"She's an old woman drinking tea, you stupid son of a—" Cole hissed, shoving Jax backward. Jax stumbled, catching himself on a stool.

Cole turned, softening his posture to apologize to the woman. He wasn't a good man, but there were rules. You didn't lay hands on the elderly. "Ma'am, I apologize for the—"

Cole stopped dead.

Martha had stood up. The movement was slow, her knees stiff with arthritis, but she stood tall. As she turned fully away from the counter to face them, the oversized jacket shifted, revealing the back.

Cole's breath caught in his throat. Only the rattling hum of the ceiling fan filled the space.

On the back of the heavy, scuffed leather jacket, there was no top rocker. There was no bottom rocker. There was only a single, massive center patch, hand-stitched with thick, fading yellow thread. It was the death's head—the winged skull of the Hell's Angels. But it wasn't just any patch. It was an original 1960s cut, the kind worn by the absolute founders.

Below the skull, where a bottom rocker would normally sit, was a custom rectangular patch. It was frayed at the edges, the lettering cracked but undeniable:

FRANK IRON HAYES, FOUNDER. HE RODE SO YOU COULD.

And beneath that, a smaller, delicate rocker. A patch granted only by a unanimous vote of an entire coast's leadership.

MOTHER OF THE CHAPTER.

Cole stared at it, the blood draining from his heavily scarred face. He had heard the stories when he was a prospect thirty years ago. Frank "Iron" Hayes—the man who had taken three bullets in the chest outside a bar in '73 to cover the escape of five of his brothers. A man whose name was still spoken with hushed reverence in every clubhouse from Nevada to New York.

And this frail, 80-year-old woman swimming in his jacket was his widow.

Cole slowly took a step back. He didn't realize he had taken his hat off until he felt the rough fabric of it in his hands.

Jax, having recovered his balance, stormed back up, his face twisted in rage. He saw the patch, but his young, arrogant brain didn't process the history. He only saw a civilian wearing club colors. The ultimate insult.

"What the hell is this?!" Jax shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Martha. "Take that off right now! You don't wear those colors!"