Chapter 2
Two
Riot
Play With Fire - Sam Tinnesz
Some people beg when they know they’re about to die.
Some cry. Others fucking piss themselves. Shit, most at least try to fight even when they know they don’t stand a fucking chance, swinging wildly and desperately, clawing at a coffin that’s already nailed shut.
And then there are the rare ones.
The ones who stare death in the face and fucking smile.
I press the blade harder under her chin, just enough to warn, not enough to break the skin. Yet.
Sienna Vega doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t beg. Doesn’t so much as fucking blink.
Instead, she smirks.
Cocky, reckless, and fucking stupid.
The kind of stupid that gets people killed fast.
And now that I’m up close, I can see her. Really see her.
She’s smaller than I expected, built for speed—lean muscle, long legs, curves hidden beneath layers of attitude and road-worn leather. Little things stand out now that she’s closer.
Small, faint freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, almost unnoticeable beneath the grime. A tiny scar near her temple, another at the corner of her mouth, like she learned early on that nothing in this world is given without a fight.
Her long, dark hair spills past her ass in thick waves, wild and untamed, like it refuses to be controlled—just like the rest of her. It’s a fucking liability on the track, an easy target, something that should’ve been ripped off or tied back if she had half a brain.
Maybe she’s too stupid to know better. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a fuck.
Her jacket is beat to shit, black with scuffed sleeves and torn seams, stitched together like she refuses to let it die.
The kind of thing that’s been through hell with her.
The zipper’s half-broken, caught just below her collarbone, exposing a sliver of skin—a delicate fucking tease against the brutality of the world she’s standing in.
Underneath, she’s wearing a threadbare tank top, washed-out black, stretched over sharp ribs and freshly bruised skin. And judging by the way Kane’s dog was rolling up his cuffs earlier, I’d bet he’s the bastard who put them there.
The thought settles like a slow-burning fuse in my gut, but I don’t react. Not now. Not here.
Dark jeans, ripped at the knees, and frayed edges.
Not for style but for survival. The kind of wear that comes from eating pavement, crawling out of wreckage, throwing punches that hit harder than they should.
Scuffed combat boots, laces loose like she doesn’t give a fuck if they fall apart beneath her.
And her face?
A goddamn contradiction.
Sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut, lips full enough to be distracting if they weren’t split at the corner, swelling from a fight she clearly didn’t lose. But it’s the eyes that get me.
Dark. Deep. Reckless.
The kind of eyes that have seen too much, lived through worse, and aren’t afraid of whatever comes next. The kind of eyes that should’ve been broken by now.
And then, there’s the scent.
Not perfume. Not anything artificial. Just leather, oil, sweat, and something darker—like smoke lingering in the air after a fire.
She smells like survival.
Like a girl who should be dead but isn’t.
I press the blade just a little harder, searching for the crack. The flinch. The hesitation.
It never fucking comes.
I should end this now. Cut her throat, toss her body into the pit, and let them find some other poor bastard to entertain the crowd and the racers tonight.
Instead, I lean in, my voice dropping to something low and lethal.
“I said, get on the fucking bike.” It’s not a request or a suggestion.
It’s a fucking order. I tilt my head, eyes locked on hers, daring her to defy me.
“Or are you scared? Scared you’ll fucking die?
” I smirk, letting the weight of my words sink in. “Go ahead. Prove me right.”
Her dark eyes flash as she tilts her chin, pressing into the blade instead of away from it, a slow, deliberate challenge. A thin bead of blood wells up, sliding down the curve of her throat, but she still doesn’t flinch.
She fucking smiles. Like this is a game. Like she’s not standing in the middle of a goddamn death sentence.
"You always this much of an asshole," she drawls, voice dripping with mock innocence. "Or is this just your way of flirting?"
She’s testing me. Poking at the beast just to see if it bites.
Fucking hell.
This bitch is going to be fucking problem.
I chuckle, slow and dark, then drag the blade flatly across my tongue, tasting the sharp tang of her blood—copper and defiance.
Flicking the knife closed, I smirk, slow and sharp. "Just for you, Little Stray. Try not to fall in love."
Then I step back and watch.
She doesn’t hesitate as she swings a leg over the bike like she belongs on it, like the whole track isn’t already sharpening its teeth for her.
She grips the throttle, straightens her back, before pulling the helmet over her head and staring down the starting line.
She thinks she’s got a shot.
She doesn’t.
Because this isn’t a race. It’s a fucking execution.
I’ve been riding in The Gauntlet long enough to know how this ends.
The crowd is hungry, the track is wired for carnage, and the Syndicate has millions riding on her death.
And The Gauntlet?
It doesn’t do second chances.
Some people think this is just a high-stakes street race. Some think it’s about crossing the finish line first, about sponsors and bets and a whole lot of fast, reckless adrenaline junkies trying to make a name for themselves.
Those people die before the first turn.
There are no rules. No brakes and no fucking mercy.
Weapons are fair game. Sabotage isn’t cheating.
The pit crews rig engines to fail mid-race, booby-trap tires with slow leaks, install fuel tanks that are one stray bullet away from turning into a funeral pyre.
If you crash, you don’t get back up. No medical teams. No rescue crews.
If you fall, the only thing hitting the brakes is the concrete waiting to split your skull.
Bounties can be collected mid-race. If someone wants you dead badly enough, they put a price on your head. And out here? Everyone wants an extra payday.
Winning? It’s not about crossing the finish line first.
It’s about making sure no one else does.
And tonight?
She’s the only one they don’t want making it out alive.
The moment the light drops, they’ll swarm her, tear her apart, rip her off that half-dead Yamaha, and smear her across the asphalt.
That’s how it works. That's what The Gauntlet is made for. For the rich to place their bets, pay to play god, and jerk themselves off while their fucked up fantasies play out.
Which is why I should walk the fuck away.
But I don’t.
Instead, I take one last drag of my cigarette, toss it to the ground, and turn toward the betting pool.
The bookies are finalizing the odds, and the pit is loud with the sounds of men throwing cash around like they fucking own the world.
I should be walking away from this shitshow. Instead, I do the stupidest fucking thing I’ve done in years.
I roll up to the betting table, toss a stack of bills down like I don’t give a fuck, and say it clear enough for the whole pit to hear.
“Put a million on her to survive.”
Silence.
Like the whole fucking track just forgot how to breathe.
Vick—the greasy little shit running the bets—actually chokes on his cigar. He slaps a hand against his chest, hacking up smoke, eyes bugging out of his skull like I just said I’m gonna start wearing a suit and paying my taxes.
"The fuck did you just say?" he wheezes, voice raw from the fumes.
I exhale slowly, dragging my knuckles over my jaw. "You heard me."
Someone laughs. A short, sharp bark of disbelief.
"You bet on her to survive?" another voice echoes, some rookie racer who won’t live long enough for me to bother learning his name.
"Not just survive," Vick mutters, eyes narrowing as he keys it into the system. "You bet on her to fucking win."
Now the whole damn pit is looking at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
And I get it. I really do.
Because for her to win? I have to lose.
I just bet against myself.
"Jesus Christ, Riot," Vick breathes, shaking his head. "You feeling okay? You hit your head or some shit?"
I lean on the counter, letting the tension stretch, letting them all sit with the fact that I just threw a fucking wrench into The Gauntlet’s golden plan.
Slowly, I pull out another cigarette, tapping it against the counter once before sliding it between my lips. The flame from my lighter flickers as I shield it with my hand, the sharp scent of burning tobacco cutting through the thick, oil-stained air.
I take a slow drag, exhaling smoke through my nose, bored, unbothered, daring someone to say a fucking word.
“This some kind of fucking joke?” another racer spits, looking between me and the girl like he’s waiting for me to take it back.
I flick my cigarette to the ground, watching it burn out against the pavement. “No joke.”
More murmurs. Confusion.
This isn’t how it works.
A racer doesn’t bet against himself. Especially not when the whole goddamn circuit is already set up for him to win.
Vick clicks his tongue, narrowing his eyes at me. "You got a death wish, Carter? You do realize Kane’s men are watching, right? Betting against the house ain't smart, man."
I don’t bother looking at the suits lurking at the edge of the pit, but I can feel their eyes on me.
I just fucked with their money.
Which means I just fucked with them.
I shrug, bored. “Take the fucking bet, Vick.”
He hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see the sweat forming at his temple.
Then he presses the button and locks it in.
The numbers flash across the screens, official and real—one million on Sienna Vega to survive.
More than that… to win.
And just like that, the pit goes from confused to fucking furious.
"You’re out of your goddamn mind."
"You just gave that bitch a free ticket!"
"You betting on your new pet, Riot?" someone sneers.
I don’t react. They’re all fucking stupid.
This isn’t about her.
This is about what happens next.
Because now?
Every single bastard on that track is gonna have to fucking choose—go after her like the house wants or get in my fucking way.
Either way, tonight’s gonna be real goddamn interesting.