Chapter 8 – VALENTINA
Eight
VALENTINA
Two Weeks Later
“Are you going to be this quiet all night?”
Remi drums her nails on the steering wheel as the light turns red, her eyes flicking toward me in question.
I’m not trying to be cryptic, I just don’t know what to say.
Between being sidelined with this damn cast, canceling races for the next few weeks, and whatever the hell is happening with Maksim, my head’s a mess. I can’t think straight.
“No. I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind,” I say, glancing at her before turning back to the window.
Not racing makes me cranky as fuck, sure. But if I’m honest, that’s not what’s eating at me. For the first time, something else has taken priority. Someone else.
I’ve spent the last two weeks with a man I used to see as family—but that connection’s long gone. Two weeks of tension. Fourteen days of breathing the same air, doing everything I can to touch him without making it obvious. Of dancing around the feelings I know I shouldn’t be feeling.
And yet every time he leaves, when things go quiet, my mind drifts where it shouldn’t.
Because all I can think about is how it’d feel to climb into his lap and taste how sweet my favorite cereal would be on his lips.
“I can imagine. I know all this sucks, but that’s exactly why I’m dragging you out here tonight. You need fresh air—”
“Did you already forget what happened the last time you said that to me?”
“Shit. I take that back.”
With a laugh, I twist to face her, debating whether to let her in on my secret.
Normally, I’d never skip a vent session with Remi, but I decide to keep this mine a little longer.
After all, my emotions are a mess, clouding my thoughts and judgment.
Maybe when I’m fully functional and out of this cast, the novelty of his return will fade, and this crush along with it.
Sure, I’ll roll with that.
“You’re right. This is exactly what I need. Just a fun night, out with the girls, the sweet smell of exhaust and burnt tires in the air. Doesn’t get any better than that.”
I roll the window down, close my eyes, and let the night air tangle through my hair as we hit the highway.
“Keep your hands inside the ride, princess,” Remi warns, a wicked grin curving her mouth, then the engine roars, tires screaming against the asphalt.
“Yes!”
She pushes her Demon past a hundred, and that familiar rush ignites in my blood. Remi’s the only person I trust behind the wheel at these speeds. She was born for this.
I snap off my seatbelt, brace my good leg on the seat, and lift myself toward the sunroof. The slap of wind nearly steals my breath, but I throw an arm high above my head and yell into the night, laughing as the world blurs around us.
“Valentina!” she yells, voice nearly drowned out. “Get your ass back in this car!”
I linger in that feeling for a few more seconds before dropping back into the seat, still laughing as she shoots me a pointed look.
“What? You never said keep my head in the car.”
“I hate you. You want me on Uncle Derek’s hit list next?”
“You love me. And he would never.” I pause, rolling the window back up, the roar of the highway fading to a low hum. “Did he really say that, though? About Maksim being on his hit list? I mean, not literally, but…you know.”
She sucks her teeth and keeps her hands tight on the wheel. “Not in those exact words…but yeah, basically.”
My stomach drops and I go back to watching the lights slide by.
Most people treat “I’ll kill him” like a joke, just a phrase.
But my dad is not most people. He has a body count that would land him straight into the chair or in front of a firing squad.
It’s a fact I’ve known for a while. We all know the truth about our families.
While other kids got the birds and the bees, we got contingency plans and how to line up a shot.
Remi’s brow twitches as she glances my way, like she knows there’s more beneath the question. “And what—deal with Aunt Leni after? Not a chance.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I sigh, though the unease lingers, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
She reaches over, giving my arm a squeeze. “Val, relax. He doesn’t look like the type you can off easily anyway. Your Maxy’s safe.”
I swat her arm, a laugh slipping out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Is it supposed to mean anything other than he’s your childhood best friend?”
“No,” I lie, too quickly. She sees right through it but lets it go.
The growl of engines grows louder as we pull into the parking lot of Speedway Blue, a legal drag circuit just outside the city. It’s no Furia, not even close, but it’s where it all started for me. The first time I saw a race in person, and the first time I fell in love with this world.
“Come on, the girls saved us some seats behind the pit.” Remi climbs out, and I follow, right before a matte black Nissan GT-R with subtle red accents glides to a stop in front of us.
“Asshole,” she mutters, hand poised to slap the hood just as the driver’s door swings open.
Out steps a tall, obnoxiously handsome man wearing a cocky smirk I’d know anywhere.
Ryuji Kuroda. Yakuza royalty.
He slicks back his dark hair and gives us a nod, though his gaze stays locked on Remi.
Always on Remi.
It’s no secret that the heir to the Kuroda empire has a soft spot for my beautiful cousin.
And she’s not immune to his swagger and good looks either. She just hides it well, pretending he’s nothing more than a rival. But I can spot a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers plot from a mile away.
I nudge her with my crutch, and she rolls her eyes.
“Did you know he’d be here tonight? Is that why we came?” I ask, turning the tables on her.
“Of course not,” she whispers-yells.
Maybe encouraging a relationship with someone from a crime syndicate family isn’t exactly wise. But are we really that different? Maybe it’s why things with Cole never felt right. His father is a pediatrician, his mom a fourth-grade math teacher.
Holiday get-togethers would have been awkward as fuck.
Men like Maksim, like Ryuji, just…make sense. That’s why our parents, with the exception of my mom, share a love so deep and so unique. And while my dad loves her with the same ferocity, their bond didn’t come easy.
The thought of Remi dating a cop suddenly flashes in my mind, and I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity.
“Hey! You’re that Poison Ivy chick. What happened to your leg? You crash out or something?”
A young boy leans against the open passenger door of the GT-R, arms draped over the top. He looks strikingly similar to Ryuji, except his hair is longer on top and tied into a bun.
“Poison Ivy…chick?” I echo, mildly offended, but considering his age, I let it slide. Being a girl in the street racing circuit means that no matter how many wins you rack up, someone will still underestimate you and reduce you to a nickname.
“Renji.” Ryuji’s voice is sharp, the kind you use when scolding a younger sibling. Something I know all too well.
Then it clicks. The resemblance, the matching attitude, the fact that they stepped out of the same car.
Kuroda brothers.