His Unwanted Wife, The Secret Biker Boss

Cinnamon Collier POV:

I slipped the encrypted phone into the interior pocket of my leather jacket, pulled a faded black hoodie over my head, and tucked my auburn hair beneath the hood.

I avoided the main stairs that led down into the noise of the Biker Bar. Instead, I slid out through the second-floor fire escape, easing the rusty iron frame down until my boots hit the damp gravel in the alley. The cold Northern California morning air bit into my cheeks, carrying the sharp tang of wet asphalt and pine.

I walked three blocks through the industrial district, keeping my head down and my hands shoved deep into my pockets, until I reached a dead-end lot behind an abandoned cold-storage warehouse.

I pushed open the heavy corrugated iron door of the side garage. The rusty rollers screeched, startling a couple of pigeons nesting in the steel rafters.

In the back corner of the drafty shop, under the glow of a bare halogen bulb, Rachel Price, the accountant who kept the Iron Vault books, sat behind a metal folding table buried under stacks of invoices and open ledgers.

She pushed her thick black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose as she looked up.

"You're late," Rachel said, tapping a red pen against a binder. "And you look like you're ready to put a bullet through someone's radiator."

I pulled over a grease-stained folding chair, sat down, and leaned my forearms on the table.

"Give me the final damage on the Salinas accounts."

Rachel flipped open a hardbound ledger, spinning it around so the columns faced me. Her mouth tightened into a hard, angry line.

"Chas ran through another forty grand last week," she said, her voice dropping. "Over the last six months, he has siphoned nearly two hundred thousand dollars out of your mother's trust. Most of it got laundered through fake parts invoices to pay for boutique jewelry and black-market pharmaceuticals for that Kristina girl."

I scanned the rows of red ink. My stomach didn't drop; it turned to solid stone.

"Cut it all," I said calmly. "Every secondary line of credit. Every commercial parts discount tied to my business tax ID. From this second on, the Salinas garage doesn't get a single drop of synthetic oil on my dime."

Rachel's fingers flew across her laptop keyboard, executing the authorization codes. She paused, looking up with genuine concern.

"Bettie is going to lose her mind when the parts distributors freeze their deliveries," Rachel warned. "That old witch thinks your family's money belongs to her by divine right."

"Let her scream," I replied, my fingers lightly drumming the steel table. "I need the fire hot enough for tonight's Church."

Rachel hit the enter key with a satisfying click. "Done. Their credit rating will flatline by noon."

I pulled out the satellite phone, toggled the secure frequency, and dialed the dedicated line for Declan Sullivan, my logistics director.

The line clicked on the second ring. Declan's gravelly voice came through loud and clear.

"Boss. The storm warnings just upgraded."

I stood up, walking toward the cracked window that looked out over the gray skyline.

"How long until the arctic front hits the northern corridor?"

"Five days, maybe four," Declan answered. "The ATF already set up tactical checkpoints along Highway 101 and the state line. Commercial haulers are pulling their rigs off the road. Diesel prices in the spot market jumped eight percent in three hours."

"Take every cent of liquid reserve in the Iron Vault primary account," I ordered, my voice dead level. "Buy out every gallon of winterized grade-two diesel and industrial antifreeze sitting in the private storage tanks between here and Reno. Clear the market."

There was a half-second pause on the other end, followed by a low, vicious chuckle.

"You're going to freeze the entire coast out of fuel, Boss."

"Only the ones who didn't pay attention," I said. "Lock it down, Declan."

"On it."

I hung up, sliding the phone back into my pocket.

In the far corner of the warehouse, beneath a heavy, dust-caked canvas tarp, sat the low, muscular silhouette of a customized rigid-frame motorcycle.

I walked over and yanked the tarp back.

The machine was raw, dark, and built for war. A twin-cam 120-cubic-inch motor mounted inside a matte-black chassis, completely stripped of chrome. It was the only machine my mother had left behind that the Salinas family hadn't managed to get their greasy hands on.

"You're finally pulling her out of the dark, kid?"

A raspy, familiar voice echoed from the side door.

Martha White, the old wrench working in this shop since my mother's day, walked in, wiping her grease-stained palms on a shop rag. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bandana, her weathered face lined with decades of working heavy machinery. She held out a battered thermos of black coffee.

"She's been sitting too long, Martha," I said, taking the thermos and taking a sip of the scalding, bitter brew.

"Heard Chas was barking around the yard this morning," Martha said, leaning against the fender of an old pickup. "You want me to round up a few of the old-timers to stand by the door tonight during Church?"

"No," I said, handing the thermos back. "You don't bring a sledgehammer to squash a cockroach. I'll handle Chas myself."

I left the shop twenty minutes later.

The clouds were sinking lower, turning the sky the color of bruised iron. I took the back alleys toward the clubhouse, my boots kicking through wet leaves.

As I approached the narrow alley behind the Salinas lot, a strong, heavy scent of unburned high-octane fuel and expensive leather caught my attention.

Parked near the dumpster was a massive, pitch-black Harley. No badges. No club cuts hanging off the sissy bar. Just high-end performance parts, dual front disc brakes, and a stripped-down aggression that belonged to serious violence.

A man was leaning against the brick wall in the deep shadows.

He was broad-shouldered, built like a wall of dense muscle, wearing a heavy black leather jacket with the collar turned up against the wind. A lit cigarette smoldered between his thick fingers.

As I walked past, the shadow shifted slightly.

A pair of cold, steel-gray eyes locked onto mine from beneath the brim of a dark watch cap. The air around him felt charged, like the static before a lightning strike.

I didn't break stride. I kept my chin up and walked straight past him, refusing to show a fraction of hesitation.

Just as my shoulder cleared his frame, a low, gravelly sound slipped from his throat—a dry, amused chuckle that raised every fine hair on the back of my neck.