After she passed, I rode to the funeral like I always had—with her in spirit. The service was beautiful. But when I came out, my bike was wrecked. And Howard, watching smugly from across the lot, told me everything I needed to know.

Caroline, my daughter, begged me to let her drive me home. I refused. I needed that ride—to feel something, anything.

At the reception, Howard had the gall to suggest the vandalism was a “sign” to give up riding. I told him: “I’ve buried my wife and my brothers. I’ve got nothing left to lose—and I always find out who crosses me.”

The Black Widow still stands. And so do I.