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I sat in my chair, spinning a pen around my fingers with an expert move, eyes fixed across the lecture hall.

Professor Duncan’s lips were moving as were his hands, but I couldn’t hear a single word the man was saying.

I’d zoned out, my mind drifting far off, away from the high walls of this hall that kept me prisoner.

It was suffocating in here, and I had no interest whatsoever in what was being taught: the ethics of law, the principles guiding the profession.

Bullshit.

Everyone here knew the truth. We knew that in real life, those principles and so-called ethics wouldn’t matter. In fact, they’d be the obstacles that we future lawyers would have to find a way to bypass in the court of law.

Professor Duncan stood there, bold enough to dish out that garbage about being a person of integrity, being the one to stand up for justice.

He taught about righteousness, dignity, and doing right by others and by the law.

He condemned corruption, describing it as a cancer that had infested the legal system and should be purged with “purity and integrity.”

How ironic!

Yep. This was the part where I stopped listening.

I couldn’t stomach any more of his hypocrisy, condemning the same thing he was guilty of himself. It was ironic how he debunked corruption with so much confidence when he was an embodiment of it. The so-called cancer? It flowed through his veins like blood.

Everyone seated here knew exactly the kind of man Professor Duncan was. He was the type to be so easily bought, and his love for money made him the most porous professor on campus.

Yet, he had the effrontery to stand before us and preach righteousness and legal ethics like he knew a shit about what that meant.

The hypocrisy!

Anyway, I had the perfect distraction: the anticipation for tonight that kept my mind occupied. I could almost hear it—the sound of engines roaring, tires burning against asphalt. I could feel the rush of cold night air against my skin and the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

The thrill was so overwhelming that it caused my lips to twist into a sly grin.

Professor Duncan’s voice was still droning on, his hands slicing through the air, when a bell rang out, signaling the start of a new hour and the end of class.

This was my favorite sound of the day: that bell from the clock tower outside, that sound of freedom. I snapped out of my thoughts and heaved a sigh, deftly gathering my books into my backpack. The students around me rose to their feet like they, too, had been waiting for this moment all day long.

The professor’s final words about our assignments and semester grades seemed to fall on deaf ears as students shuffled out, desperate to get the hell out of here.

My fingers rubbed my eyes, and I sprang to my feet, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

Weaving through the throng of bodies and noisy hallways, I didn’t stop to chat or even look back.

Nah, I had someplace better to be—something better to do with my life than sit through boring lectures.

Law was never my thing. It was forced on me, a path chosen before my birth. Ever since I was just a nipper, Da had always told me that law was my destiny and that I was going to do “great things” in court.

And by “great things in court,” my father didn’t mean fighting for justice or standing up for the innocent.

No. Not at all. He was too ambitious to care about anything that wouldn’t yield him profit or benefit him in any way.

What Da really meant was that I would defend him in court, protect his crimes, cover up his messes, and twist the law into a shield thick enough to keep him out of prison. He and his associates, of course.

That was the future he saw for me: his personal safeguard in a black robe. Father of the year!

Some destiny, indeed.

I, on the other hand, hadn’t always been the type to play by the books. Obedience wasn’t exactly my strong suit. Well, how could it when I had rebellion coursing through my blood? At least that’s what people said about me.

Da had his plans for my future, and although at the moment, I wasn’t in full control of my life yet, I still had my own plans set in motion.

Speaking of motion, my boots clicked against the concrete in the underground parking lot, humming with distant echoes—engines coughing to life and doors slamming.

I moved under the dim, flickering lights until I spotted her, my baby girl, my ride: a matte black Ducati, sleek and dangerous.

She crouched like a friggin’ predator, waiting for me to come mount her.

This bike was my freedom, my pride. I named her Alice, after my favorite childhood doll, the one my mother had gotten me when I was four.

Alice represented my rebellion against every rule I was expected to follow, everything intended to keep me in check. I was wild, a bird who couldn’t remain locked in a cage, and Alice…she was an accomplice to every rule I broke and every prison I escaped from.

I pressed a button on my key holder, and she chimed to life, her alarm system ringing out, emitting a crisp, aggressive beep that cut through the air. The sound never got old; it was music to my ears.

My family was one of the most powerful in the city of Chicago.

And as Ronan O’Hara’s daughter, I was expected to live a certain life, dress a certain way, and wait for the moment when my Prince Charming would come and sweep me off my feet.

My father was a leader of the Irish Mafia, and with that came a lot of responsibilities, a lot of expectations of me as a daughter.

I was only 22 and already itching for my freedom, ready to carve out something meaningful for myself.

Most girls my age would give anything just to live a day in my shoes, to enjoy the “privileges” of being an O’Hara.

And honestly, I was down to trade places with any one of those girls, any time, any day.

My father always said that I was a wild horse: untamed and dangerous. He wasn’t lying.

I wasn’t one of those classy girls who wore fancy dresses all the time and always looked the part, those girls who were too “neat” to get their hands dirty.

No. I loved the dirt; I loved racing. I loved having grease under my nails and enjoyed the sweet pain of bruises, mild dislocations from late-night wipeouts.

Yep. I wasn’t the conventional girl. This one was cut out differently.

I pulled my helmet over my head, the visor snapping down with a click that sounded like a promise.

Hmm. Loved it.

With one swift move, I kicked the stand back, then swung onto the Ducati and thumbed the ignition. The engine roared to life beneath me, vibrating through my bones like a secret only I knew.

I revved the engine and spun the bike around, the tires squealing against the concrete. Without a second thought, I shot out of the parking lot, weaving through the late-afternoon traffic like smoke through cracks.

The outskirts of Chicago were my destination, the only place where I felt more alive, more like myself. Wild. Free. Unstoppable.

***

Later that night, the city faded away behind me, whooshed past in a flash, the engine purring beneath me: smooth and lethal. I weaved through traffic, the speedometer needle climbing up to three digits.

I loved this: the rush, the thrill, the feeling of being untouchable. Free.

After a long ride, I pulled up at the edge of a rundown industrial lot nestled behind a closed mechanic workshop. The place was adorned with rusted metal sheets and cracked pavement. There were no lights, no signs, just the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber wafting through the air.

Yep. This was it—the one place I could truly be myself.

The underground scene didn’t waste time on flash. It wasn’t about chrome or showboating. It was raw. Fast. Unforgiving.

And tonight, it was alive.

I killed the engine, my boots balanced astride the bike, the gravel crunching beneath my stomp. In a moment of stillness, I pulled my helmet off, whipping my chestnut-red hair to the sides. A soft sigh escaped my lips, and I unmounted the bike, my eyes drinking in the familiar sight.

Near a corner, smoke curled from a steel drum fire, casting flickers of orange across the concrete.

The air was abuzz with noise and dangerous activities—guttural revving of engines that sounded like rolls of thunder.

Wild riders lingered here and there, clustered around their bikes, leaning against handlebars, chattering, some exchanging trash talk so intense you’d think they’d soon start throwing punches.

But no. That’s just how those fuckers communicated, rough and violent, like animals.

Just to be clear, not all of us riders were savages, only the ones who chose to be crazy.

And I did warn Silas and his people to take it easy with the drugs.

That shit could end them, cut their lives short much quicker than a bike accident would.

Nevertheless, they were my crew, Irish crew, all of us. They were my family, and there was nowhere else I’d rather be tonight.

However, we weren’t alone. There were others here with us, visitors lurking in the shadows. I spotted them across the fire drum, and their leaner frames, colder eyes, and rugged features gave them away.

Russian Bratva.

I was certain. Those hard stares were unmistakable. They didn’t have to speak. I knew at first glance that it was them.

When you’ve lived this life of thrill, violence, and adventure as long as I have, you pick up a thing or two along the way, one of them being the ability to tell a gang apart from the others with a single look.

Those Russian muscles were dangerous enough on paper and even more lethal in person. I clocked them with a glance, long enough to register the threat but short enough not to invite one.

If the Russians were there tonight, then trouble wouldn’t be too far behind. But I couldn’t care less. They weren’t my concern.

Just as I swung a leg off the bike, a blur of dark hair and stormy gray eyes barreled toward me.

“Ayla!” she called my name, her sweet, feminine perfume invading my nostrils as I unmounted the bike. “You’re late.” Her lips curled into a faint grin, her stormy gray eyes locked onto mine.

“Well, good evening to you, Ester,” I teased, snatching the cold, inviting drink from her hand. “And I’m not late. You’re early.” I took a sip.

“Gimme that!” She yanked the bottle out of my grasp, suppressing a smile. “You were supposed to be here six minutes ago.” She folded her arms across her chest.

I laughed, combing my gloved hands through my hair. “Being harsh doesn’t suit you, you know.”

The smile she’d been holding back this entire time finally broke free, spreading across her gorgeous face like a wildfire—unstoppable and radiant. “At least I can try.” She chuckled.

“Now, can I have my drink back?” I cocked my head to the side.

She raised her brows. “It was never yours to begin with. But by all means, knock yourself out.” She shoved the cold bottle back into my hand.

“You’re such a sweet soul,” I teased amidst chuckles.

She rolled her eyes, the purple streaks in her black hair catching the light from the fire drum. She looked like electricity wrapped in skin, tattoos peeking out beneath her leather sleeves, every inch of her radiating attitude and reckless charm.

That was my best friend, Ester Sharpe: bold, artistic, and stubborn as hell.

Gabriel, who’d been watching the scene, chuckled from behind her. He was leaning against his bike, his arms crossed over his chest, with his signature slow, burning intensity.

My eyes squinted as I spotted someone beside him.

An unfamiliar face, handsome, with charming blue eyes.

He was different from the rest of us, clean-cut, with a sharp jawline and perfectly styled hair.

The man was resplendent in an impeccably tailored suit, polished in a way that didn’t belong here. Too clean. Too suspicious.

In a split second, we locked eyes, and his crinkled at the corners, as did his lips. He headed forward, and although I had looked away, his gaze still lingered. I could feel it.

Creepy.

Ester turned around and caught him walking toward us. “Oh, Lucas, meet my friend, Ayla.” She turned to face me. “Ayla, this is Lucas.”

He halted in front of me, a corny yet polite grin tugging at his lips. “Ayla,” he said softly without breaking eye contact. “Nice to meet you.”

I glanced down at his extended hand, hesitating for a moment before taking it. “Likewise.”

He scanned me, his fine blue eyes discreetly sweeping over my body as if he were trying to figure me out. “You don’t look like a biker type,” he said, his voice deep and husky with a tone that was smooth and easy.

“Yeah, she gets that a lot, but don’t let that fool you.” Gabriel stepped forward, joining in on the conversation.

He combed his fingers through his slightly tousled brown hair and heaved a sigh while Lucas withdrew by a fraction, eyes still hooked to me.

I looked away without a word and set my bottle on the hood of a rusted-out car.

“Can you feel that—the tension in the air?” Gabriel asked me, his voice even.

Yeah. I could, actually. I didn’t before, but now that he’d brought it to my notice, I could almost taste it in the air. “What’s going on?”

“Not sure,” Ester began, “but word is, there’s been a bet on tonight’s race.”

“Let me guess: The Russians are involved,” I said, my gaze shifting between Ester and Gabriel.

No reply. They didn’t have to.

I glanced at the Russians lurking in the shadows, still and sentinel—silent as stone.

“So…who’s racing for your crew? Hmm?” Lucas asked, throwing the question at Ester.

She flashed him a faint grin but said nothing, then her eyes darted toward me momentarily. Ester didn’t need to say a word, but the gentle shrug of her shoulders and the glint in her eyes gave her away.

Gabriel smirked.

I looked away.

Instead of saying anything, I checked my gloves, tightening the straps as my fingers traced the frame of my bike.

It’s me and you again tonight, Alice, I thought to myself.

Then the hour came, the moment of truth, and the call rang out: “Riders to the line!”

The crowd began to shift, voices rising, boots crunching gravel.

I moved without hesitation, swinging a leg over my Ducati like it was second nature. Helmet on. Visor down. Engine growling beneath me.

A voice somewhere in the crowd said, “No way she’s the one riding.”

And then I heard Lucas’s voice, “I’ll be damned.” His tone was laced with disbelief and a hint of amusement.

He was impressed. Good.

My lips curled into a smile, and I revved the engine, guttural and deep.

Lucas and a few others seemed surprised that I was the rider for my crew. Even the Russians looked up when I kick-started my engine, and it roared to life.

I was ready to race whoever the Russian rider would be. No fear. No anxiety. Just the good old readiness of a girl determined to win a race.