Chapter 2

Jacquelyn POV:

"Open the damn door, Jackie!"

Jamir's fists pounded against the reinforced steel, the heavy thuds vibrating through the deadbolt. Muffled through the metal, Hillary's soft, manipulative voice followed right behind his shouts.

"Jamir, let her cool off. She's just jealous because she knows you don't love her anymore."

I ignored the noise completely. I stepped up to the heavy biometric safe built into the concrete wall of the private storage room, pressed my thumb against the optical scanner, and pulled the steel door open.

Inside lay three certified master engine patent certificates stamped by the state board, along with a stack of bank transfer receipts three inches thick. Every document bore the official seal of the state commercial registry.

Outside, the banging stopped. A moment later, low murmurs and heavy, rhythmic panting filtered through the ventilation slit. The rustle of leather against leather made it obvious what they were doing against my door.

I twisted the heavy metal wheel of the blast door, unlocked the deadbolts, and shoved the heavy slab outward.

The door flew open with a loud screech.

Jamir stumbled back, his hands quickly dropping from Hillary's waist as he straightened his leather cut. Hillary flushed red, hastily pulling up the slipped strap of her tank top, though her eyes were filled with smug amusement.

I tossed the thick stack of bank receipts straight onto the grease-stained table. The papers fanned out across the steel surface, exposing column after column of massive red ledger balances.

"If you're going to use my workshop door for your rutting," I said coldly, "at least finish paying your tab first."

Hillary shrank behind Jamir's shoulder, while Jamir's face flushed deep crimson.

"You've been tracking my private accounts?" he snapped.

"I don't give a damn about your private life," I said, stepping forward. "I care about my money."

Jamir scoffed, but his gaze fell involuntarily onto the top sheet. His eyes widened as the figures hit his retinas.

I tapped the certified patent certificate lying beside the ledgers with the tip of a surgical scalpel.

"For thirty-six months, seventy percent of Reilly Choppers' operating debt, parts inventory, and club run supplies were funded directly by the dividend payouts from these two engine patents."

Hillary stared at the papers, her mouth slightly open. In her head, I had been nothing more than a dependent woman clinging to Jamir for shelter. She had no idea the entire empire she was trying to steal was built on my dime.

"That... that was your contribution as family," Jamir stammered, his bravado cracking. "Bringing these papers out now changes nothing."

"It changes everything," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a blade. "The severance is done. That means the three point six million dollars this shop owes my private account is a legal debt, due in full."

Jamir stumbled back against a rack of motorcycle tires, the air knocked out of his lungs. He knew the shop's liquid reserves couldn't cover a tenth of that amount.

"You malicious bitch!" Hillary suddenly lunged forward, pointing a manicured finger at my face. "Jamir nearly died on the border run to keep this shop afloat, and you're trying to bankrupt him the second he comes home?"

My arm moved before she could finish her breath.

My palm cracked across her cheek in a deafening slap.

The impact sent Hillary spinning sideways. She hit the edge of the tool rack with a sharp cry, crashing to the floor with blood leaking from the corner of her split lip.

I shook out my stinging wrist and looked down at her.

"Unpatched Sweetbutts don't speak when the ledger is on the table."

Jamir dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around the sobbing woman, his eyes blazing with fury as he looked up at me.

"You've lost your mind! I'm calling an emergency Church meeting tonight. I'll have the elders strip your name from the territory and exile you with nothing!"

"Go ahead," I said, leaning over the bench with a cold smile. "Call Church. Let the full-patch brothers read through these invoices. Let them see how the future president of Reilly Choppers embezzled club weapon funds to buy diamond chokers for an unpatched groupie."

Jamir went dead pale. In an outlaw club, mismanaging brother funds was a violation punishable by severe club justice.

He swallowed hard, his voice suddenly losing all its edge.

"Jackie... we don't need to burn the house down over this. We built this place together."

"Three days," I said, cutting him off. "If the first installment isn't in my account in seventy-two hours, these exact statements land on your mother's desk."

Heavy footsteps echoed from the garage entrance.

A tall Sergeant at Arms in a black utility cut stepped into the bay. He completely ignored Jamir and Hillary on the floor, stopping two paces away from me with his head respectfully bowed.

"Ma'am. Club Mother Martha requests your presence at the main estate immediately."

Martha was the founder's widow—Club Mother, a woman with influence but no vote in Church.

Jamir and Hillary exchanged a quick glance from the floor, a spark of hope reigniting in their eyes. Jamir assumed his mother was about to put me in my place.

Hillary wiped the blood from her lip and cast me a venomous, triumphant sneer from behind Jamir's shoulder.

I slipped the surgical scalpel into my leather boot, pulled my jacket tight, and stepped past them.

"Lead the way," I told the Sergeant at Arms. "I have a balance to settle with the old lady anyway."