lower, turning slow and heavy.

“What?”

“Wash your face. Fix your hair. Go back into Leo’s room and hold his hand. Tell him Uncle Damon is on his way.”

“Damon, don’t do anything reckless. Security is—”

“I’m not showing up on my own.”

I ended the call.

I met Tiny’s eyes. He was already wiping down a tire iron even though it didn’t need cleaning. He recognized that tone in my voice. He understood.

“Kickstands up in fifteen,” I said. “Reach out to the other chapters. I want everyone in full colors. Shine the chrome until it blinds whoever looks at it. We’re heading to the hospital.”

Tiny’s grin was small and sharp, without warmth. “We rolling deep?”

“We’re rolling all of us,” I answered. “Somebody stole Leo’s bear.”

The mood in the garage changed instantly. The light chatter disappeared. Tools were dropped. Leather jackets zipped up.

Because nobody—absolutely nobody—touches a Saint’s family. Especially a child who’s fighting for his life

I throw on my jacket, still smeared with grease, and swing my leg over the bike. The engine roars to life like a battle cry, vibrating through my chest. Tiny is already revving beside me, his eyes blazing under the brim of his skull cap. Jax checks his Glock before sliding it into the concealed holster at his side. No one speaks. We don’t need to. The Saints move like wolves—fast, tight, and silent when it matters.

By the time we reach the edge of the city, five more bikes have joined us—Bear, Mondo, Shooter, Ghost, and Rafi. We’re twenty minutes out from St. Jude’s when the group is ten strong. The rumble of our engines could wake the dead.

We pull into the hospital’s circular drive like a damn thunderstorm. Visitors scatter. Nurses stare. A security guard steps forward, hand resting near his belt radio, but the second he sees our colors, he hesitates.

I swing off the bike and walk straight up to him. “We’re here to visit my nephew. Room 407. His name is Leo.”

He swallows hard. “Visiting hours—”

“Are not over,” I growl. “Unless you want the head nurse to explain to local news why a kid with cancer got robbed by another patient, you’ll get out of our way.”

He blinks but steps aside. I nod, and my crew files in behind me. Our boots echo down the linoleum like war drums. Every nurse on the floor suddenly finds something urgent to do in another room.

I see Elena first—still in her jeans and cardigan, face pale, eyes rimmed with red. She’s by the nurse’s station, arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“He’s worse,” she murmurs when I reach her. “He won’t speak. He won’t eat. He just keeps asking for Bear.”

I squeeze her shoulder and move past, pushing into Leo’s room. My chest tightens at the sight of him. He looks even smaller than I remember, curled up in that oversized hospital bed, wires snaking out from under his arms like roots. His eyes flick toward me, but they don’t light up.

“Hey, Lionheart,” I say softly, crouching beside the bed. “I hear some punk took your bear.”

Leo doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink. Just stares past me.

I swallow hard and glance at Tiny. He’s already standing by the door, arms crossed like a mountain with a mission.

“I’m gonna get it back,” I whisper. “Today. You just hang tight.”

No reaction. That kills me. That emptiness in his gaze is worse than the tubes, worse than the chemo. I brush his hand gently with my fingers, then stand.

“Elena, where’s this Braden kid?”

“Orthopedic wing. Room 412. Damon, please. He’s just a teenager—”

“He’s old enough to pick on a seven-year-old. That makes him old enough to learn a lesson.”

I walk the hall with the boys behind me. We’re quiet, but our presence is thunder. Every patient door we pass seems to close just a little. The orthopedic wing is two corridors down. I don’t bother knocking when I reach 412—I slam the door open.

Braden sits on his bed with his leg in a cast, earbuds in, flipping through something on his phone like he’s got not a care in the world. He looks up lazily when we flood into the room.

“What the—”

“Where is it?” I demand, stepping closer.

He squints. “Where’s what?”

I yank the phone from his hands and toss it to Tiny, who crushes it like a soda can in his grip. Braden’s jaw drops.

“The bear,” I growl. “The one you took from Room 407. You’ve got ten seconds before I make this cast the least painful thing on your body.”

He laughs nervously. “You’re joking, right? You can’t just come in here like this. I didn’t take anything.”

“Wrong answer.”

I grab him by the collar of his gown and yank him forward. Jax moves behind me, blocking the doorway. Braden struggles, but his leg prevents him from doing much.

“Okay, okay!” he gasps. “It’s in the nightstand. Bottom drawer.”

I release him and rip the drawer open. There it is. Grandma Edie’s bear. A little scruffier, a small tear at one ear—but it’s here.

“You don’t get to touch this again,” I snarl, cradling it in my hand. “You’re lucky we don’t file charges.”

“I was just messing around,” Braden mutters. “It’s not like he’s gonna make it anyway.”

That’s it.

Tiny has to hold me back.

I don’t even remember lunging. All I see is red. Braden cowers as Tiny wrestles me away, dragging me toward the hall.

“Not here,” Tiny grunts. “Too many cameras.”

“Bastard needs to feel it,” I hiss.

“He will,” Jax mutters. “Later.”

We march back to Leo’s room in silence. When I open the door, I see Elena still by the window, watching the sky like it might give her strength. Leo’s eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, but they flicker downward as I approach.

“Look what I found,” I say softly, kneeling again. I hold up the bear.

His bottom lip trembles. His little hand stretches out slowly. I place the bear in his arms.

His eyes shut tight. He presses the bear to his chest, and a tear leaks from the corner of his eye.

“Uncle Damon got it back,” he whispers.

My throat clenches. I brush his forehead gently.

“That’s right. Nobody messes with my lion.”

Elena walks over and kisses the top of his head. “Thank you,” she breathes.

I stand and give her a nod. My job’s not done, though. Not yet.

“We’re gonna handle Braden differently,” I murmur to Jax as we step back into the hallway. “He’s not gonna forget today.”

Jax cracks his knuckles. “You want him rattled or ruined?”

“Just rattled. Kid’s still got time to grow a soul.”

“Copy that.”

We loop back to the orthopedic wing. The nurses shoot us nervous looks but don’t stop us. When we reach Braden’s room, I lean in just enough to make eye contact.

“This is strike one,” I say coldly. “There won’t be another. We’ll be watching. We’ve got brothers who work in this hospital, you hear me? From janitors to surgeons. If Leo even stubs a toe because of you, I’ll know before the blood hits the floor.”

He nods frantically, sweat beading on his forehead.

I slam the door shut.

Back in the parking lot, the crew waits, engines humming.

“Handled?” Shooter asks.

“Handled,” I nod. “Now get out of here before we scare the pediatric ward.”

They laugh, relieved. One by one, they peel off into traffic, the roar fading into the distance.

I stay behind with Elena and Leo until the sun sinks behind the city skyline. He eats a few bites of pudding. He even smiles—small, but real.

As night falls, I whisper to Elena, “We’ll keep watch. That bear stays with him, day and night.”

She nods, eyes brimming with gratitude.

I step outside, light a cigarette, and stare up at the stars.

We’re not saints. But we take care of our own. And if anyone else forgets that?

We remind them.

With leather, chrome, and thunder.