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“You don’t survive where I come from. You become the storm.” Los Santos thinks it knows Taha Bolton. It doesn’t. Born into the state system, parents gone before he could remember their names, Taha was saved from orphanage anonymity by John Bolton, a man as brutal as his reputation. John wasn’t a father. He was a warlord in leather: president of the Death Angels MC, cartel courier, bar-fight architect. In their cramped bungalow, the twin anthems were the clang of wrenches and the crack of knuckles. Taha learned fast: in this world, family meant loyalty. And loyalty cost blood. By sixteen he was more than a kid with grease under his nails. He was the club’s shadow, watching deals, standing guard, carrying messages. At eighteen, during a birthday thrown in his honor at the MC’s crimson-lit bar, the FBI stormed in. They cuffed John for double homicide. They tore the club to shreds. And they left Taha with two choices: fold or lead. He chose to lead. In the chaos that followed, Taha claimed the gavel. He patched the wounds of distrust, rallied the brothers, and resumed business the only way he knew: fast, cold, unflinching. But power breeds envy. When Grizzly John’s oldest friend, stole the safe and fled, Taha tracked him to a desert ghost town, met betrayal with vengeance, and left nothing but a corpse and a warning for anyone who dared cross him. Cartels noticed. The whispers of his ruthlessness drew Ernesto, MS13’s West Coast envoy, into his orbit. Money-laundering, muscle work, shadow jobs under neon skies, Taha played the game, walking the knife’s edge between empire and extinction. The heat grew unbearable. Feds on one side, cartels circling tighter on the other. So with Mia the only soul who ever pierced his armor he vanished. No patches, no trace, just rumors of a ghost in the wind. Now… He’s back. No MC. No alliances. No mercy. Los Santos owes him blood, and he’s ready to collect. “I didn’t ask for this life. But I earned it.”
