Shattered Claim: The Hidden Billionaire Mechanic

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d into the garage. My husband, Jamir, sat on a heavy cruiser, with a blonde woman--Hillary Sho

rease-stained hands I was using to work on the engine. In front of everyone, with a condescending, unquestionable tone, he announce

der head bolt in my hand. The edge of the bras

ion paid for with lives. It's not something you can hand out to anyone who warms your bed every night. For four years, I've been keeping the Reilly family busine

amir." It was the mark of years of humble attachment. I hurled it straight at Jamir. The hard leather edge slice

to his bleeding cheek, staring at

word by word: "The four years I gave

d me over--my grease-stained work pants, my worn leather boots. She slid her hand along Jami

slammed it down against the steel plate. The crash e

Sweetbutt into the inner workshop?" My voice was cold as iron.

your mouth, Jackie. On the border run last week, Hillary risked her neck doing field tria

belt, her lower lip trembling as she squeezed out two tears. "Don't figh

g up with anger, his voice hard and unquestionable: "I said

the eye. "Equal? You want to feed your sidepiece wi

ery dime this shop makes belongs to the Reilly family! You're m

ched toward the custom Harley I had just tuned, her voice almost purring:

an inch above the po

the wrench down against the steel cap, an inch

nd back, and stumbled into Jami

r roared, his fist swin

ice dropping to a lethal whisper: "Swing it, Jamir. I pr

ve face, he lowered his arm. "You think you're untouchable? If the Reilly family hadn't pulled you out of the

eled black-market trauma surgery fees and cutting-edge mechanical blueprints int

itting the concrete like cold iron. "Take y

a smug, victorious grin flashing across her li

t the end of the bay, and punched in my private eight-digit code.