23. CHAPTER 22—ANTONIO
CHAPTER 22—ANTONIO
S canning the message again, a hard frown sets on my face as we march towards the race's starting point.
I help you. You help Naomi. Your car has been tampered with. There's going to be sabotage on the road—they're planning to kill you.
What if it's not her? It could be a decoy. Could be a setup. Or worse, him. My ex-stepfather, always looking for ways to get under my skin. The man who taught me that loyalty burns as easily as flesh.
If he threatened Naomi, she might do whatever he wants. Hell, many would. She was the only one who made my mother laugh in those final days, who captured that light in her eyes before everything went dark.
With an hour left before the race kicks off, my mind races through possibilities, each one deadlier than the last. If that text says the truth, where could be that sabotage on the road? None of our informants mentioned that. Oh, we already took care of changing the first car because of the sabotage. But now, doubts linger. What if we missed something on the new car?
The road we're about to drive down isn't known for being forgiving. How many accidents have there always been? How many bodies buried in those curves that everyone pretends were just bad luck?
Maybe Isabella wants to watch me plunge to my death. Maybe that's her endgame. After all, wouldn't it be poetic - the Beast dying in flames again?
Will she even show up to watch?
And Naomi? How the fuck can I help her without showing my hand too early? Her father allowing this shit tells me the cracks in the Moretti empire run deeper than anyone realizes. They're part of the foundation itself.
Because Naomi's old man? He may play the loyal dog to my stepfather, but he's got a soft spot for his daughter that's going to get him killed.
My proof?
Last month's wire tap caught him in a heated exchange with Henrik. That German piece of shit was eager to climb the ladder, looking for allies. Especially since the auction kept on being pushed back.
But Naomi's father dismissed him with a scoff that probably cost him more than he knew, making it clear his daughter would have what others in our world never get: the power of choice. The power to choose her own husband.
He knew his position was fragile. Knew the ground beneath him was shifting. And still chose his daughter over safety.
"Did you double-check the car?" I snap at Franco. "Especially the brakes?"
Franco nods. "Just did. About ten minutes ago."
"And by 'we', you mean?" My voice could freeze hell itself. I foresaw complications - always do. Switching the car was just the start. We even set up a secondary router knowing they'd try to cut our internet during the hacking challenge.
Always on defense. Always three steps ahead. Always ready.
"Go over it again," I order, watching Franco's face for any hint of hesitation. While I wait, I send a text back. Direct. To the point.
Send me a video of you. And tell me the one thing you made me promise never to tell your father. That's all I need to trust this.
Within moments, my request is met. I press play.
The video is crystal clear, sharp enough that I swear I can catch a whiff of honeysuckle through the screen. Her eyes are sad and yet, somehow manage to carry an undeniable fire within. It's a strength that shouldn't send a spark of desire through me, but it does. Just like the vivid recollection of her lips softening under mine, her body yielding in surrender.
A tension settles in the base of my neck, making me rub it as I focus on her voice.
"The heart locket we stumbled upon... The one with my mother's picture where half was cut away. The one with 'Per Sempre' engraved underneath. I kept it because there was a man's hand around her shoulder, but the rest of him was cut from the photo. Not my father's hand - the ring was different. Satisfied? I kept it from him, and you, in your own twisted sense of loyalty, did the same."
The truth? I had informed him. I had thrown those words at him like weapons—hoping, dreaming, wanting to crush him. But he was already in the know.
She continues, "Promise you'll help Naomi. Promise me, Maestro."
Maestro. That nickname in her voice hits me like a bullet I wasn't ready for, stirring shit I thought I'd buried with my mother's memories.
It's just a damn video. Pixels on a screen. Yet my finger hovers over the replay button while my other hand itches to smash the phone. Both urges equally stupid, equally dangerous.
Franco's voice cuts through my bullshit, sharp with urgency. "There's a problem with the car." He's surrounded by our crew, their faces carved with tension.
"What is it?" The words come out like ice.
"The brakes. They've been compromised." Franco hesitates, reading the murder in my eyes, but continues when I motion him on. "One of the mechanics has vanished." Pain and fury war in his voice. Because if they got to one of our men, if they killed him, blood will answer blood. That's our code. We protect our own.
It was predictable, really. They'd try to infiltrate us just like we did them.
"Is there time for repairs?" I keep my voice steady, controlled. A leader showing weakness is a leader about to die.
"No."
"Then we go with the motorcycle."
"But the speed, especially on that route—"
"I've got it under control." My muscles coil tight, ready for what's coming. "And if they've set traps on that road, a bike might be more maneuverable. The agreement was a race down the 'Strada della Morte'. They'll get exactly what they asked for."
And maybe Isabella will get to watch me survive. Again.
"Are you really sure about the motorcycle, Boss? That road's a fucking death trap." Franco's question carries the weight of years of loyalty.
Yeah, the bike's exposed. One wrong move and I'm painting the cliff with my brains. But it's also faster, more agile. The kind of edge that means the difference between winning and dying. "It's the way to win," I tell him, my tone leaving no room for argument.
The crowd swarms behind the start line like vultures at a feast. Money changes hands, whispers and shouts mixing in the air. Amateur betters pace like caged animals while the real players watch from their private spots, calculating odds with cold eyes. Five cars and my lone bike - the odds aren't in my favor. Good. I work better that way.
The road unfolds ahead like a snake ready to strike: narrow, treacherous, still slick from morning rain. One mistake and you're meeting the rocks at the bottom. They don't call it the Strada della Morte for nothing.
My gaze sweeps the crowd, tactical assessment turning hungry the moment I spot her. Isabella. She's moving toward the front, Naomi tucked against her side like she's trying to shield her friend from all this shit. When her eyes meet mine, something electric sparks in the air between us.
The urge to show off - to flex, to stride over there and claim her mouth in front of everyone - hits hard. Fucking ridiculous.
But then Henrik's strutting toward her like he owns the place, leaning in for a kiss, and suddenly throwing him off the cliff seems like a perfectly reasonable response.
His yelp of pain cuts through the crowd noise. "The bitch bit me!"
Satisfaction burns through me hot as whiskey. That's my girl. My lips curve into a half-grin - until Henrik raises his hand to her and every killer instinct I've got roars to life.
My hand clamps around Henrik's wrist before it can connect, twisting until I feel tendons strain. "What did I tell you before?" My voice drops to that place that makes smarter men run. "Touch her and you're going to regret it."
The polished businessman act shatters. Rage twists his features ugly as the truth he's hiding. "Think you can keep her from me? Just wait. I'll have her in every way, while you'll fade away like some bad dream. She'll bear my kids, and every single scar I leave on her?" His lips curl into something sick. "It'll be a reminder that I bested you."
"You haven't. And you won't." I shove him hard enough to make him stumble, the promise of violence clear in every line of my body.
When Isabella's eyes find mine, everything else blurs like smoke. That look – it’s different, filled with an agony I don’t understand. It’s not like she wants Henrik, does she? Or does she play the same act with all of us?
It doesn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter.
I remind myself—she's just a chip in this game. Just another piece to move across the board. And I'm all too familiar with how ruthless she can turn, just like her father.
That damn price I paid proves it.
She leans in, her lips barely grazing my ear, honeysuckle and danger mixing in my lungs. "Rock - Villa."
No second thoughts. I swing onto my motorcycle, mind already racing through possibilities. Rocks from Villa Maria? A boulder planted to force a crash? What's her play here? What trap is she trying to warn me about?
"Everybody in place!" The command cuts through the morning air like gunfire.
My heart pounds but my hands are steady on the grips. Years of outrunning death have taught me when to trust my instincts.
Connor appears at my side, that Irish smirk playing on his face. "Choosing two wheels over four on this road? They shouldn't call you The Beast, they should call you ready-for-the-asylum."
"I know what I'm doing." My voice carries the weight of every race I've survived. "Don't forget to watch the road."
Engines roar to life around us, the vibrations running through my bones. As the flag drops, we're a blur of speed and fury. I don't give a damn where the others are. On this beast of a bike, they're just specks in my rearview.
The wind batters like fists, my motorcycle's roar vibrating through every bone. The first turn hits me with pure adrenaline - tires screaming against asphalt, death waiting one wrong move away. But this is what I live for. Man and machine becoming one deadly force.
Connor's headlights flash in my mirrors before Henrik, that sadistic bastard, shoots ahead. Connor stays on him like a shadow while the Frenchman... gone. If he met the cliff's edge, Mrs. Lefevre might just step up and show these men how it's really done. That woman's got more steel than most of them combined.
Villa Maria looms ahead, closer than I expected. I ease off the throttle just as Connor charges forward. Then - that sharp bang I've been waiting for. Tire shredding, rubber meeting destiny. They played their hand perfectly. Connor fights the wheel like he's wrestling the devil himself, his car doing a death dance with the edge.
His race ends there.
I gun it, but Henrik's trying his amateur hour bullshit, attempting to force me off the road. Like I haven't survived worse. The finish line beckons through the morning haze, and one thought burns clearer than the rest: I'm going to make Henrik feel every single punch. Slowly.
In one swift move, I right the motorcycle, leaning into a gap so narrow my knee nearly scrapes rock. The cliff edge rushes past like a hungry mouth, one wobble away from swallowing me whole. But this is what I do - turn death into victory. I shoot past Henrik, the engine screaming as I push it harder, eating up asphalt until I blast through the finish line first.
My heart pounds victory against my ribs, blood singing with adrenaline and purpose. One step closer to winning. One step closer to putting that ring on Isabella's finger. One step closer to watching her father's empire crumble.
Tonight, I'm not just beating Henrik in the ring. I'm going to make him pay for every mark he left on her. Every threat. Every twisted promise. And I'll enjoy every second of it.