We decided to stay in Ireland, Sam quickly learning the traditions and ways around Belfast. She's come under the watchful eyes of these bikers, she was introduced to them by a close family friend who had moved here when she was a kid. She calls him Uncle Prospect and he has a black jacket vest with a grim reaper holding a scythe that he wears everywhere. He always whips around to face me every time when I try to catch him off guard, no time to read more than the word 'Sons'. It's been three years and the label agreed to push it back until she was entirely ready to go back on the road. "Unka 'Pect!" our four and a half year old daughter, Analeigh, screams and leaps into the other guy's arms.

His real name? "Hey, Pete," I greet him, his free arm loosely hugging me. If you've seen 'Sons of Anarchy', you should know the Jax character. Imagine Jax about the size of me and about half a foot taller, just a tiny bit more muscle. He has a goatee and shoulder length wavy blonde hair, green eyes over a sprinkle of freckles. "Ana, you been good, love?" he asks her, letting go of me and quickly striding into my kitchen.

"Uncle Prospect!" Sam shouts, Analeigh's feet rapidly pounding the floor toward me.

"You tell 'em what Kodi is?"

"No, not yet. Haven't even told him what you are outside a biker."

"Might as well, love."

I hear her loudly sigh. "Okay, okay, I'll tell him now." She takes in a deep breath. "Joshua, tar anseo."

"Ma wants me, honey," I tell my daughter, kissing her on the head. I walk into the kitchen, placing my hands on her hips. "Mami?"

"You know the show we watch about the biker gang?"

"The one with Ron Pearlman?" I ask, playing dumb.

"Yeah. Uncle Prospect is part of the Irish charter of it. Show him the back of it."

He turns his back to me and sure enough, it does say what I've been suspecting. I have to approach this cautiously. I lean back against the wall, folding my arms. "Am I supposed to be fine with this?"

"It's my mom's ex-boyfriend's brothers. Uncle Prospect came to visit when I was seven, the two of them working on the bike and he fought with Charlie to allow."

"I've watched her grow up, Samcro watching her since you moved her to Los Angeles and reporting back to me. None of the charters will go up against the blood of a founding member."

That explains the bikers all over the place. "Sam, is there anything else I should know?" Our son's cries answered by Pete.

"Did you realize that my mom also dated someone with ties to the Japanese charter?"

I hang my head, shaking it. "What if we're put in harm's way? Or we end up kidnapped?"

She swallows. "I've got fight training, martial arts training and I know how to use weapons."

"What if we have nothing around us? No saving grace? What then, Sam?"

"I know that Belfast can and will call in the Samcro chapter and any other one that's associated with them."

"What then? Let them deal with it? This is my family, too!"

"You take Nolan, aye?" Pete directs at Sam.

"Nay." She turns on her heel and faces me. "What are you so afraid of?"

"There's usually at least one bad apple in the bunch."

"Then trust her, Josh."

"Why should I?"

"She's been the glue, aye, the one to get us to be smart about everything."

I look between them, so confused that I can't tell which way's up. "Teach him."

"You sure, lass?"

"Aye, Uncle Prospect."

Next thing I know, I'm in our 1.3 acre backyard and I have a handgun shoved in my hands. "What the fuck?" I question, dropping the firearm onto our picnic table.

"You want to be the protector, aye, boy?" Pete questions.

"What man wouldn't want to protect his family?" I retort.

He grabs the gun and holds it against my chest. "Then ye need to learn to handle a firearm."

I shake my head, uncomfortable with the whole weapons in the house thing. "I'm not sure about it."

"Sam!" Pete yells out.

"Uncle Prospect, you watch the babies and I'll teach him. Aye?"

"Aye, darlin'," he agrees, heading inside.

They exchange a few words and she slugs him in the chest, shaking her head with a smirk on her lips. "What-?"

"He said you're a sissy pretty boy and that you will have to get used to some sort of self defense weapon. In simple terms, grow a set of balls."

"I'm not a sissy pretty boy!" I scream, grabbing the gun and aiming for a tree about 25 yards away, proving I'm a dead shot. "That felt good," I admit.

Sam dips into our shed and returns with a compound bow in hand and arrows on her back, attaching a guard onto her right forearm. She pulls her bandana out of her pocket, hurriedly folding it before tying it as a blindfold around her head. She takes aim, grabs an arrow, lines up, pulls it back and releases the arrow. It hits an inch above where my bullet had lodged itself. My jaw drops. She did that blindfolded! "That's how you can tell how good you truly are," she tells me, blindfold still covering her eyes.

"How can you tell where you hit?"

"I heard the edge of my arrowhead scrape the bullet you lodged in that tree."

"How long have you known how to use these weapons and why didn't you have any in the States?"

"I'm not allowed to have weapons bigger than my palm without permits because the feds more than know who I know and what I've been trained in."

"I still don't get it."

"I'm registered for all weapons here in Ireland, I have no limits here legally."

"Why?"

"The Irish Army and the Irish charters of SOA."

"Alright, I guess it makes sense now."

"We need to go into town and you need to meet the rest of this charter," she tells me, removing her blindfold and giving me a quick peck on the lips. "Don't worry, they're mostly like Uncle Prospect."