Jilted Mechanic? The Underworld Boss's Queen!

Harley POV:

"Ah... Declan, right there... harder..."

Accompanied by the sickening gasps was the rhythmic, agonizing squeak of a heavy motorcycle's suspension.

I stood in the depths of Winston Customs, my father's legacy, feeling every drop of blood in my body freeze instantly.

In the darkness, the only light source illuminated my masterpiece-the custom Harley I'd spent an entire year bleeding over, "The Phoenix."

And right now, my boyfriend, Declan "Viper" Douglas, the Vice President of his club, was tangled up with Roxanne "Roxy" Schneider, the club's golden-haired slut, rolling around on my damn bike.

It was Friday. In my hand, a cardboard box still held a dozen of his favorite glazed donuts-our unspoken weekend tradition. Now, that tradition felt like the biggest fucking joke in the world.

Roxy's expensive custom leather jacket was tossed on the greasy floor like a dirty rag. She was draped over the gas tank, and Declan's club cut-the leather vest symbolizing his power-was crumpled beneath them. The coiled viper tattoo on his back writhed with every vulgar thrust, looking utterly repulsive.

The ultimate betrayal twisted into a freezing, bone-piercing rage that shot straight from my soles to the top of my skull.

I pulled out my phone, turned off the flash, and recorded thirty full seconds of high-definition video of these two dogs.

Then, I pocketed my phone and locked my eyes on the heavy steel toolbox nearby. Without a second of hesitation, I lifted my combat boot and kicked it with every ounce of strength I had!

"BANG!!!"

The crash was deafening. Thousands of metal screws, wrenches, and sockets exploded across the vast, empty garage like shrapnel.

The two bodies on the bike jolted apart like frightened stray dogs, frantically grabbing at their clothes.

There was zero guilt on Declan's face about being caught, only the blind fury of having his fun interrupted. "Harley? What the fuck are you doing here?!"

Roxy, however, just giggled. She held Declan's cut over her chest, her eyes dripping with contempt and provocation. "Oh, poor little thing. Did we interrupt you? But honestly, the suspension on your bike is a much better ride than you are."

I stared coldly at the two pieces of trash, my gaze finally landing on "The Phoenix," now stained with their sweat and fluids. This was the bike meant to win ultimate glory for our club at next week's show.

Wordlessly, I walked up to the motorcycle and pulled a folding knife from my pocket.

"Harley, don't you fucking dare!" Declan roared, putting up a tough front, thinking I was going to stab him.

I didn't even give him a second glance. I dropped to one knee and, with practiced, surgical precision, plunged the knife straight into the fuel line at the bottom of the gas tank!

"Hiss-"

The pungent, high-octane gasoline gushed out instantly, drowning the phoenix I had painstakingly airbrushed by hand, pooling into a filthy slick on the floor.

I stood up and hurled the box of warm donuts into the puddle of gas like throwing away garbage.

"Now, it's just like the two of you. A pile of fucking trash."

Ignoring Declan's thunderous curses and Roxy's terrified shrieks, I turned and strode out into the night. I, Harley Winston, don't give a shit about dirty men or dirty bikes!

The cold midnight wind couldn't cool the roaring fire in my chest. The garage was tainted, and my so-called home was just another layer of hell.

I kicked open the flimsy door of that rundown trailer, instantly assaulted by the stench of cheap beer and stale cigarettes.

My biological mother, Tammy, rushed over, plastering a fake, anxious look on her face. "There you are! I need to talk to you."

She told me she owed money to some low-level loan sharks, and the debt was due. The price to clear it? I had to go "spend a night" with those scumbags.

I looked at this woman who gave birth to me. The betrayal I had just witnessed merged with the pure absurdity of this moment, and I laughed out of pure rage.

"Slap!"

I swung my arm and delivered a vicious, echoing slap right across her face, sending her stumbling.

"You fucking want to sell me?!" I gritted out, every word dripping with venom.

Tammy clutched her cheek, showing zero shame. Instead, she started cursing like a banshee.

"So what if I sell you?! I gave birth to you, I raised you! Is spreading your legs to pay off my debt such a big deal? You're a little biker bitch anyway, stop acting like a fucking saint! We all know you're just damaged goods everybody rides!"

I casually grabbed the heaviest wrench from the tool belt on the wall, turned, and smashed it straight into the screen of the old TV.

"Crash!" The screen exploded, sending glass shards and sparks flying everywhere.

I turned back to Tammy, who was now paralyzed on the floor in terror. I looked at her like she was already a corpse. "Why don't you sell yourself? You still look like you've got some fucking charm left!"

Under Tammy's horrified gaze, I dropped the wrench, slammed the door, and walked out into the endless night.

Harley POV:

The night wind scraped against my cheeks like cold blades. I pulled out my phone with its shattered screen and opened an encrypted number you could only find on the dark web.

"I need the absolute toughest backer in this hellhole. The Pit. Half an hour." Hitting send, I mounted my backup bike and roared toward that lawless wasteland, a gathering spot for criminals, runaways, and club outcasts.

I pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and a wall of deafening heavy metal bass, cheap beer, and rancid sweat slammed into me. Dozens of hungry, wolf-like eyes instantly locked onto me. Ignoring the filthy whistles, I walked straight to the darkest back room that seemed to swallow all light and kicked the door wide open.

The air inside instantly dropped to freezing. A man built like a raging bear sat in the main chair, flanked by heavily muscled bikers. He was hidden in the shadows, the cherry of his cigarette glowing in the dark. "You the dark web broker, Jagger Vance?" I asked coldly, suppressing the flutter in my chest.

He didn't answer. Those ice-blue eyes scanned me like a predator assessing prey before he let out a low, mocking scoff. "Little girl, you want top-tier protection in this cannibalistic territory. What exactly are you bringing to the table?"

I sneered, reaching behind my back to pull out a custom, oil-stained heavy wrench. With all my might, I slammed it into the solid wood table in front of him!

"BANG!" The wood instantly caved in, sending splinters flying. "With this!" I tilted my chin up, my gaze even more arrogant than his.

"If it has an engine, I can bring it back from the dead! I want an 'Old Lady' title as a shield for one year, and in exchange, I will handle every single bike customization for your entire club! For free!"

The man stared at the dented table and the wrench, then at my fearless, defiant aura. A flash of intense admiration crossed his eyes. He suddenly erupted into roaring laughter. "Fucking arrogant! I love it!"

He stood up excitedly and slapped his massive hand hard on the ass of a two-meter-tall, scar-faced subordinate standing next to him. "Hear that? We found a fucking treasure!" The hulking subordinate actually blushed, squirming bashfully.

Seeing this, my mouth twitched, and everything suddenly made perfect sense. Underground rumors said Jagger Vance was a massive faggot who only cared about men's asses. The rumors were true! No wonder he had zero interest in my smoking hot body. He was the absolute perfect partner for this fake deal.

I raised an eyebrow, holding back a smirk. "Since we have a deal, care to tell me who you really are?" He just blew out a puff of smoke. "You just need to know I'm the guy who walks this street sideways."

Just then, a commotion erupted at the door. Two blackout-drunk street thugs stumbled in. One of them spotted me, let out a lewd whistle, and reached his filthy hand straight for my chest. "Well, look at this perfect little bitch..."

Before he could finish his sentence, the man moved. He was a blur of black leather! "CRACK!" The sickening sound of bone shattering echoed loud.

The man's huge hand crushed the thug's wrist like a vise, and in the same fluid motion, he kicked him to the floor. His heavy black combat boot stomped down on the thug's knee, grinding it backward!

"AGGHHH!!!" The pig-like slaughterhouse screams filled the room as the leg snapped at a grotesque angle. The man didn't even glance at the trash rolling in agony. He coldly waved his hand at his brothers behind him. "Give this piece of trash a bath."

The muscular subordinates instantly understood. Grinning maliciously, they unzipped their pants and started pissing all over the screaming thug. The stench of urine filled the air instantly. The other thug was so terrified he crawled away on his hands and knees.

The man acted like nothing had happened. He turned back, shrugged off his heavy leather cut-still warm from his body and radiating danger-and wrapped it domineeringly around my shoulders.

He leaned down, his scorching breath hitting my ear, his deep voice carrying unquestionable, violent possessiveness. "Deal. From now on, you're mine."

Harley POV:

"From now on, you're mine." The mob boss's violently possessive declaration still echoed in my ears. I pulled the heavy leather cut tighter around myself, the potent scent of tobacco and blood clinging to it, and strode out of The Pit.

The worn leather felt like it weighed a ton, but it gave me an unprecedented sense of absolute confidence. Now it was time to go back, cut ties with my messy past, and take back everything that was mine.

I hopped on my bike, sped all the way back to Tammy's rundown trailer, and kicked open the flimsy door.

Tammy was squatting on the floor, agonizing over sweeping up the broken glass. When she saw me walk in, she lunged at me like a rabid dog whose tail just got stepped on, her face contorted in a shrieking rage. "You money-losing bitch, how dare you show your face here?!

I told you to go sleep with those bosses to pay off the loan sharks, and you ran?! You worthless little slut, you can't even fetch a good price! All you do is cost me money, what's the fucking point of raising you?!"

I easily sidestepped her claw-like hands reaching for my hair. She stumbled and ate shit, crashing hard onto the floor.

I looked down at her coldly, like staring at a pile of rotting, stinking garbage.

Her eyes suddenly locked onto the black leather cut I was wearing. Even though she didn't recognize the specific Grim Reaper patch, after years of hanging around the club scene, her snobby dog eyes instantly recognized the murderous aura and absolute authority that a piece of leather like this represented.

Her shrieking stopped dead.

"Where... where did you get that cut?" Tammy stammered, her finger trembling as she pointed at the vest.

I didn't bother wasting breath on her. I reached into the inner pocket of the cut, pulled out a worn, grease-stained ledger, and slammed it onto the table in front of her. The heavy thud echoed in the room.

It was the ultimate trump card my father secretly left me before he died. It detailed exactly how Tammy had been secretly skimming kickbacks from the local Italian mafia's laundered drug money over the years.

"What is this?" her voice shook.

Instead of answering, I pulled a sharp tactical dagger from my boot and slammed it down with all my might! "BANG!" The blade sank deep into the tabletop, quivering violently, the tip less than an inch from the ledger.

Tammy screamed in sheer terror and scrambled backward into the corner. When her eyes finally focused on the cover of the book, every drop of color drained from her face. She looked like she'd seen a ghost. "No... impossible... how do you have that..."

I walked to the table and tapped my knuckles against the ledger's cover, my voice dropping like a death sentence.

"If I mail these dirty accounts to the mafia bosses, I guarantee you, tonight they will chop you into pieces, stuff you in a gasoline barrel filled with concrete, and sink you to the bottom of the East River to feed the fish."

I stared dead into her terrified eyes. "Now, you have two choices."

From my other pocket, I pulled out a legal agreement I had the Reapers' mob lawyer draft on the spot just twenty minutes ago at the bar-a document unconditionally transferring all ownership rights of Winston Customs.

A foul, sharp stench filled the air in the trailer. Tammy's body trembled uncontrollably like a leaf in a hurricane, a dark wet stain spreading across her pants. The greedy, money-grubbing idiot had finally pissed herself in sheer terror.

She crawled to my feet like a beaten dog, desperately hugging my legs, snot and tears streaming down her face as she wailed, "Harley, my sweet baby, you can't do this to me! I'm your own mother!"

Disgusted, I kicked her off me like she was a virus. "The second you tried to sell me to those loan-shark scumbags for some dirty money, you became dead to me."

I threw the agreement and a pen right at her face. "Sign, or die. Your choice."

Under the crushing fear of being butchered by the mob, Tammy's hand shook so violently she could barely hold the pen. She scrambled to grab it and scribbled a messy signature on the dotted line.

I picked up the agreement, verified the signature, and nodded in satisfaction. Then, I walked over to the rusty wood-burning stove and tossed the ledger into the flames without a second thought.

The paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash. I kept my promise not to kill her, but only to ensure she had absolutely zero leverage and would never dare come near me again, like the leech she was.

I turned back to the pathetic, stinking heap on the floor and delivered my final eviction notice. "Take your garbage and get the fuck out! If I ever see your face again, you're dead!"

I didn't even wait for a response. I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the trailer like a dead dog, throwing her and her few trashy bags straight into the mud pit outside.

"From today on, this place and the garage have absolutely nothing to do with you!"

I slammed the door shut with a loud crash and locked it. Leaning against the back of the door, I listened as her curses turned into desperate sobs, fading further and further away until there was only dead silence.

I took off the heavy, domineering leather cut and folded it carefully on the table. It had perfectly served its purpose.

From this day forward, I, Harley Winston, was no one's daughter, and no one's bitch. I was my own queen.

My garage, my empire, was waiting for me to reclaim it. Tomorrow is day one of the fiery rebirth of Winston Customs!