Page 1 of The Price of Love

CHAPTER 1

LUCIANA “STORM” SANTORO

I accelerate into the curve, relishing the wind rushing through my hair. The crisp Adirondack air burns my lungs in the best possible way. As I hit the straightaway, I lift my face to the sky. I don’t need to watch the road since I’ve ridden this pavement so many times, I could navigate it with my eyes closed.

Not that I’d recommend it on two wheels, but then again, it might be an interesting challenge for the girls. I’ll have to throw out the suggestion tonight at church.

Church. My mamma, a devout Catholic, would slap my face if she heard me calling our monthly club meetings church, but that’s what they’re known as in motorcycle circles. It’s our church, and riding is my religion.

I fell in love with bikes when my Uncle Vinnie took me out on his Harley when I was three. Talk about my mamma slapping someone’s face. I was supposedly too young to remember. Bullshit. I remember every second. I was hooked from that first ride, and it’s been my first and only true love since.

I let go of my handlebar and run my hand over the front of my vest, touching the patch on my chest. I trace the raised letters with my gloved finger: S-t-o-r-m.

Not going by my given name, Luciana Santoro, also earns me my mamma’s disapproval. True to the stereotype of an Italian matriarch, she says I’m ungrateful after she gave me such a beautiful name. Luciana didn’t suit me, but Storm does.

It’s the name I got when I became a full-patch member of the Iron Thorns MC. Aces, the founder of the club, gave me my road name. She said when I first rode into Cinder Ridge, I came in like a storm, and my tempest only grew once I prospected with the club. But Aces wasn’t wrong. There’s always been a storm raging inside of me. It’s something that can’t be tamed, even though my mamma’s tried.

I breathe in the earthy scent of the spring thaw. Snow lingers in the ditches, but the pavement is clear enough to ride. Right. Like a little snow keeps me off my bike. In the Adirondacks, we get more than a little snow. Then we trade our two wheels in for snowmobiles.

My mamma loves the winter because I visit our Bensonhurst neighborhood in the city more when I can’t ride. Of course I show up for Mother’s Day. She’d disown me if I didn’t, but after that, the club gets me for the season. Something else that earns her disapproval, no matter how often I call her. She says a phone call can’t give hugs.

The air is chilly, and I know my cheeks will be blazing red when I get to the clubhouse, but it’s just a reminder that I’m alive. The wind lashing my hair is another. While New York has helmet laws, things are different upstate, especially in Cinder Ridge. The cops don’t mess with the Thorns.

I slow a little, just a touch, when I hit the town limits. It’s a small, out-of-the-way town southeast of Tupper Lake. Nobody’s ever heard of it, which is how we used to like it. With jobs getting scarce, that’s changing.

A few of the girls’ bikes are parked outside the Broken Lantern, the only bar in Cinder Ridge. I rev my engine, and my pipes let out a throaty growl as I pass, letting them know I’m heading to the clubhouse. Church doesn’t start for over an hour, but I want to send them a message. As the president of the Iron Thorns, I don’t take kindly to anyone being late to church. It’s disrespectful.

About five miles northeast of town, just off Highway 3, I let up on the throttle and turn between the white pine trees, which masks the private road leading to the clubhouse. I drive slowly along the tree-lined path. Farther in, the pine trees give way to sugar maples. They’re just sprouting leaves, but they’re sparse, so the path is dotted with sunlight. With the trees bare, the clubhouse feels exposed. In another month, the trees will block out the sunlight and turn the place into a sanctuary. That’s how I like it best.

I round the bend and smile at the old hunting lodge that serves as our clubhouse. Forged by our blood, sweat, and tears, we turned it into something to be proud of. The large, hand-painted sign on a piece of driftwood hangs on the two-story building. Iron Thorns MC. Established 1997. The sign brings a lump to my throat since Aces painted it. Bev “Aces” Holden brought me into the club. She’s been gone for nearly four months, and I miss her every day. Fifty-eight is too fucking young to die.

I drive around back and pull into the rickety garage that’s somehow still standing. It needs repairs, but we’ve never gotten around to it. I bring my bike to a stop next to Dimples’ bike. She’s the only one in the club who doesn’t ride a Harley, but her Indian is American-made, so it still counts. My ride is a matte black Harley Street Bob. It’s a badass bike. Lean, stripped down, and dark—just the way I like it.

After flipping the kickstand down, I throw my leg over my bike and stand. I twist several times until I hear a satisfying crack in my back. With the cold lingering and limited road time during the winter, my body is out of practice. I swear, when I was in my twenties, I never felt stiff after the first long ride, but hitting my mid-thirties, I’m feeling it.

“Hey, Storm.” I hear my name called as soon as I step out of the garage.

I smile when I see Rouge on the back porch, sucking on an e-cigarette. Her bright red lipstick is smeared all over the mouthpiece. While she’s our best rider, nobody would guess it by her looks. She’s tiny and always wears a red bandanna around her neck, which perfectly matches the shade of her lipstick. I’ve never seen her without either. Looks can be deceiving, though. She’s a fierce competitor who has no fear.

I step onto the porch and wrap her in a hug, squeezing tight.

“How you been?” I ask when I release her. She’s not been around since our last church meeting because she travels a lot for work during the cold months.

“Better since the weather is warming. But I’m looking forward to getting this damn meeting over with.” She grasps my arm. “You okay?”

“Always.” It’s not true. Church tonight has me on edge. It’s another reason I slipped away for a ride. The only time I’m truly at peace is when I’m gripping my handlebars and the wind is rushing through my hair.

She gives me a knowing grin. “Sure, that’s what I thought.” Then she leans in closer. “I’ve got your back.”

Her simple words warm my heart. It means something coming from someone I respect as much as I do Rouge.

The fuck. I sound like a prospect, not a president. Since when do I need reassurance?

I open my mouth to say something sarcastic but stop myself. Rouge doesn’t deserve my shit. “Thanks,” I mutter.

“Aces believed in you.” She takes another drag from her e-cigarette. “And so do I.”

“Ya think maybe you could remind Frost of that?” As the leader, I shouldn’t have said it, but Rouge is different. She and I go way back. Dimples, Rouge, and I prospected at the same time. Aces called us the best class of prospects in Thorns’ history.