Page 1 of Ruthless Obsession (Royal Bastards MC Chicago, IL Chapter)

MAVIS ENZO ‘RUTHLESS’ MARTICON

THE ENFORCER

Sitting. Watching. That’s been my life for weeks.

Jackson "Phantom" Marticon—my cousin and our Prez—told me to dig deep. Find out who stole the shipment. Make damn sure we had enough intel to bury the bastard.

The shipment wasn’t just any deal. It was a major weapons run worth half a mill.

We’re one-percenters. We straddle the line between law and lawless, and we don’t apologize for it.

The Chicago chapter of the Royal Bastards MC moves guns, stacks cash and owns more legit businesses than the city wants to admit.

We live good. Real good. And we’ve got no problem robbing crooked politicians and rich pricks to feed the people they screw over.

The name on my radar: Toby Fawson.

He’s slick. Always surrounded by women, bouncing between nightclubs and strip joints like he’s untouchable. So far, he appears to keep his hands clean.

I just need the proof to make it stick.

Movement at the front door pulls my attention. Jethro Wallace, our prospect—goes by Fuse. He runs a hand over his slicked-back black hair before slipping inside a North Side nightclub, Flare. No cut tonight. He’s in a navy button-down, jeans, and black boots. Casual. Invisible.

We’re keeping low profiles.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes.

Fuse: Back door.

Me: On my way, brother.

Time to move.

I slide out of the driver’s seat of my black Charger, rolling my sleeves to the elbows. White button-down. Fitted jeans. Clean black boots.

Being an enforcer means I watch, wait and then strike. Sometimes it takes hours. Sometimes weeks. This job’s dragging, but I won’t rest until I catch the thief.

Because no one steals from the Royal Bastards MC and walks away breathing.

I’m a businessman and enforcer.

My grandfather wielded my trust fund like a weapon.

The ultimatum was simple: graduate college and run his company for two years, or watch my inheritance remain locked away until my thirtieth birthday.

I refused to let him control my life for that long.

Though he still managed to ensure I'd have a voice in the company's future, the manipulation stung.

He believed he could drive a wedge between me and my brothers in the Royal Bastards MC.

He was wrong.

Just as he'd failed to separate his own son from an MC years before, his attempts with me fell flat. Guess you could say like father like son.

When I stand beside my brothers, I feel nothing but pride—a bond that no amount of money or corporate maneuvering could break.

Slipping through the back door, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior.

I move into the haze of smoke. The bass thrums through the floor, a steady pulse I feel in my chest that matches the energy of the crowd.

The air is thick with a mixture of smoke, expensive perfume, and the sharp scent of fresh lacquer from the club's polished surfaces.

Making my way to the nearest bar, I signal the bartender and order a whiskey on the rocks. While waiting for my drink, I spot Fuse across the room, casually surveying the room like he’s just another guy looking for trouble. The bartender returns placing my drink in front of me.

The club's design is all modern sophistication—sleek black leather seating and gleaming chrome tables occupy the first floor VIP section, separated from the main dance floor by velvet rope barriers.

The lighting shifts between deep purples and electric blues, casting everything in an otherworldly glow.

As I lift my glass, two women approach. One blonde. One with jet-black hair. Both curvy, both trouble.

“Hey, sexy. How are you doing?” the blonde purrs.

“I’m good,” I say, raising my glass. “You ladies having a good night?”

“We are now, handsome,” the dark-haired woman replies staring into my green eyes.

I smirk and flag the bartender again. Time to blend in while I work.

“What are you ladies drinking?” I ask them.

They rattle off their drinks of choice.

“Do you ladies come here a lot? I ask.

“Yeah,” the blonde replies, swaying slightly to the music. “The DJs’ plays awesome music and the bartenders pour with a heavy hand.”

I nod, scanning the bodies grinding on the silver dance floor.

“I’m working on a new nightclub venture with the owner, Toby. Downtown spot. Sleek, high-end. I think it’s going to be perfect. Don’t you?” I flashed a thousand-watt smile all the ladies love.

They beam.

“I bet it’ll have all the bells and whistles,” says the raven-haired one.

“My names Mavis. What’s yours?”

“Sharlenne,” the blonde says, her gray eyes sharp but curious.

“And I’m Belle,” she says, batting long lashes over baby-blue eyes.

“You ladies will definitely make the list opening night.”

“Oh, my gosh.” They gasp in unison like I just handed them a golden ticket.

“Well, I have to chase down Toby.”

I meant that last statement.

“Let me get your phone numbers.” I pass my phone to Sharlenne.

“Oh, Toby’s not here tonight,” Belle says.

My blond brows rise. “He told me to meet him here.”

“He was supposed to be here. Our friend Sharon is the manager. That’s why we’re here all the time,” she chuckles.

“Sharon said there was an emergency at Cruella’s on the South Side. So Toby had to handle that at the last minute.”

I grin as I take my phone from Belle. “I get it. Owning a nightclub can be both rewarding and have some headaches.”

Belle glances around, then back to me. “Yeah, if you mean finding a girl coked out in the men's bathroom.”

“Don’t tell anyone I told you that,” she says.

“Belle, you don’t have to worry about anything. I like that you can get information. This may turn into an occupation for you both.”

They grin from ear to ear.

I retrieve a card out of my wallet. “Here’s my number. Text me Friday at noon. I’ll give you ladies your first job. And don’t worry. It will be fun. You’re being paid to party.”

They both shrill with excitement.

“We won’t let you down, Mavis,” Sharlenne adds.

“Good to know. Talk to you ladies soon.”

Before I left the bar, I order another jack this time neat.

I shoot off a text to Matthew “Webbs” Clark. He’s been patched for five years now. Originally from Cali, solid mechanic, and always down for a little chaos.

I met him in a bar in L.A. one wild night. Got jumped by a crew of assholes, and Webbs didn’t hesitate to throw fists beside me. After that, I told him if he ever made it to Chicago, to look me up.

You can never have too many loyal men ready to ride.

Back in L.A., he was stuck doing shit mechanic jobs that barely paid enough to survive. Some guys just need a reset. A chance to prove they’re worth more.

Webbs was one of them. And he earned his patch the hard way.

Me: Webbs, Toby’s at the South Side club handling a problem. Take Flock with you. Wear button downs and jeans. Drive one of the cars at the clubhouse. Check out the scene. Once you have eyes on Toby text me.

Webbs: Got it, brother.

Victor “Flock” James is twenty-three, and another one of our prospects. He’s been hanging out at the clubhouse for a while now. Prez once asked him why he was always hanging around. Flock just said, “Because this feels like home.”

His parents got addicted to meth. He was an only child and had to raise himself.

He’s taken a few solo runs to prove his loyalty—and pulled them off clean.

He’s our youngest prospect. And he’s earning his place.

Won’t be long before he’s patched in. He won’t ever have to worry about being alone again.

I move through the club, taking my time, getting a feel for the layout. At the end of a long hallway, I notice two elevators. Both require badge access or a code to reach the lower level. That’s where the secrets are. I want to know what the hell’s down there.

From the upstairs VIP section, I settle into a shadowed corner and scan the floor below. Faces, body language, routines—I’m looking for the one who takes charge when Toby’s not around.

Twenty minutes pass. My phone vibrates in my pocket.

I retrieve it and peer at the screen.

Webbs: We got eyes on him.

Me: Good. Follow and keep me updated.

Webbs: Will do, brother.

My jaw tightens as I pocket the phone.

Time to bring that asshole to his knees.

∞

I’ve been parked halfway between the neighbors house and my targets, sitting in the dark on a quiet street in the Evanston suburb.

It’s a scorching summer night. The kind that sticks to your skin. Not a single dog walker or jogger in sight. Just the hum of crickets and the occasional flicker from the weak streetlamps casting dim light across the pavement.

Through my binoculars, I zero in on the gray house.

Inside, a Ken doll-dressed in casual attire with perfectly combed short brown hair looms over a woman.

“Who takes this guy serious?” I mutter.

They’re locked in a heated argument.

A slow smile spreads across my face as she stands her ground.

Then his hand lashes out, the back of it cracking against her cheek. She stumbles to the floor, scrambling to stand.

He grabs her by the hair, fist raised.

My hand curls around my Glock. Every part of me wants to storm in and put him down. But we need information. I can’t blow the op. Not yet.

Before I can even open the door, she drives her foot straight into his balls.

I let out a low chuckle.

She’s tough. Fierce. Doesn’t look like she needs saving.

Still, I move.

Glancing in the window again, I notice Toby is gone.

Shit, that motherfucker.

I’d sent Webbs and Flock home hours ago, thinking I’d tail him in the morning. Let him lead me to the missing weapons. I planned to have my brothers back me up then.

Now I’m solo.

I draw my Glock and rush around the side of the house, waiting to see if he exits through the front or back.

A latch clicks.

I turn and catch sight of him slipping through the neighbor’s backyard, disappearing onto the next block.

I take off for my car, dive into the driver’s seat, and fire up the V8. The engine growls to life as I tear down the street.

At the corner, I slam my foot on the brakes and check both directions. Nothing.