Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Aero
The engine of my Harley growls steady under me, the low, brutal thrum syncing with the blood pumping through my veins.
The matte-black beast bucks slightly under my grip, the wide apes flexing against the strain of the wind.
There’s a particular kind of peace you only find riding a machine like this, the way the asphalt unrolls beneath you like a living thing, the way the air slaps at your skin like it’s trying to beat the sins clean off you.
It’s a feeling that never gets old. It’s a feeling I fucking need right now.
We roll in tight formation down Atlantic Avenue, ten deep, our cuts flashing like battle flags under the hard Jersey sun.
The roar of our engines, especially mine, with the shorty pipes barking louder than the rest, turns heads on the sidewalks.
Pedestrians freeze. They know better than to stare too long.
They might not know who we are, but they know what we are.
I let the tension bleed out of my shoulders, settling deeper into the custom seat molded to my frame.
The Harley’s weight is a solid, snarling thing between my legs, the ghosted skulls in the black paint catching flashes of sunlight like warnings.
Every twist of the throttle, every lean into the lane, is instinct, muscle memory, second nature.
Up here, riding this steel monster I built to my own specifications, I don’t have to think, I don’t have to feel, I can just be.
As we roll deeper into the city, the towers of steel and neon loom higher.
The rumble of our engines shatters the Atlantic City boardwalk noise as we push deeper into the Strip.
The breeze off the ocean carries the sharp tang of salt water mixing with the acrid bite of gasoline that sticks in the back of my throat.
Neon signs blink in the haze even though it’s broad daylight.
For a second, the world around me feels paper-thin, like if I just punched hard enough, it’d tear wide open.
We ride past ll Ritorno, Ricci’s glittering new casino, rising clean and smug over the wreckage of the old one like it never burned down.
Fucker rebuilt it faster than should’ve been possible.
But then, when you’re washing your dirty blood money through a shiny, legitimate front, miracles happen overnight.
I shift down a gear as Grizzly pulls up alongside me, his heavy Dyna bobbing under him like a warhorse. Its chrome teeth bared, engine snarling low, ready to tear into anything that crosses its path.
“You see that shit?” he calls over the roar of engines, jerking his chin at Ritorno.
I grunt. “Yeah. I see it.”
My jaw locks tight enough to ache. I keep my gaze forward, but I see it out of the corner of my eye.
Fresh glass gleaming under the sun like a fucking middle finger to the rest of us.
The thought coils hot in my gut. I know, better than anyone, just how dangerous a man like that can be when he feels like he’s got something to prove.
Memories I’ve buried deep try to claw their way back up but I shove them down. We’re not here to pick a fight. Not yet. We’ve got our own empire to build first.
Crank flicks his chin toward the next turn, and we peel off the main drag, away from the glitter of the strip.
The buildings start to sag the farther we go, abandoned shops, boarded-up windows, graffiti bleeding down cracked brick.
This part of Atlantic City doesn’t make it onto the postcards. This is where real work gets done.
We ride another few blocks before pulling up outside the warehouse.
It's a squat, ugly bastard of a building with concrete walls, rusted loading docks, and the faint stink of piss hanging in the air.
Half the windows are busted out, the others clouded over with grime thick enough to write your last words in.
I cut the throttle, pulling into the gravel lot with the rest of the crew fanning out behind me. The second I kill the engine, the silence hits harder than the roar of the ride. Just the faint whisper of the ocean in the distance and the creak of the rusted chain-link gate swinging on its hinge.
“This the spot?” I remove my helmet and rake a hand through my hair while scanning the building. Corrugated steel, high windows, big open floor plan.
“Yeah.” Grizzly confirms, cracking his knuckles like he’s ready to punch a hole through a wall.
I swing off the bike, the creak of leather and the clink of chains familiar as breathing.
She’s a heavy bitch but she’s mine. Every bolt and weld a piece of me.
My boots hit the cracked asphalt with a solid thud.
Grizzly, Surge, Backdraft, Crank, Padre, Rancor, Tango, Pike, and Hashtag circle up tight, eyes scanning the perimeter.
Surge yanks his helmet off, scanning the lot like he’s expecting a sniper on the roof. "Place is a fuckin' ghost town."
"Good," I say, "Means we'll have privacy."
We move like we’ve done a dozen times, a wall of black cuts and muscle. It doesn't matter if it's a warehouse or a damn war zone, the formation stays the same.
I strip my gloves off, tucking them into my back pocket, and head toward the front bay doors.
The metal groans as I yank one open wide enough to slip through.
Inside, it’s darker. Dust motes float in the sunbeams slashing through the broken windows.
The floor is cracked concrete, littered with debris, an old tire here, a rusted pipe there, broken pallets and busted-up crates.
A bird’s nest in the rafters. Every sound bounces back at us twice as loud, and I feel the prickle of adrenaline along my skin.
Tango flips his knife in his hand, walking slow and deliberate. "Place smells like mold and rat piss."
"Adds character," Crank grunts, giving a broken table a swift kick out of his way.
I step into the belly of the place, boots thudding against the cracked concrete. Under all the filth, it’s solid. Thick support beams, high ceilings, enough square footage to build a fuckin' empire inside.
It’s exactly what we need. It’s not polished, not pretty. Fuck that noise. It’s real. We could build our own little kingdom here carved out in the ruins.
I make a slow circuit around the open space, each step deliberate, my eyes sweeping corners and shadows like they’re hiding secrets. My boots crunching over broken glass, listening to the others moving behind me.
Padre mutters something about the place being a "damn shithole," but I hear the excitement in his voice, too.
They feel it, the same as I do.
I stand in the center of the floor, looking up at the cavernous ceiling, feeling the weight of it settle into my bones. It fits. It fucking fits.
“Good bones,” I grunt, more to myself than anyone else.
We can build something here. Our rules. Our money.
"Could fix it up fast enough," Pike says from somewhere off to my right. "Steel doors, security cameras, fencing. Fortify the rooftop. Make it a fortress."
I nod once. Yeah. I close my eyes for a second, imagining it.
The ring upstairs for fights, the tables down here for the games, the cash flowing in faster than we can stack it.
When I open them again, the decision is already made.
This is ours. And if Ricci doesn’t like it?
He can choke on the empire we’re about to build right under his nose.
Boots scrape behind me as the brothers spread out, checking corners, kicking debris aside with low curses.
"Shithole's a compliment," Hashtag mutters, poking at a rusted-out filing cabinet with the toe of his boot. "You sure this is the move, Prez?"
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. "Ain’t supposed to be pretty. It’s supposed to be ours."
Hashtag grunts, not arguing but not exactly convinced either.
Grizzly steps up next to me, his arms crossed over his cut. "We gut it, reinforce the walls, lock it down tight. This could work. Hell, it'd take a fuckin' tank to bust in once we're done."
"Location's good and so is the asking price," Rancor adds from the far side of the warehouse, his voice echoing off the walls.
I nod, climbing the stairs to the office space that overlooks the floor.
The door hangs crooked on its hinges. I shove it open, the metal shrieking like a dying animal.
Inside, it’s nothing but a busted desk and the smell of rot.
Still, the large window provides a good vantage point.
I lean against the framework, surveying my crew.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, cutting through the silence like a blade. Blocked number, of course. I ignore it but seconds later it’s ringing again. I answer with a grunt, lifting the phone to my ear. "Yeah?"
Ricci’s voice slides through the speaker with an edge I know too damn well. "Aero. Word travels fast in this city. Faster than I think even you realize."
My muscles lock up tight, every instinct I’ve got going straight to red alert.
"You’ve got yourself an eye for real estate, son," he continues, his tone all easy charm, playing a familiar game. "Hell of a location you’re looking at. Shame if it got... tangled up."
I don't answer. I just listen, because that's what you do when a snake talks, you listen close enough to hear the fangs rattle.
"You know me," Ricci says, "I respect ambition. I admire it, even. I didn’t come to Atlantic City to start a war but step carefully, business is business."
The line goes dead before I can tell him to go fuck himself. I jam the phone back in my pocket, grinding my teeth so hard my jaw pops.
A chill rides down my spine, cold despite the heat baking the warehouse walls. I clench my fists, my brain already working the angles. Ricci knows too much. Either he’s got ears on the street, or worse, he’s got eyes inside our own walls.
"Yo, Aero! You’re gonna wanna see this!" Grizzly barks.
My gut knots instantly. I descend the stairs and cross the floor fast, Rancor on my heels.
Surge and Backdraft fall in from the other side.
We find Grizzly in a storage room near the far end.
Next to him, sitting dead-center on the floor is what looks like a crumpled blue tarp but then Grizzly grabs the corner and yanks it all the way back.
Crates. Dozens of them.
"What the fuck is this?" Grizzly mutters, kneeling down. He pulls a knife from his back pocket and jams it under the edge, popping the crate open with a sharp crack.
Guns. Military-grade. Russian arsenal stamps. Shit you don’t find stateside without strings attached. They gleam with fresh oil, not a speck of dust on them. They haven’t been sitting here long, they’ve been cleaned, primed and ready to move.
"Jesus," Rancor breathes.
"Someone’s been using this place for storage," Grizzly says, his voice grim. "Big fuckin’ storage."
I squat, careful not to touch anything yet, running a hand through my hair. My heart’s pounding hard with the razor-sharp certainty that Ricci’s claws are already in this place. This isn’t a random find. His call isn’t a coincidence. It was a warning.
"Move it out. Stash it. We’ll use them later if we need to."
The other members of the club move fast, tearing strips of tarp and securing the boxes like a damn well-oiled machine.
“Get your ass on the phone.” I bark at Rancor, “Make the offer now. Full ask. No negotiation. Tell them they got ten minutes to say yes before the deal’s off.”
Rancor nods, already pulling out his phone.
I look around, my jaw grinding. "We’re claiming this place now. Fencing. Security. Cameras. I want it locked down tighter than a damn vault."
“Sure, we’ll just head on down to the local hardware store and load up our bikes.” Surge grumbles under his breath with his smart ass tone.
“I don’t care how you get it done. Just do it.” I growl.
I turn back to the center of the warehouse, dust curling around my boots like smoke. This place is ours now. And no one, not Ricci, not anyone, is stealing it out from under us without blood on the floor.