Chapter 35
Scarlett
Today is the day of the actual Stars and Stripes Vintage Classic race. Not a prelim. The race.
I sweep my hair back from my face with both hands, standing in the bathroom that’s tucked inside the service bay.
Same place I had sex with Bohnes once upon a time.
I’ve got my helmet sitting on the back of the toilet, my racing suit, the one that reads The Crimson Crew across the back, folded to my waist. I’m wearing a sports bra, but my belly is bare.
I put both hands on the edge of the sink and lean in, ignoring the roar of the crowd outside.
Crowds don’t bother me. I thrive off of crowds.
Even the protestors out front (wouldn’t be surprised if they were paid) with the signs that read No Russian Mob Princesses!
and Yes, in Prescott’s backyard! don’t bother me.
Today is the race, yes. It’s also the day that I present our case to Uncle Burt and find out if I’ve won the bet (and the Facel Vega).
If what we’ve done is enough to consider our debt paid.
Chet is dead. Jonas is prime for the takedown.
If Burt says no, I’ll start implementing the next steps in my plan.
Release Jonas’ porn history to the public.
Release the rest of Ash’s abuse videos. Bait the man into doing something reckless and stupid.
Shoot him in the head and plead with Burt for the tiny technicality of him being dead and not in court to take the fall for everything.
I’m sure we could come up with another alibi.
With a slam of my palms against the edge of the sink, I make myself stand up straight. Lift my chin. Proud eyes in a determined face. However today goes, it’ll be a success. I’ll win the race. I’ll sign with Burt’s talent agency.
Aaaand I’ll get to steal his car with its sexy suicide doors. My very own mob car, and it’ll taste like victory.
I turn abruptly and unlock the door, storming out in my boots in the direction of Widow’s Stingray. If I was brave enough to race this thing against Aspen during our first race together, with so much on the line, then I can do it today, easy.
Jonas is in the crowd, but we predicted that.
Burt is in the crowd on the opposite side of the stadium, but we knew about that, too.
Hopefully, Chet’s absence will keep Jonas relaxed.
Make him think we pinned it all on his colleague.
You should never fully back your enemy into a corner unless you’re ready to finish things.
A man with no escape left fights ten times harder than one with the option of cowardice.
“Helmet,” Basti calls out as I yank my suit back up, slide my arms into the sleeves, and let Nisha put my driving gloves on for me.
The helmet is dunked on my head last minute because, quite frankly, I feel like a bitch wearing it to race when I’ve done riskier shit back home in Prescott.
Whatever. Rules are rules, eh? “All this shit is fireproof, you know? Don’t act like it isn’t actually better to be safe. We’re not mobsters, remember?”
I flip Basti off with my upside-down cross.
He knows how obsessed I am with being a crime boss, how deliriously mad it makes me.
I wet my lips and close my eyes, fighting off a shiver of desire.
No, Scarlett! You are going to win this race, get signed with Burt’s agency, and find a place of peace in an inartistic world.
Opening my eyes, I crack my knuckles. Roll my shoulders. Find Nisha peering at me with a deep frown on her red-painted lips, repping our crew with her lip color. The back-to-back crescent moon design is what’s shaved into her hair now.
“I don’t like Jonas being here.” Nisha stares hard at me, nervous about the mayor’s attendance.
The boys and I were counting on it. Even with Burt here, Jonas is shameless, bringing his protesters to target me.
That’s the odd part of it all, I’d say. With the news about Chet and Polina (that is, that he murdered her and took off), I’d think Jonas would feel a tad more satisfied with his future prospects.
“The protesters are odd,” I begin, keeping my voice low.
It’d be easy to end up overheard or recorded in this place.
Nisha’s got the bug detector thing, but eh, Alexis got me with old-fashioned eavesdropping.
It’s always a good idea to be careful in public.
I make sure not to say anything that’d give away a secret, even if we were spied on.
“You’d think Jonas would be more careful about insulting us in the presence of the family.
If he’s not being cautious, does he think he’s out of their reach? ”
The board on the wall starts an automatic countdown, indicating that it’s time for me to get into the Stingray and hit the starting grid.
“Be careful today, Queen.” Nisha sighs as I put my hand on her shoulder and stroll between her and Basti in the direction of the driver’s side door.
Bastian scrambles ahead of me, eager to open it up.
Our eyes meet above the door as Nisha closes in again from behind.
Glancing to my right, I can just barely spot the private loge box where the boys will be sitting.
Since today is the actual Stars and Stripes race, the racetrack is full to capacity. Some of the protesters are in here, too, with paid seats and signs that read, KEEP THE MOB OUT OF SPRINGFIELD!!!!!
Sigh.
Poor idiots. If they end up executed by the family, that ain’t my problem.
Burt is going to be pissed about all this unnecessary press.
Whatever Jonas did behind the scenes, he’s got the public stirred up.
This helps explain why Burt wanted him ruined before he wanted him dead.
If we made Jonas disappear now, the political and business climate for Borisov Group would get infinitely worse.
Okay. So, I do like the murdering and the adrenaline and the vengeance stuff, but I hate the politics.
Yeah, yeah, action star who does her own stunts sounds a lot more palatable, provided I can stay well away from Hollyweird.
“Smoke ‘em, and be done with it. No stunts. No extra damage to hubby’s car that I have to later fix.” Basti leans over the door and presses a loving kiss against the front of my stupid-ass helmet.
“You guys are acting like I’m reckless or somethin’.
” I throw a wink over my shoulder that’d have Nisha blushing if she hadn’t been born with a natural and unusual resistance to my flirtatious charms. I tug the visor down.
“Where’s all that worry coming from? Today isn’t about taking risks. This is bringing home the bacon, baby.”
Nisha swats my ass and sighs, moving aside with Basti so that I can head out of the garage in the Vette.
Bohnes appears like a specter behind a shiny red tool cabinet.
He blows me a demonic kiss, and I blow one back.
I’m worried about him, still bandaged up and in recovery, crawling all over a stadium this size and filled with so many hostile people.
The other boys are in the loge box with Emma Jean, her press pass hanging proudly around her neck, a pink balaclava over her head that’s certainly drawing plenty of attention.
Alexei might be with Uncle Burt by now. We discussed whether he thought it’d be a good idea for him to go say hello before the end of the race or not.
I trust his judgment on that one.
“Hopefully Widow keeps Ash from fixating on Jonas,” I murmur to myself, reaching out for the radio and pausing with my manicured fingers on the knob. The checkered flags and flames and violent red polish, it looks obscene against the old radio, still set to KMZI 66.6.
The Nightmare sign is on our entryway wall.
The radio station is dead. The speakeasy has been bulldozed.
The street I was born and raised on, obliterated.
The Prescott neighborhood will never be the same, especially after I take the cream of the crop, the best and brightest, on a one-way trip outta this shithole.
What’s going to be left of the culture after I go, hmm?
Will future generations of Prescott hooligans even race anymore? Will they call each other Nightmares? Get their nails done somewhere like Treasure’s? I have no idea.
All I get on the station is static.
With a minute or so to spare, I use my phone as a very poor substitute for KMZI 66.6.
‘Another Dimension Holy Dude !!!!!!!!’ by T.O.P.
is what I end up picking. Unusual choice for me, more low-key in sound, but dead-on in the lyrics.
Can’t understand ‘em for shit. Hype did a quickie translation for me yesterday, and I was sold. Yesterday, before Widow’s private birthday party in our bedroom.
Dumb bastard claimed he wanted me all to himself, and then got uncomfortable with the idea of leaving Bohnes, Alexei, and Ash downstairs without us.
I was not the one who invited those three into the room to join us.
So. Fucking. Cute.
I slam my palms against the steering wheel in quiet triumph, waiting impatiently for the waving of the green flag. Who else could’ve taken four mentally ill, violent boys and blended them into a family with such ease? I’m a master at what I do.
My eyes seek out the other loge boxes. Can’t see much from here, but after Bohnes did his initial round, he let me know which box had Burt and his driver, and which held Jonas.
They’re directly opposite one another on the far side of the track.
The boys are the closest to the front where the garage is.
Just outside the service bay, there are the protesters.
Apparently they have a permit to be there.
Our side has to make do with filling the audience, an overwhelming sea of signs with positive messages for me.
One says, If She Can Ride It, She Can Win It.
One of my girls for sure. The crew is scattered all throughout the crowd, half with me and half back home, our usual routine.
I squeeze my driving gloves around the steering wheel, making it squeak.
The green flag is waved, and my boots—because I was too practical for heels today—hit the pedals.
Off we go, a spray of color and metal and rubber tires on cold pavement.
I’m familiar enough with the P-Trip track that I could race it blindfolded, just like I did once at the Prescott track.
If life were a racing game, this is easy mode.
I learned to drive on the impossible track, the master track.
The Prescott version of Mario Kart’s Rainbow Road.
It’s hard for me to believe that this is as easy as it is.
What’s the quote I’m looking for? Happiness can only be achieved in proportion to one’s suffering?
Ah. Yeah. That.
Good adage. Great. Real fuckin’ accurate.
How am I supposed to be happy then, if it’s this easy?
Hah.