A GHOST ON TWO WHEELS

The name slammed into Clara like a physical blow. Her uncle, Silas Vance. She thought he had died a decade ago in an industrial fire. Her father had always spoken of Silas with quiet reverence, describing him as the steady rock of the family before the darkness consumed them.

Hawk shoved Clara into the shadows between two sprawling apple trees, his grip iron-hard. ""Stay down,"" he commanded through gritted teeth.

""You said my father died alone,"" Clara hissed, her heart pounding against her ribs. ""You said my family was gone!""

""Silas isn't your family anymore,"" Hawk growled, checking the chamber of a compact semi-automatic pistol tucked in his waistband. ""Silas sold your father out fifteen years ago. He runs the Jackals' legal front in Capital City. If he's here, this isn't an ambush. It's an execution.""

Through the tangled branches of the orchard, Clara saw the silhouette of a man in an expensive gray trench coat standing under the glare of truck headlights. Beside him, two masked men dragged the catering staff and remaining musicians onto their knees in the gravel.

""Hawk!"" Silas shouted again, adjusting his silver-rimmed glasses with calm precision. ""You were always too sentimental. Thomas died in a flophouse because he couldn't stomach the business. Marcus died because he thought he was a hero. And now you drag this poor girl into the dirt on her wedding day? Bring the ledger. Let Clara live. That's the only deal on the table.""

Hawk leaned close to Clara’s ear. ""The ledger has Silas's signature authorizing the hit on Marcus. He doesn't want the books to protect the club; he wants them to bury his own treason.""