With Chloe banished to the East Side, the yard finally got some peace.

But it didn't take long for me to catch another nasty stench-the Iron Riders' ledger was an absolute, unmitigated disaster.

They were barely scraping by, living off monthly protection rackets and fencing hot parts in underground chop shops for a meager margin. Trying to feed a gang this massive on literal pennies was a joke.

Keep this up, and this whole crew would wind up dead in the gutter.

"We need a clean front."

Late one night, I kicked Daryl's office door shut behind me and slammed a stack of grease-stained, dog-eared ledgers onto his desk.

Daryl paused, the oil rag wrapped around the barrel of his Colt .45 going still. He looked up at me through dark, unreadable eyes. "A clean front? Like what?”

"A high-end custom chopper garage." I dragged over a rusty metal folding chair, dropped into it, and crossed my legs.

"Your crew of thugs can strip and rebuild a V-twin engine blindfolded, and we've already got the floor space. I know design."

"More importantly, I know exactly how to package the dirty scrap metal you are peddling and turn it into violent works of art. The rich trust-fund brats on the East Coast will be tripping over themselves to throw money at it."

Daryl set the gun down on his desk and leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "You playing with me?"

"When it comes to claiming turf and making bank, I don't waste breath on jokes." I held his stare, refusing to give an inch. "Daryl, do you actually plan on dragging your boys along this razor's edge for the rest of their lives?”

"What happens the day you catch a bullet between the eyes, or the cops toss you in the pen for a twenty-year stretch? Who's going to keep them alive then?"

A dead silence fell over the office.

I knew I had hit the bullseye. The man was cold-blooded to the core, but his one undisputed weakness was the crew that bled and fought by his side.

After a long beat, his rough Adam's apple bobbed. He gave a single, curt nod. "What do you need?"

"The shop floor is mine. I get full access to the vault for startup capital, and I have absolute final say." I stood up and planted both hands on the edge of his desk, looming over him. "Inside that garage, I make the rules."

A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Knock yourself out, Samantha."

For the next few months, I practically lived in the garage. I wasn't stupid enough to force a bunch of outlaws to sit for some bullshit mechanic certifications.
Instead, I laid down ironclad rules, dropped serious cash on industrial- grade equipment, and relentlessly hammered their feral, sloppy street- modding skills into top-tier customization.

I personally drafted the blueprints for a few vintage Harley models flawlessly blending the raw aggression of American muscle cars with sleek, predatorial chassis designs.

When the first heavy prototype rolled off the lift, snarling to life the entire club stopped breathing.

"Sweet Jesus. Sam..." Big Tank smeared a streak of black grease across his face, staring at the matte-black beast like he was looking at God Himself.

I tossed the keys at Daryl's leather cut. "Boss. Take her for a spin."

Daryl swung a leg over the custom leather saddle. He twisted the throttle, and the engine tore through the air with the deafening roar of a fully awakened monster.

He peeled out of the iron gates, leaving a violent trail of burnt rubber on the main drag. Ten minutes later, he came roaring back, reeking of wind and motor oil.

For the first time, a rare, burning fanaticism flickered in his usually deadpan eyes.

"How much does a piece like this go for?" he asked, pulling the keys from the ignition while the low rumble of the engine still echoed through the hall.
I casually flicked my fingers. "Fifty grand. And that's just the starting price for the base model.”

On opening day, I pulled a few strings and shamelessly tapped back into the East Coast high-society circle I was supposed to have cut ties with forever.

I roped in a handful of adrenaline-junkie trust-fund boys with more money than sense. The second those spoiled brats laid eyes on those mechanical beasts of sheer violent beauty. They were whipping out their checkbooks faster than a quick-draw in a shootout.

Within a single month, our order book was backed up to next year. The boys didn't have to skulk around in the dead of night running shady errands anymore. Their pockets were lined tight with crisp hundreds, and they walked the streets standing tall.

When they looked at me now, there was no trace of the "outsider girl the boss was forced to marry." Instead, there was nothing but raw, undeniable respect for the club's undisputed ace.

Late one night, long after the sparks from the angle grinders and welders had faded. I was alone under the solitary glow of a tungsten bulb, hunched over a slanting steel desk finalizing blueprints.

The heavy thud of combat boots echoed off the concrete floor, Daryl walked in.

He was holding two sweating bottles of cheap, ice-cold beer, and set one down with a *clink* right next to my draft paper.

"Thanks.' he rumbled, his voice dropping low.

I didn't even bat an eyelid. "For the cheap booze?"

"For carving out a real future for my boys." He stepped behind me.

His broad, heavily calloused hands firmly gripped my aching shoulders, his thick thumbs pressing into the stiff muscles along the side of my neck in a way that brooked no argument. The pressure was intense. But it hit the exact right spot.

"Samantha,'' he murmured right above my ear, "you are the most terrifying. but easily the most badass woman I've ever met."

I tossed my pencil aside and turned to face him. He was standing close-so close that the raw, overbearing presence radiating off him was impossible to ignore.

But that impenetrable iron fortress he usually kept raised between himself and the world had been completely torn down.

"I laid my cards on the table on day one.” I reached up and grabbed him by the stiff lapels of his leather cut, my gaze razor-sharp. "I didn't ride halfway across the State just to be some glorified flunky taking everyone's crap.”

Gripping his collar, I pulled the towering mountain of a man down to my level.

Dropping his guard entirely, his heavy shadow blanketed me. With the burning scent of cheap beer and pure volatile masculinity, his mouth crashed down on mine.

It was aggressive, possessive-kissing me like he meant to swallow me whole.

I tilted my head up, meeting his fire with my own, fiercely sinking my fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck.

I let him grip my waist and press me hard against the freezing edge of the steel drafting table.

And this time, I didn't drive my knee hard into his gut.