Page 2 of Filthy Mogul

After the day I’d had, I fucking earned it.

I wasn’t a good man.

I had more enemies than friends.

I was ruthless.

I was feared.

I lived in a dark and seedy world where I was never afraid to get my hands dirty. I didn’t just step into my father’s shadow. I was a Jameson, and with that last name came money, respect, and power. I got whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it.

My father was Creed Jameson, and before him was my grandfather, the prez of Devil’s Rejects, a 1% motorcycle club. They were outlaws up until my old man put him to ground, killing his own flesh and blood and setting the tone for the man I’d become.

I only stepped in and made my presence known if someone dared to cross me or if shit hit the fan in a catastrophic way.

Other than that, I did whatever the fuck I wanted. It was a free-for-all. I always made sure to cover my tracks. The cops’ pockets were greased with dirty money to turn a blind eye to all my illegal activities. Everywhere I went, people looked in the opposite direction and moved the hell out of my way.

The only enemy I had was the law.

My father was a hero of war. A soldier for our country who brought the flag home. It was at his clubhouse, in his office, along with all the other medals he received through his four-year term. My father may have turned his life around and become a law-abiding citizen, but I couldn’t say the same for me.

Although I was raised in a normal, loving home, I decided at a very young age that I didn’t want that cookie-cutter life. Outlaw was in my blood, and I had no fucking problem stepping into my old man’s shoes, so to speak.

Sometimes I killed.

Sometimes I tortured.

Sometimes innocent lives paid the price.

My price.

Just to prove my point.

No one fucked me over and lived to tell the tale. I had no respect or loyalty to anyone but myself and my family. Not once did I ever think about the pain I could be inflicting. About the consequences of my actions and how they’d affect anyone.

Everyone.

I was a diehard biker.

Honorable killer.

After turning eighteen, I spent the past twenty-four years ruling with an iron fist. My future was sealed the first time I tasted blood. I’d seen and done more shit than any mother would ever be proud of, but that never mattered to me. I was thrown in with the wolves too many times to count, just to see if I’d come out alive. I did, and every time, I wore a wide-ass smile on my motherfucking face.

I proved myself, my worth, to a bunch of corrupt criminals.

It wasn’t a lifestyle.

It was a way of life.

The only one I strived for.

That Jameson trait ran deep in my veins. I determined the who, what, when, and where in life. Anyone who didn’t approve could go fuck themselves.

Bottom line, I lived and breathed for my family. Everything else was just a means to an end for me. The world truly wasn’t a good place. Seeing bloodshed wasn’t out of the norm for me. My dirty hands were in everything from drugs to guns to clubs. I guess you could say I was the epitome of organized crime. There was very little that I didn’t own and operate.

Politicians.

Police.

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