Jamie stared at the faded photo. His mother, twenty years younger, laughing beside a custom Harley.
Before Jamie could even process the image, the diner manager slammed his fist onto the nearest table. “I told you not to feed the trash! Turn in your apron, Parker. You’re fired!”
Jamie didn’t hesitate. He ripped off his black apron, grabbed the heavy silver ring the biker had left behind, and sprinted out the glass doors. He needed the truth.
But there was no beat-up motorcycle in the parking lot.
Instead, a convoy of three sleek, bulletproof black SUVs idled aggressively at the curb. The tinted rear window of the lead vehicle glided down.
Inside sat the rugged biker. Only, the exhausted, broken drifter was gone. He was casually wiping theatrical dirt from his face, slipping a tailored Tom Ford suit jacket over his tattooed shoulders. He pressed a satellite phone to his ear, flashing a brilliant, razor-sharp smile right at the camera-like reflection of the diner glass.
“Yeah,” the biker said into the phone, his tone no longer desperate, but radiating cold, absolute authority. “I found him. He covered the bill with his own cash. The kid passed the test.”
Jamie froze, looking down at the silver ring in his palm. In the bright daylight, he finally saw the microscopic engraving inside the band—the crest of the Vance Syndicate, the most secretive and wealthy organized crime family on the East Coast.
“Get in, Jamie,” the biker ordered, kicking the armored door open. “Your mother didn’t just run away from a motorcycle club. She ran from a dynasty to protect you. And as of midnight, you’re the sole heir to four billion dollars.”
The manager burst through the diner doors to yell—only to choke on his words as his fired, minimum-wage waiter stepped into the SUV and vanished into the morning sun.