Six leather-vested men walked calmly out of the maternity ward with my sister’s newborn son in their arms, and the hospital staff didn’t even try to stop them.
I only knew because the head nurse showed me the security footage — six huge men, moving quietly, respectfully, carrying my nephew like he was something sacred.
Forty-seven minutes earlier, my sister Sarah had passed away during childbirth. One moment I was pacing the waiting room, trying to stay hopeful. The next, I was being told she was gone, and my world tilted.
And then the nurse asked the question that snapped everything into chaos:
“Ma’am… do you know the men who just collected the baby?”
I stared at her, confused, until she turned her tablet around and hit play.
Six bikers. Leather jackets. Club patches. Beards. Boots.
One of them holding my nephew close against his chest.
My grief turned instantly into panic.
“Call the police!” I yelled. “They took the baby — they kidnapped him!”
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