No One Owns Me

Being seventeen and wanted by the Italian Mafia isn’t exactly how I imagined spending my life. Then again, normal was never really my thing. Most girls my age stress over exam grades, first dates, fallouts with their parents, or tripping in the school corridor in mismatched shoes. I count the seconds since the car behind me first appeared in my rearview mirror. Twenty miles. No turn-offs. No exits. No coincidence. I flinch at every traffic camera flash. Scan every stranger’s face twice. Check the name on my fake ID three times before I even step into a new town. But the fear that never lets go? The one that keeps me awake even when I finally sleep? It’s Lorenzo De Vito. My stepfather. The man who taught me money could buy almost anything: people’s silence, their loyalty, their obedience. And if it couldn’t buy it? He’d make sure fear took its place. He made one fatal mistake, though. He thought he could buy me, too. He couldn’t. So I took what was his. One hundred thousand dollars in unmarked bills, stuffed into the lining of my bag before the sun came up. I still see his face the moment he realised it was gone. Cold fury, sharp and bright, like a struck match. It’s the only memory that ever makes me smile these days. Every single penny was worth it. What I didn’t count on was the price tag that came with it. Stealing from the head of one of America’s deadliest criminal syndicates leaves you with exactly one option: run. For the last year, that’s all I’ve done. I live out of a tattered backpack. I’ve forgotten more names than I’ve kept. I’ve curled up in motel rooms where the curtains hung loose and the doors rattled if you breathed too hard, in the backseat of my old sedan, in empty storefronts where I had no idea who owned the walls. I’ve learned every trick to stay invisible: which petrol stations skip CCTV, which diners don’t ask for ID, which backroads have barely seen a car, and exactly how long I can stay in one place before eyes start to linger. Three days. Four, if I’m lucky. Never longer. Kingsman is supposed to be different. That’s what I tell myself as I walk, pulling my hood low over my face. The Arizona heat lingers like a heavy blanket, even as the sun bleeds pink across the horizon. It’s a small town—twenty-nine thousand people, give or take. Small enough to vanish into the crowd. Big enough that no one will look too closely. I hope. I keep my head down, but my eyes never stop moving. Left. Right. Over my shoulder. A parked pickup, a woman hauling grocery bags, an old man watching the street from a bench, two teens laughing by the fuel pumps. No one glances my way. Good. Invisibility is the only armour I have left. My backpack digs into my shoulder. Inside is everything I can’t replace: spare clothes, most of the cash, a stack of burner phones, my forged documents, and the small foil blister pack of pills. Three weeks ago, they cut a tumour out of my brain. The doctors told me to rest, to avoid stress, to never miss a dose. They didn’t understand I was running for my life. Stress isn’t a choice. It’s my constant shadow. The surgery left jagged gaps in my head—throbbing headaches that feel like someone’s driving a nail straight through my skull, and memories that dissolve like smoke the second I try to grasp them. A voice, a scent, a half-remembered room… then nothing at all. It terrifies me. When your whole world is built on secrets, forgetting what you know is deadly. You start wondering what you’ve lost, what lies people told you, what someone erased on purpose. I push the thought away. Not now. My car’s waiting at a garage on the edge of town. It’s nothing special—rust-flecked, faded blue, the kind of car no one ever notices long enough to describe. Perfect. The catch? The garage belongs to the Kings Motorcycle Club. I halt as the sign comes into view: KINGS MOTORCYCLE CLUB, bold white letters over black steel. Rows of bikes line the forecourt—glinting chrome, matte black, all roaring engine and sharp edges. Men in leather cuts move around the workshop, and every one of them looks like trouble. I know the name. I just can’t place it. Another casualty of the surgery, I guess. I take a slow breath, square my shoulders, and walk through the doors. The air hits me thick and sharp: motor oil, gasoline, hot metal, worn leather. Wrenches clatter against spanners; somewhere, an engine revs loud enough to rattle the rafters. Every instinct screams turn back. I’ve spent a year learning to ignore my instincts. A man leans against the counter—broad, built like a brick wall, dark hair tied back, eyes sharp as broken glass. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a girl alone; he looks at me like I’m a threat he needs to map out. I do the same to him. I’ve spent too long around dangerous men to be impressed by size. “Can I help you?” “I’m here for my car.” “Your car?” One dark eyebrow lifts. “Casey Grant.” His fingers still on the counter for a heartbeat. Almost unnoticeable. Almost. “Something wrong?” I ask. “Nothing.” “People only say ‘nothing’ when there’s definitely something.” A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Car’s being worked on. Friend brought it in.” “Leo.” The smirk vanishes. My stomach drops. “You knew Leo?” “Everyone here knew Leo.” He pauses, voice softening just a little. “Knew.” The word hangs heavy between us. I already know what’s coming. I don’t want to hear it. “He died three days back.” My chest tightens so bad I can barely breathe. “I know.” Leo was the only person who ever helped me without asking for anything back. He didn’t care about the money, or Lorenzo’s name, or what I’d done. He just saw a kid who needed a break. And now he’s gone. Because of me. I can’t shake the thought. The man nods gently, like he sees the grief I’m trying to hide. “Mel’s in the office—she’ll sort you out.” “Thanks.” “Hey—sunshine?” I pause, turn back. He’s grinning. “Welcome to Kingsman.” “Don’t call me sunshine,” I say flatly. “Noted.” The office is cramped, stacked high with invoices and spare parts catalogues. A woman in her forties sits behind the desk, glasses perched on her nose, typing fast. “Casey Grant,” I say before she can ask. She taps at her keyboard, then looks up, her expression softening. “You’re Leo’s friend.” “Was.” “I’m sorry.” “I don’t need sympathy. Is my car done?” “Almost. Waiting on a part—should be a few hours.” “Few hours?” My voice rises. That’s an eternity. Too long. “Drake’ll want a word before you go,” she adds. “No.” She chuckles. “You haven’t even met him yet.” Before I can reply, boots thud against concrete. Three men fill the doorway, and the tallest steps forward—broad-shouldered, grey streaks in his dark hair, a scar slicing through his left eyebrow. He radiates the kind of authority that makes the whole room shrink. “Casey Grant?” I don’t answer. My hand slips into my jacket, closing around the hilt of the knife I keep strapped there. His gaze drops straight to my hand. “You’re armed.” “I am.” “Easy. I’m Drake—President of the Kings. Leo told us you were running from something bad.” “Leo talked too much.” My jaw tightens. “He was trying to keep you safe.” “Leo’s dead.” The words snap out sharper than I mean them. The room goes quiet. Drake’s expression gentles. “We know. But you’re not leaving yet.” I smile, sharp and cold. “Watch me.” I turn for the door—then freeze. A voice echoes from the doorway, soft and shaky, like it can’t quite believe what it’s saying. “Casey?” I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere, even through the fog in my head. Slowly, I turn. A man stands there, older than I remember, lines carved deep around his eyes, grey threading through his hair. But his eyes… they’re exactly like mine. The eyes I’ve stared at in mirrors every day for eleven years. My heart stops beating. “Casey?” He takes a step forward, and I yank my knife free, holding it steady between us. “Don’t come any closer.” He stops instantly, tears welling in his eyes. “How do you know my name?” I whisper. His throat bobs as he swallows. “Because I’m your father.” The room dissolves. No garage, no Drake, no Mel, no Kings. Just those four words, ringing in my ears. “No.” “Yes.” “No.” “I’ve been looking for you for eleven years. Every single day.” A bitter laugh bursts out of me. “You’re too late.” Pain flashes across his face, raw and unhidden. “I know. I know I am.” My grip on the knife loosens, just a little. I don’t know if I believe him. I don’t know if I can bear to. Then an engine roars outside. Then another. Then three more. Drake spins toward the window, his face hardening instantly. “Everyone down—now!” I dive behind the desk before he finishes speaking. Glass explodes inward, spraying across the room, and gunfire tears through the walls. Mel screams as Drake shoves her flat behind the filing cabinet. A hand closes around my arm—Duncan. He tries to haul me further back, and I yank away. “I can look after myself!” He meets my gaze, and for a second the noise fades. “I know. That’s why I’m so proud of you.” A bullet zips past my ear, embedding itself in the desk. The moment shatters. Drake yanks a shotgun from under the counter. “Who the hell is this?” I crawl to the edge of the window and peek out. Three black SUVs, unmarked, windows tinted black. My blood turns to ice. I know those cars. “Lorenzo,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath. “He found me.” I look up at Drake. “You wanted to know what trouble I’m in? That’s it.” He follows my gaze, then looks back at me. “How bad?” I grip my knife tighter, my knuckles white. “Bad enough that if you’re smart… you’ll let me walk out that back door and forget I was ever here.” Drake glances at the men gathering behind him—guns drawn, faces set. Then he looks back at me, and a slow, fierce smile spreads across his face. “Sorry, sunshine.” I glare. “I told you not to call me that.” He racks the slide on his shotgun. “You’re Leo’s friend. That makes you one of us. And we don’t hand our people over to monsters.” For a year, I’ve run from connection. I’ve learned that caring makes you weak, that belonging is just another target painted on your back. But right now, those words wrap around me like something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Safety. I glance at Duncan, still watching me like I’m a ghost he never thought he’d see. At Drake, standing between me and the door. At the Kings, ready to fight for a stranger they’ve never met. Another burst of gunfire rattles the walls. I could still run. I could slip out the back while they’re distracted, vanish into the hills, keep moving. But I’m done running. I straighten up, my hand still on my knife, and stand shoulder to shoulder with them. If Lorenzo wants me back—if he thinks he can drag me into the dark again—he’s going to have to go through all of us first.