Where the wild Hearts Ride

Chapter 3

Judges do not care about your bleeding heart when they are holding a gavel that can crush a man's entire life in three seconds flat.

I smoothed the lapels of my dark designer blazer, standing tall right in the middle of a packed federal courtroom where the air tasted like stale coffee and corporate dread. Across the aisle, the prosecutor was sweating through his high collar, trying to convince the judge that bail should be denied for our club member.

"Your Honor, my client has lived in this district for over twenty years, and the state has provided zero physical evidence linking him to the charges," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet murmurs of the gallery with absolute authority.

"Counselor, the prosecution claims he is a flight risk," the judge sighed, peering over his glasses.

"The only thing flying right now is the prosecutor's imagination," I replied smoothly, earning a low snort from the gallery. "We are asking for immediate release on a signed bond."

"Motion granted," the judge grunted, slamming his wooden gavel down. "Set the bond."

Ten minutes later, I walked out of those heavy doors with the signed release papers tucked securely inside my leather folder. But the legal maneuvering was just the morning act. By sunset, I had traded my tailored suit and high heels for dark leather boots and a heavy riding jacket, speeding down the back streets of the industrial district where the streetlights barely worked.

I pulled my motorcycle to a sharp stop beside a rusted dumpster in a narrow, pitch-black alleyway. A scrawny dealer named Benny was leaning against the wet brick wall, smoking a cheap cigarette and jumping every time a rat scurried across the asphalt.

"You are late, Ava," Benny squeaked, his nervous eyes darting toward the shadows like a cornered animal.

"Watch your tone with me, Benny," I said, stepping right into his space until he was pressed flat against the bricks. "I pulled your brother out of a holding cell last month, which means you owe me quick answers. Who bought the black SUV that dropped the explosives?"

"I swear I do not know, Ava," Benny stammered, raising his hands as his cigarette dropped into a puddle. "Some guys came around offering fast cash for quiet jobs. Not local boys."

"If you are lying to me, Benny, I will stop answering your phone calls," I whispered, leaning in close enough to watch sweat bead on his forehead. "And I will let the club handle your next debt collection."

"I am telling you the truth," Benny blurted out, shaking his head wildly. "They were wearing expensive ties under their coats. Ask anyone down on Tenth Street. They are buying up every empty warehouse near the docks."

"Who gave the order?" I demanded, holding him by his jacket collar.

"I never got a name, I swear," Benny cried out. "Just high cash and clean cars."

"Get out of here before I change my mind," I said, letting go of his coat.

Benny turned on his heel and bolted down the dark corridor, his sneakers splashing loudly through the rain puddles before fading into the cold night air.

I stood there alone for a second, catching my breath in the dark alleyway, when a heavy rumble shook the asphalt beneath my boots.

Jesse killed his Harley engine, letting the massive motorcycle coast to a silent stop right across the alley exit. He threw his long leg over the frame, his leather vest creaking as he walked toward me through the shadows, his dark eyes fixed on mine.

"You got a lot of nerve shaking down street dealers in my backyard all by yourself, counselor," Jesse said, stopping just a foot away.

"Someone has to do the real work while you and your boys sit around arguing over empty beer bottles," I shot back, folding my arms tightly across my chest.

He didn't yell or puff out his chest this time. Instead, he looked me up and down slowly, taking in my muddy boots, the leather jacket, and the tired set of my jaw. For the first time since he walked out of those prison gates, the angry scowl completely vanished from his face, replaced by something close to genuine respect.

"I followed you all the way from the courthouse," Jesse admitted softly, a slow, grudging smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I watched you walk into that grand courtroom looking like a corporate shark in high heels, and now I see you cornering street rats in the dirt without blinking."

"You sound surprised, Thorne," I muttered, feeling a sudden, strange heat rising against my skin under his heavy gaze.

"Maybe I am," Jesse whispered, stepping closer until the toes of his boots bumped against mine. "You really do not know how to stay out of the fire, do you?"

"I built this fire," I replied, holding his gaze without taking a single step back. "And I know how to keep it from burning both of us to ash."

He leaned down, invading my personal space with that effortless dominance, but the heavy friction between us didn't feel like a threat anymore. It felt like a spark touching dry wood in the pitch dark.

"Maybe we should just let it burn a little bit," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low rumble as his eyes flicked down to my mouth for a brief second before snapping back to my eyes.

"Focus, Jesse," I said, clearing my throat to keep my voice steady. "Benny gave us a real lead."

"What kind of lead?" Jesse asked, his smirk fading back into a serious line.

"He said the men who paid for the job were wearing corporate ties, not street colors," I said, reaching deep into my jacket pocket. "And I found something near the alley trash."

I pulled out a small piece of brass I had kicked loose near the dumpster and held it out. Jesse frowned, taking the shell casing from my palm. We stepped under the weak orange glow of a flickering security light hanging over a loading dock. He turned the metal over in his scarred fingers, staring down at the base.

"It looks like a regular bullet casing," Jesse said, his brow furrowing as he turned it toward the light.

"Look closer at the bottom rim," I instructed, leaning in beside him so our arms brushed together.

Jesse dragged his thumb across the metal, stopping when his nail caught on a tiny, sharp mark stamped deep into the brass base.

"What is that mark?" Jesse asked, his voice suddenly sharp and alert.

"It is a custom stamp," I explained, pointing at the tiny design. "A pair of interlocking gears inside a diamond."

"That is not street ammo," Jesse breathed out, his jaw tightening as he stared at the mark. "This comes from a high-end security firm."

"It belongs to Apex Industrial," I said quietly, watching his face. "The corporate developer trying to buy out the district."

Jesse looked up from the brass casing, his dark eyes burning with a dangerous new realization. "The developer pulling the strings."