Wiping Out My Ex's MC: The Mechanic Heiress and Her Reaper King

Danielle Byers POV:

The morning air inside the Clubhouse smelled like warm piss, rotting meat, and unwashed bodies. With the main power cut, the desert heat had already turned the common room into a rancid oven.

I pushed open the corridor door, the ungreased brass hinges screaming against the dead silence.

Jarret was sprawled across the cracked vinyl sofa in the center of the room, his heavy arm draped possessively over Dariana's bare shoulder. Three unpatched Prospects stood awkwardly by the dead commercial coffee pot, sweating through their dirty flannel shirts in the dim morning light.

Dariana saw me first. She immediately clamped both hands over her lower belly, letting out a pathetic whimper as she burrowed deeper into Jarret's side.

"Jarret... the meat in the fridge spoiled, and the tap water is shut off. It was so suffocating in the back room without the AC... the baby is kicking from stress..."

Jarret shot up from the cushions, his face flushed purple with rage. "You're out of your goddamn mind, Danielle! You cut the power and water on a pregnant woman! That baby is the future of this whole charter!"

I walked past the empty pool table, keeping my hands resting casually in the pockets of my canvas vest.

"The future of the charter? A kid fathered by whichever cartel runner bought her drinks in Sonora?"

"You jealous, dried-up bitch!" Dariana shrieked, springing upright on the sofa and dropping her fragile act instantly. "This is Jarret's heir! You're just bitter because you couldn't give him a child in three years!"

I didn't raise my voice. I pulled a thick manila envelope from inside my vest and slapped it flat onto the dusty glass coffee table.

Eight-by-ten glossy photos spilled across the glass surface with a sharp crack.

In every shot, Dariana was wrapped around a different man in various dive bars across Baja. In several, she was draped over men wearing rival club cuts. None of them wore an Iron Cross patch, and the timestamps were dated less than four months ago.

The two Prospects craned their necks to look, their eyes bugging out before they quickly stared at the floorboards.

Jarret stared down at the photographs, his jaw clenching violently. He smashed his fist onto the table, sending the pictures fluttering across the rug. "This is bullshit! She was working undercover to keep cartel scouts off my back! You don't know shit!"

"Great," I said coldly. "Then let's take her down to the county clinic in Riverside right now. Ultrasound and blood test to check the dates. Right now, Jarret."

Dariana's mouth snapped shut. The fake tears froze on her cheeks. She grabbed Jarret's wrist in pure panic. "Jarret... she's trying to stress me out so I miscarry... don't let her touch me..."

"Enough of this crap!" Jarret roared, stepping over the table to loom over me, his foul, sour breath hitting my face. "Hand over the master keys to the Iron Forge vault. Right now. Dariana needs an Old Lady ceremony, and we need five grand in cash to buy custom leather and restock the bar."

"The Iron Forge vault belongs to the Byers estate," I replied. "Every dollar in that safe is legally mine."

"Everything you own belongs to this club because you wear my fucking colors!" he barked, reaching his heavy hand toward the collar of my vest.

I didn't wait.

I stepped inside his reach, caught his right wrist, and drove my thumb deep into the nerve cluster below his thumb joint while twisting downward.

Jarret let out a choked grunt, his knees buckling until he slammed down onto one knee on the dirty floorboards.

"Keep your hands off me, Viper," I whispered.

I released his wrist with a shove and unclipped the heavy brass ring of vault keys from my belt loop. The metal clinked loudly in the dead-quiet room.

Jarret lunged forward on the floor to snatch them.

With a smooth flick of my wrist, I hurled the heavy key ring straight out the open sash window.

A wet PLOP echoed from the ditch outside—right into three feet of festering black mud and rancid oil runoff.

"What the hell did you do?!" Jarret scrambled to the window, staring down into the sludge in absolute disbelief.

"You want my inheritance? Go dive in the grease trap for it."

Dariana stood shaking by the sofa. Jarret whirled on me, veins bulging in his forehead.

"You're done, Danielle! I'm calling a Church vote! We're stripping your title and seizing the shop under emergency club bylaws!"

I wiped a speck of dust off my canvas sleeve. "Call your Church. Tell your men their President has to beg his wife for grocery money because he blew his border haul on a stripper."

As I walked out the front door, a beige Lincoln Town Car swerved into the driveway.

Evelyn Aguirre—Jarret's mother and a self-appointed charter widow—had arrived.