At the center table, conversations died instantly.
Every single biker stopped mid-sentence. Five burly riders turned their heads toward the door, their weathered, hardened faces softening into looks of stunned disbelief and deep concern.
Sitting at the head of the booth was Dutch, the club’s road captain and veteran founder.
Dutch was a towering man with a heavy, grey-streaked beard, thick leather riding gloves, and a cut adorned with the Iron Vale Riders rocker. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded from decades on the asphalt, locked onto the shivering child and the crying toddler in his arms.
Leo clutched his sister tighter, backing slightly against the door frame as Dutch slowly stood up from the table. To an eight-year-old, the massive biker looked like a giant stepping out of the shadows.