Children of Fire (Complete)

thirteen

Gideon

I'm honestly getting sick and fucking tired of always dealing with mistakes. It's exhausting to be in charge of so many men, and so many idiots at that. I'm about to start taking patches, demoting members, or maybe just killing them off for being fucking stupid. This is the second time this month that someone hasn't been paying attention and we've been fucked over. This time, someone broke into our warehouse just outside of town and stole several of our guns and our explosives.

It must be an inside job, right? This warehouse has never been used for meetings, it has never even been seen by anyone outside of The 66. We must have a mole-- great. Another problem I'm going to have to deal with later. I light a cigarette and bring it to my mouth, surveying the damage. Our wooden shipment crates have been pried open, the lids sitting precariously next to the crates-- whoever stole from us did it in a hurry.

"GINO!" I bellow, looking for the tan skinned man who was supposed to be on guard duty last night. He runs his hand over the top of his slick head. The old fucker started balding about two years ago, my father told him he had to shave his head-- he didn't want anyone in the club looking like a child predator. I chuckled to myself at the memory of it. He rushes up to me, I can see the nerves in his eyes. Could he be the mole?

"Yes, VP?" He asks, his voice has a slight quiver, whether it's nerves from being a rat or nerves from allowing our guns and explosives to be stolen, I'm not quite sure yet.

"Do you want to tell me what the fuck happened here last night? And why half of our guns and explosives are missing?" I question him, putting my cigarette out on the bottom part of his leather cut. He's lucky I didn't strip him of his patches right now.

"I'm sorry Gid, I'm not sure what happened. I fell asleep, when I woke up it was morning, and the doors for the warehouse were wide open. It was an honest mistake." He was almost pleading with me. He was afraid of what I would do, and honestly I couldn't blame him. I have been known to have quite the temper, but who could blame me? I am one of the youngest members of this charter, and I am the Vice President, I had to demand respect and exude authority-- if that meant that I had a temper, then so be it.

"My name isn't Gid." I told him, fire burning in the pit of my stomach. How dare he try to call me by a nickname when his ass is on the line?

"Yes, Vice. I'm sorry. Like I said, it was a mistake. An accident. It will never happen again." Gino told me, bowing his head lightly in submission-- his eyes never leaving mine. I gave him a small smile, and he straightened up-- a bit more confident than he was. I turned to leave, and cocked my arm back, throwing every ounce of my body strength into a heavy punch.

The blow of my knuckles connecting to his jaw was heard around the warehouse. My club members paused, those who weren't already looking at the scene before them turned to see what the loud popping noise was. I'm almost positive I either broke his jaw, or at least dislocated it.

"If you ever make another stupid fucking mistake like this again, I'll slice that club sigil off your skin myself. Consider this your final warning, Ambrogino." I sneered in his direction, we all knew how much he hated his Italian roots, and his full name. His parents were shitty people, whose idea of 'loving their child' was giving him toys, money, and whatever else he wanted-- just so they didn't have to show him affection. He ran off when he was 18, found himself in Luciana, and has been a member of the club for 11 years now.

He spit the blood out of his mouth, cradling his jaw with his left hand. He gave me a nod (but not before he had the chance to shoot me a nasty glance), and returned to work-- moving crates, and sorting through inventory. "Go get yourself cleaned up. Stay out of my sight for the rest of the day." I tell him, grabbing another cigarette and flexing my fingers, son of a bitch had one hell of a jawline. He stumbled out of the warehouse and I heard him rumble out of the driveway, just as another bike was pulling in. It was loud, the loudest I had ever heard, and something about it demanded authority. My fathers bike.