The back door's hinges screamed when she kicked it open, the alley air biting her bare thighs where her jeans still hung around one ankle. Behind her, Sylvie's enraged shout tangled with Cole's coughing curses—close, but not close enough. Ivy sprinted past dumpsters reeking of spoiled meat and motor oil, her brother's keychain digging into her palm where she'd snatched it mid-flight. The neon sign's buzz followed her like a swarm of wasps, its flickering glow catching on the broken bottle shards glittering near the service entrance of the auto shop next door.
Inside, the air was thick with the tang of welding sparks and rubber, the radio drowned out by the growl of an impact wrench. A mechanic in coveralls slick with grease glanced up from the engine block he was elbow-deep in, eyebrows climbing when he took in Ivy's disheveled state—shirt inside out, one breast nearly free from her bra, Sylvie's teeth marks purpling above her collarbone. "Jesus, kid," he started, but Ivy slammed River's keys on the workbench beside a half-dismantled carburetor. "Where's his bike?" Her voice cracked like a bad spark plug.
The mechanic wiped his hands on a rag, eyes darting to the bay door where a shadow moved—Cole's silhouette, backlit by the flickering neon. "Ain't here," he muttered, jerking his chin toward a tarp-draped shape in the far corner. Ivy didn't wait for permission; she yanked the canvas aside to reveal the mangled remains of River's Harley, the serpent decal on the gas tank split by a bullet hole. The scent hit her first—burnt oil and something coppery, the seat leather split where someone had dug a knife in deep.
Behind her, the mechanic cleared his throat. "Jax dropped it off last Tuesday," he said, too carefully, watching Ivy trace the jagged tear in the saddle with shaking fingers. "Said River took a bad curve." Ivy's laugh came out sharp as shattered glass. The "curve" was a .45 round—she could see the exit wound punched through the chrome fender, the spatter pattern fanning toward the kickstand. The mechanic flinched when she snatched a torque wrench off the bench, her grip white-knuckled. "Keys," she repeated, and this time, he didn't hesitate, tossing her a greasy keyring with a tag that read *Property of Black Dog Garage*.
The bay door rattled as Cole's boot connected with the metal, his voice muffled but unmistakable—"Open the fucking door, Mack." Ivy didn't wait. She jammed the key into the ignition of a beat-to-shit Kawasaki parked by the air compressor, the engine roaring to life with a cough of blue smoke. The mechanic shouted, but she was already gunning it toward the rear exit, the bike's tires screeching on concrete slick with transmission fluid. Cole's silhouette loomed in the side mirror, his fist raised to smash through the plexiglass window, but Ivy twisted the throttle harder, swerving around a stack of oil drums.
Three weeks later, her knuckles were still split from punching out the bathroom mirror at a truck stop outside Tulsa when the job listing caught her eye—*Personal Assistant wanted, no questions asked*. The address led to a chrome-and-glass high-rise downtown, the kind of place where the elevators smelled like money and disinfectant. The receptionist didn't blink at Ivy's bruised wrists or the fresh tattoo curling up her neck—a serpent swallowing its own tail, inked in a backroom parlor with River's ashes mixed into the pigment. "Ms. Voss will see you now," she murmured, and Ivy followed the click of stilettos down a hallway lined with abstract art that cost more than her brother's life.
Sylvie Voss stood silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling beneath her like something she'd already conquered. The CEO's tailored jacket hugged shoulders Ivy remembered bare and sweating under bar lights, her manicured fingers now drumming a Montblanc pen against a contract thicker than a suicide note. "You're late," Sylvie said without turning, and Ivy's stomach clenched at the familiar rasp—like whiskey and spite. A security monitor flickered on the desk, frozen on a grainy still of Jax walking out of the Black Dog with a gasoline can. Sylvie finally turned, her smile a razor slit. "But I do admire persistence."