Claimed By The Biker Mafia: The Ruthless Rider Says I Am His

The First Visit

Lena

The morning air is crisp, but it feels heavy, like it’s saturated with the ghost of last night’s exhaust. I’ve been at the garage since 6:00 AM, my hands moving on autopilot while my brain runs in circles. Raven’s warning is a persistent itch in my skull. Max Rossi. The King. The Enforcer.

I’m currently elbow-deep in a rusted-out transmission, the pungent scent of gear oil filling my lungs, when the sound hits me.

It’s not a roar this time. It’s a low, rhythmic thrum—civilized, yet predatory. My heart doesn't just beat; it kicks. I don't turn around. I keep my focus on the snap ring I’m struggling with, even as the shadow stretches across my workbench, long and imposing.

“You’re late opening,” a gravelly voice says.

I finally look up. Max is leaning against the doorframe, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who belongs in a boardroom or a back-alley war. He’s traded the heavy hoodie for a fitted black t-shirt that leaves very little to the imagination regarding the muscles underneath. The leather vest is still there, though. The skull-and-sprocket patch seems to watch me.

“I open when the sun is up and the coffee is hot,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag and reaching for my mug. “And you’re early for someone who already got his bike fixed. Did the intake blow again?”

“The intake is perfect. Better than perfect.” He walks further into the shop, his presence shrinking the space until it feels like we’re in a pressurized cabin. He doesn’t look at the bikes; he looks at me. “I’m here about a different machine. A customized 1950s Panhead I’m restoring. It needs a specific touch.”

“I’m sure you have a dozen guys in the city who would crawl over broken glass to touch your Panhead, Rossi,” I retort, leaning back against the bench and crossing my arms. I try to look bored. I’m actually terrified. “Why drive forty miles for a ‘shithole’ like this?”

“Because the guys in the city do what they’re told,” he says, stopping just a few feet away. The scent of him—cedar, tobacco, and expensive leather—overwhelms the oil. “They don’t argue. They don't challenge the specs. And they certainly don’t threaten to melt me down for paperclips.”

I can’t help it. A tiny, dry laugh escapes me. “Well, maybe you need to be challenged more often. It’s good for the ego.”

“My ego is doing just fine, Spitfire.” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the edge of a wrench on my table. He doesn't pick it up; he just feels the metal. “But my collection is missing something. A lead mechanic who isn't afraid of a little dirt... or a lot of risk.”

“I have a job,” I say, gesturing to the cramped, oil-stained walls. “And a life.”

“You have a struggle,” he corrects, his eyes turning dark and sharp as flint. “I saw the pharmacy bags in your kitchen window last night, Lena. I saw the way the roof is bowing over the back office. You’re keeping a corpse of a business alive while you starve yourself.”

My temper flares, hot and sudden. “Stay away from my house, Rossi. And stay out of my business. My mother’s health isn't a bargaining chip for your hobby projects.”

“It’s not a hobby,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low vibration. He steps into my personal space, forcing me to look up. He’s so close I can see the silver flecks in his dark irises. “It’s a proposal. I have a facility. State-of-the-art. Tools you’ve only seen in magazines. You’d have a salary that would pay for that city specialist ten times over. And you’d be under my protection.”

“Protection?” I scoff, though my pulse is racing. “From who? You?”

“From the world that wants to take that fire out of your eyes,” he whispers. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my jaw, not quite touching but radiating heat. “I don't just want a mechanic, Lena. I want the girl who looked at a Mafia King and told him to get out. That kind of spirit is rare. I want to see what happens when it’s given room to breathe.”

I look at him—really look at him. He’s powerful, he’s rich, and he’s offering me everything I’ve been praying for in the dark hours of the night. But I see the shadow behind the offer. I see the invisible leash.

“The answer is no,” I say, my voice steady even as my knees feel like water. “I don’t work for men like you. I don’t owe you anything, and I don’t need a savior. Especially one who rides with a skull on his back.”

Max doesn't look angry. If anything, he looks amused. He leans down, his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re refusing a life of luxury to stay here and scrape grease for pennies? That’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.”

“In this county, they’re the same thing,” I snap.

“We’ll see,” he muses. He backs away slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, heavy coin—silver, with the Iron Crown symbol stamped into the center. He flips it onto the workbench. It spins, a blur of silver, before settling with a sharp clack.

“Keep it,” he says. “Think of it as a rain check. When you realize that iron pipe won't stop what’s coming, call the number on the back.”

“I told you, Rossi. I’m not interested.”

“Everyone has a price, Lena,” he says, turning toward the door. He stops and looks over his shoulder, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. “You just haven't figured out yours yet. But don't worry. I’m very patient when it comes to things I’ve already decided are mine.”

He walks out, the sunlight catching the silver in his hair before he disappears. A moment later, his engine roars to life—that deep, rhythmic pulse that feels like a heartbeat.

I pick up the coin. It’s heavy. It’s cold. And for some reason, it feels like a heavy weight in my hand.

I walk to the door, watching him disappear down the long, dusty road. The world feels different now. The silence of the garage, which used to be a comfort, now feels like a countdown.

I look down at the silver coin in my palm, at the dagger entwined with the sprocket, and a terrifying question starts to drown out the sound of his receding engine.

If he’s the one who’s supposed to be protecting me, then who exactly is he protecting me from—and why does it feel like the price for that protection is a soul I’m not ready to sell?