The Biker's Mistake: Return Of The Heiress

Jerrica POV:

I walked back to my private workstation, staring at the high-precision hydraulic calibration rigs I had secretly bought with my own family trust funds.

Amaris dropped her massive wrench onto the steel bench with a loud crack. "That bastard brought his side piece right into the compound."

"Let him," I said quietly, punching the security code into my heavy floor safe.

Before I could turn the dial, a harsh, metallic screech cut through the garage.

Valencia was strolling down my private bay alongside Daryl's mother, Catrina. The ruthless matriarch, who had always treated the club like her personal royal court and me as her ATM, was now beaming with doting pride at her newly discovered grandson.

Right there among them, four-year-old Jackson was dragging a custom-made titanium torque wrench across the oil-stained concrete floor, repeatedly banging its precision-calibrated head against the ground. That tool—a one-of-a-kind piece—was something my father had left to me.

"Stop right there!" I barked, marching toward them.

Valencia didn't pull the boy away. Instead, she pointed at the tool and whispered something to Jaxon, who giggled and smashed it harder against a steel strut.

I reached down and ripped the aerospace-grade titanium wrench out of the kid's sticky hands. Deep gouges scarred the precision-milled head.

Jaxon immediately threw himself onto the floor, wailing at the top of his lungs.

Half a dozen veteran riders and Prospects who were cleaning their bikes closed in, forming a hostile ring around me.

"Hey! He's just a kid, Jerrica!" shouted Jared, a fully patched rider who used to beg me for free tune-ups when he was broke, crossing his arms.

Catrina stepped forward, pulling her precious grandson behind her defensively, her eyes narrowing with vicious, matriarchal authority. "Watch your tone, Jerrica! This is my grandson, the rightful heir to this club! You’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum over a dead man's tool just to scare a four-year-old? Have you no shame? Think of the club's face!"

"Daryl said everything here belongs to the family," Valencia added, dabbing fake tears from her eyes. "She just assaulted your President's heir!"

Several older bikers murmured in agreement. "Yeah, don't be a bitch, Jerrica. Let the kid play."

I raised the damaged titanium tool for the crowd to see, my knuckles white. "This is aerospace-grade titanium, custom-calibrated from Germany. It was my father's last gift to me before he passed. "

I looked Jared straight in the eye. "It’s not worth all that much—five thousand dollars. It’s just like that time last winter when you badly injured your knee and I covered your three-thousand-dollar medical bill, Jared. Or like when Daryl gambled away the club’s funds at the card table, and I shelled out the cash to fix the transmissions on half the bikes in our circle."

The older riders shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes. A few Prospects actually took a step back, the truth stinging their sudden loyalty.

Catrina’s face tightened. "Nonsense! You're a penniless orphan living off my son's scraps! Everything in this shop is collective club property under the charter!"

I stared at the old woman for a second. Then I walked straight over to the heavy industrial breaker box on the wall.

I grabbed the master switch and threw it down with all my weight.

A loud mechanical clunk echoed across the compound. The lifts hissed to a halt, the pneumatic air lines died, and all the overhead shop lights snapped off. Sector A plunged into shadowy silence.

"What the hell!" Jared yelled in the dark. "The engine blocks are still on the hoists!"

I leaned against the cold steel breaker box. "Since it's my equipment, I've decided this club is no longer authorized to use it."

Catrina's face twisted with rage in the dim light. "You cut the power? Daryl is going to skin you alive for this!"

I took one slow, deliberate step toward her. "Tell him to come try."

Valencia flinched, pulling Jaxon back, and the three of them stumbled out of the dark bay. The Prospects scattered in a panic, realizing the lifeblood of their garage had just been severed.

Martha, our gray-haired veteran parts manager who watched over me like a mother, emerged from the back office with a heavy sigh. "They have the numbers, Jerrica. And the charter on their side. How are you going to fight the whole crew?"

I turned toward her, my amber eyes steady. "Who said I'm alone?"

I walked over to the desk, pulled open the bottom locked drawer, and took out the leather folder containing the notarized Blood Oath contract.

It was time to tear their pathetic empire to pieces.