Page 1 of North’s Claim

Chapter 1

North

Ifucking hate weddings.

They're loud and unnecessary. Full of soft people with softer hearts, pretending forever exists. But Rock’s getting married, and if your strongest ally, friend and President of the Black Panthers, marries, you show up, drink a beer, and smile like the world isn’t burning under your boots.

Newtok's nothing but trees and secrets tucked into the north Wisconsin backwoods. I ride to the wedding that same day. The road hums under my tires, long past the point of feeling anything. Tornado and Rook, my enforcer and prospect, flank me; silent, loyal, like a shadow and its echo.

The Black Panthers’ clubhouse is alive when we roll in: motorcycles, music, and the smell of meat and gasoline. Full swing chaos before the wedding takes place. Men shouting, women laughing and beers cracked open.

Tornado claps me on the shoulder, nodding toward the fire pit. “Think they’ll make it to the vows before someone drinks themselves stupid?”

“Not my fucking problem,” I mutter, swinging my leg off the bike.

Inside, it’s noise and smoke and bodies pressed too close. The kind of room that expects you to relax, let go, pretend you belong.

I never pretend.

Rock finds me before I find the bar. Arms wide, smile stretched. “North! About time you showed up. Thought you were gonna ghost me.”

“Would’ve sent flowers,” I grunt. “But Di said she’d punch me if I acted soft.”

“She would’ve framed 'em.” Rock laughs.

Denise appears out of nowhere, beer in hand. She's sharp-tongued, brutal, and probably the only woman in this state I respect. She gives me a nod. “You good, Prez?”

“Always.”

We share a look, quick and mutual. She knows I don’t do parties unless I owe someone.

I grab a beer and post near the back wall, Tornado beside me, Rook bouncing on his heels like a pup waiting for a command. Bullet from the Wolves throws me a two-finger salute. I nod back.

Back in ’32, a group of bikers came together with one goal: clean up their territory from the filth poisoning it. They’d seen their community suffer too long and were done sitting back. They wanted to protect their own and make a change.

That group splintered off from Black Panthers, Rock’s MC, and The Vipers—two clubs so greedy they didn’t care if they burned the whole place down as long as they held the ashes.

When Rock reached out about forming an alliance to kick those bastards out, I was skeptical. We already had our hands full dealing with some Iowa kids playing biker in borrowed cuts pretending to be an MC. But the Black Panthers backed us up, helped us wipe them off the map and that changed everything for me.

I still remember seeing Bullet at the table for the first sit-down. That moment set everything in motion. We agreed, then and there, no stepping into each other’s business. Respect, loyalty, and strength wasn’t just talk.

From that point on, we were untouchable. Hit one of us, and the others rain hell. Iowa new crews tried a few more times. We pushed back harder, took some of their border territory while we were at it.

Now, our safety triangle ain’t just about keeping each other safe, it’s a power structure, a brotherhood and business is booming because of it.

The Black Panthers run the north, Newtok’s theirs. We’ve got the Midwest and parts of Iowa, we handle the gun trafficking and some local businesses. The Wolves own strip clubs, towing, tattoo shops, all fronts. And when things get messy, they clean it up. Violently.

We don’t cross into each other’s turf. Don’t question how the others handle their end. That’s how it works. That’s why it works.

They said weddings bring people together. I call bullshit.

It’s too loud, too warm, too many damn smiles and way too many badges.

I lean back against the post near the edge of the outdoor setup, arms crossed over my cut, watching the guests shuffle and buzz like flies over open beer. The ceremony’s about to start. Sun’s burning through my sunglasses. Some soft string music’s playing, and the chairs creak under civilians trying to play polite in the presence of outlaws.

Torment sidles up next to me, fixing his collar like he gives a damn.

“You clean up well, Prez,” he mutters, grin sharp.