Biker's Temptation:Claimed by the Ruthless Mafia King

Chapter One

POV: Faye

I have exactly four hundred and twelve dollars, a stolen identity, and a twelve minute head start.

I count the money again as the bus pulls out of the station, an old habit, the kind you develop when you grow up in a house where everything has a price tag, including you. Four hundred and twelve. It sounds like nothing, and it is nothing, and I keep counting it anyway because my hands need something to do besides shake.

The bus smells like diesel and old upholstery and the particular exhaustion of people going somewhere they didn't choose. I fit right in. I have a window seat near the back, my single bag wedged between my feet, and the name on the fake ID in my jacket pocket is Maya Cole. Twenty three years old. From Cincinnati. No family listed, because people without family are people nobody looks for.

My real name is Faye Harmon. I am twenty two. And in approximately six hours, when my absence is discovered at the Harmon estate, every resource my father possesses, which is considerable will be pointed in my direction like a loaded gun.

I watch the city dissolve behind the smeared window and I breathe.

The engagement was announced three weeks ago. Not to me, to the press, to the business partners, to the extended network of suits and silk dresses that comprises my father's social world. I learned about it the way I learn about most things that concern my own life: secondhand, too late, from my mother's assistant who mentioned it in passing and then went pale when she realized I hadn't been told.

My fiancé's name is Anton Reves. He is forty one years old, he controls the eastern seaboard distribution network for the Reves crime family, and the last woman linked to him publicly was found in the river two years ago with no explanation ever offered and no charges ever filed.

My father shook his hand and signed the contract and told me, when I came to him in his study with shaking hands and a prepared argument, that I was being hysterical. That Anton was a powerful man and a generous match. That the alliance between the Harmon financial network and the Reves family was worth more than my discomfort.

Your discomfort. As if the river woman was a discomfort. As if I was a discomfort.

I stopped arguing. I smiled. I went back to my room and I spent three days being very quiet and very agreeable, and on the fourth day I walked into my father's private office at two in the morning and I took four hundred and twenty dollars from the emergency petty cash box. I spent eight on coffee and a bus ticket and I took the burner phone I'd purchased a month ago for reasons I hadn't fully articulated to myself yet, and I became Maya Cole from Cincinnati with no family and no history and nowhere particular to be.

The bus travels for three hours before it stops at a small depot in a town I've never heard of. I got off, not because this was the plan, because the plan was to ride to the next major city but because I see a dark SUV in the parking lot that is identical to the ones my father's security team drives, and my body makes the decision before my mind catches up.

I walk.

I walk away from the depot, into streets that grow quieter and then quieter still, and then I am on the edge of a town I don't know as the last of the daylight goes and the air takes on the particular chill of early autumn evening in a place that doesn't worry much about streetlights.

I have been walking for twenty minutes when I hear the motorcycles.

Not one. Many. The sound builds from behind me, engine rumble, multiple bikes, moving fast and I step to the side of the road and pull my bag closer and keep my eyes forward the way my mother always said: don't look, don't engage, don't invite.

They pass me.

Four of them, low and fast and chromed bright in the last of the evening light. They pass, and I exhale, and I keep walking.

They slow down.

I hear it, the deceleration, the engines dropping pitch and I feel it in my spine before I process it consciously. The primitive animal part of my brain that four hundred years of civilization hasn't fully domesticated says: run.

I run.

I make it approximately thirty yards before the first one cuts in front of me on a side road I didn't see, and I spin left, and there are two more coming that way, and I understand in one cold complete moment that this was not random. These four men on their four bikes, in this town I chose by accident, found me inside twenty minutes of my arrival.

Either my father's people were faster than I thought.

Or this town has its own predators.

The first man climbs off his bike. He is large, tattooed from collar to knuckle, and he is smiling the way men smile when they've already decided the outcome.

"Lost, sweetheart?" he says.

I grip my bag. I say nothing. I look for the gap between him and the bike to his left, narrow but possible.

I am calculating the angle when the sound changes.

A new engine. One bike, arriving from the opposite direction at a speed that makes the other four pause. It skids to a stop between me and the man who spoke, and the rider is off the bike before it has fully stopped moving, tall, dark jacketed, moving with the absolute zero hesitation of someone who has never once in his life needed to calculate whether he was the most dangerous person in a space.

He doesn't look at me.

He looks at the four men, and something in the quality of that look makes the smiling man's smile disappear.

"Varga territory," the newcomer says. Two words. Quiet as a closing door.

The four men look at each other.

They leave.

No argument. No posturing. They simply get back on their bikes and they leave, and the sudden quiet is so complete it rings.

The man in the dark jacket turns.

For the first time, I see his face.

He is looking at me with eyes that are very dark and very still, and his expression is not the expression of a man who has just done something kind. It is the expression of a man taking inventory.

"You're in my territory," he says.

And something in the way he says my makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, because it is the same tone my father uses when he says my about things he owns.

"I was just leaving," I say.

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile.

"No," he says. "You weren't."