The roar of my Harley echoes off the towering skyscrapers as I ride into Crown City, the sun glinting off my mirrored aviators. I rev the throttle, savoring the raw power vibrating between my legs. This is what freedom feels like. Not the stifling rules and codes of my father’s club, BTMC. Out here, I’m in control of my destiny.
I park my bike in front of the industrial warehouse that houses the remnants of my grandfather’s once mighty empire. The faded crown logo is still visible on the corrugated metal siding. CCMC. My birthright, as much as BTMC ever was.
I stride inside like I own the place. Because I will soon enough. Prospects and members shoot me suspicious glares as I pass, but no one dares to stop me. Even if they don’t recognize me, the confidence in my swagger gives them pause.
At the back, I push into the makeshift hospital room, ignoring the guards. Elias lies in the bed, tubes and wires snaking over his withered form, nothing like the fierce, barrel-chested biker king he once was. His yellowed eyes fix on me as I enter.
“Who the fuck are you?” he croaks.
I smirk, removing my sunglasses. “I’m Alaric Schwartz, your grandson. I hear there’s an opening for President, so I’ve come to claim my throne.”
* * *