Chapter 2 Zara
The plane tilts, and Chicago slides into view, and I forget to breathe.
I lean closer to the window, ignoring the chill of the glass against my forehead. Chicago rises beneath the thinning clouds, sharp and deliberate, a forest of steel and glass that feels impossibly dense after the endless sprawl I’ve left behind. It doesn’t stretch—it stands upright.
Los Angeles had been my first taste of America, and I’d expected fireworks.
Instead, it had felt laid back feel. The sprawling city spread thin beneath the sun.
Low buildings, wide roads, palm trees like punctuation marks rather than statements.
Beautiful, yes—but relaxed in a way that surprised me.
Almost casual. As if it didn’t need to prove anything.
Chicago clearly disagrees.
From up here, the skyline looks like an artist carved it, each tower distinct, unapologetic in its height.
One building doesn’t melt into the next the way cities do back home.
Sydney has its icons—the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House—but even they feel like they belong to the land and the water.
Chicago looks like it challenged the land and won.
The lake appears next, stretching out in a sheet of dark blue so vast my mind struggles to label it correctly.
A lake shouldn’t look like that. It’s too big, too heavy, pretending very convincingly to be an ocean.
I almost laugh at myself. I flew halfway across the world and still ended up staring at water.
But this water is different. The Pacific back home is wild, restless, always moving. Lake Michigan looks contained, brooding, like it’s keeping its thoughts to itself. It makes the city feel grounded somehow, anchored.
The engines change pitch, a low mechanical hum that vibrates through my bones.
Around me, people stir—Americans, I assume—folding trays, adjusting jackets, already impatient to be back on the ground.
I stay still, watching streets and bridges come into focus, the city revealing its bones.
Rivers cutting clean lines through the concrete.
Neighbourhoods packed tight, pressed together as if warmth matters here.
I think of Melbourne, of how it hides its beauty in laneways and cafés, of how nothing there reaches quite this high.
Australian cities sprawl too, but differently—more sky, more breathing room.
This feels intentional. Built by people who wanted to go up because they had no interest in going anywhere else.
The wheels hit the runway with a solid jolt. Not graceful, but succinct. The skyline slips from view, replaced by concrete and lights and movement, but my chest tightens anyway.
This is my first time in America. First time north of the equator. First time feeling this small in the best possible way.
As the plane slows, I sit back and let the reality settle in.
Los Angeles may have welcomed me politely, but Chicago—Chicago feels like it’s watching me back, waiting to see what I’ll do next—challenging me to make my mark.
When I disembark, I slowly make my way to the luggage carousel. I’m exhausted and desperate to get to the hotel, but there is no sense in hurrying. It will take them some time to unload the luggage. Instead, I study the people as I follow the signs.
Back home in Adelaide, we have our share of tourists, but there is no denying that Chicago attracts people from all over the world.
Los Angeles offered a similar insight, but I didn’t have time to take it all in.
I’d been too busy rushing through the massive terminal to reach my connecting flight.
Now that I’m in Chicago and will be staying here for several days, I can’t wait to experience everything it has to offer.
Once I grab my two suitcases, I wheel them outside to search for a taxi. Luckily, I don’t have to wait long. My body is exhausted even though my mind is very active. I let my body relax into the back of the taxi while I take in the sights.
“First time to Chicago?” the driver asks, making eye contact in the mirror.
I nod. “My first time in the United States.”
“Australian?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“Welcome to Chicago. You here for Fashion Week?”
I glance at him in surprise. “I am. How did you know?”
He shrugs. “You look like a model.”
I chuckle. “I’m not a model. But thank you. I’m a designer.”
“Really? Good for you! I wish you luck this week.”
“Thank you,” I grin.
We lapse into silence, and that’s when I hear the rumble of motorcycles gaining on us.
I glance out the window and see seven bikes pull even with us in the next lane.
The bike in front is ridden by a large man with a dark beard.
Behind him, two bikers ride side-by-side.
I study the man closest to me and gasp. I know him.
Whip. I consider waving to get his attention, but they speed up and keep moving forward.
I study the kuttes on the riders as they pass.
A snarling dog is at the center. The top rocker says Demon Dawgs, while the bottom proudly displays Chicago.
“The Demon Dawgs?” I say out loud. I don’t mean it as a question, but my driver does.
“Yeah. They’re not too bad. They aren’t like some clubs. Don’t mess with them, though.”
“No, I wasn’t planning on messing with them.” I lean back in my seat and stare out the window. However, I’m no longer aware of the view. In fact, my mind is no longer in Chicago. It’s nine thousand miles away in Adelaide, in the clothing store my father owned.
Twelve years ago, I worked at my father’s store, where I fell in love with clothes.
One day, a gang of bikers came into the store to harass my father.
I had seen them riding around town for the past few months and knew they called themselves the Adelaide Bushrangers.
They used to stay away from the town, but lately they’d been driving up and down the streets and stopping at the various shops.
It looked like today was our unlucky day.
My father greeted them, but I could see the fear coursing through him. It was nothing compared to the bone-chilling fear I felt when two of the bikers closed in around me. The look in their eyes froze me in place. My father rushed to my side and pulled me close. I felt a little safer, but not safe.
“What can I help you with?” my father asks.
“Well, mate, I’m glad you asked,” the leader says. The patch on his kutte reads 'President'. “We’re starting a new business that we know you’ll want to invest in. We’ll protect you and yours, but it will cost you. $300 a week.”
“I can’t afford that,” my dad protests.
“Well, I suggest you find a way to come up with the money. I’d hate for anything to happen to you or your store,” he says, his eyes flicking to me. “Or to your daughter.”
The men left, but they came back every Friday.
My father found a way to pay until the day he couldn’t.
He riled up the other shopkeepers and ambushed the club when they came into town to collect.
No one died, but the bikers ended up in the hospital.
A few days later, we received a visitor.
One biker showed up. His patch read ‘Whip - Enforcer.’ He told my dad to get out of town and take me with him.
He warned my dad that the others were coming for me.
My dad did as he ordered. We disappeared for a week.
When we returned, the club no longer existed.
Word was that one of theirs had set them up to take a fall.
I didn’t have to ask who. I already knew. Whip.
“We’re here,” the driver says when he pulls up in front of the hotel.
I blink at the lighted entrance as I gather my belongings.
A bellhop opens my door and offers me his hand.
I take it and slide out of the taxi. The driver has the trunk open to retrieve my bags when I hear a noise that freezes me.
The roar of motorcycles grabs my attention.
My hand shakes as three motorcycles pull up ahead of the taxi.
I glance at them and suck in a breath. I recognize the kuttes.
Adelaide Bushrangers. The valet rushes over to them, which gives me a view of one of the men. Menace.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
“Ma’am,” the bellhop says, his eyebrows hiking.
“I have to get out of here,” I mutter. Turning to the driver, I tell him to stop. “I need you to drive me somewhere else. Please. It’s important.”
The driver gawks at me, but shoves my bags back into the trunk before returning to the driver’s seat. The bellhop closes my door as I turn my attention to the driver.
“I need you to take me to the Demon Dawgs clubhouse. It’s a matter of life and death,” I tell him.
“The Demon Dawgs? You’re sure?”
“Yes, please. I know it sounds strange, but I have to speak to one of them. Please.”
“Does this have to do with them?” he asks, nodding at the bikers disappearing inside the hotel.
“Yes.”
He shakes his head, but pulls away from the curb.
My eyes dart around as he drives through the city. I can’t stop trembling as I think about the men I saw. Why were they here? Was it just a coincidence that Whip is here, too? I can’t help but think that it isn’t. They’re here looking for Whip. I know it. I can feel it.
When the car stops, I glance out the window and see we’re stopped in front of a large metal gate. Someone taps on the driver’s window, causing me to let out a squeak. The driver glances at me as he rolls down the window.
“I have a passenger who said it is important to see one of your members,” the driver explains. The man leans down and studies me. I can read the word ‘Prospect’ on his denim kutte.
“Who do you want to see?”
“Whip,” I tell him.
“No one here by that name. Sorry.”
“But I saw him earlier, on the highway. I know it’s him. He’s Australian.”
The prospect stands up and gestures for us to drive inside.
“I hope you aren’t going to get me killed,” the driver mutters as he drives through and parks.
I ignore him as I climb out of the car. Several people come out of the clubhouse, but I only have eyes for one. He’s grown older since the last time I saw him. However, I’m relieved when I see the recognition in his eyes.
“Whip, thank God. You’re in danger. He’s here. I saw him at my hotel. I think he came here for you.”
“Zara?”
“Who’s here?” the man next to him asks. I recognize him, he’s the large man with a beard who rode in front of the others. His kutte says President with his road name ‘Chrome’ below.
“Menace,” I answer.
Chrome looks at Whip to explain.
“Menace was the SOA for the Adelaide Bushrangers. He’s one of the men I betrayed.”