35. Vlad
CHAPTER 35
VLAD
The door slams behind me, the sound reverberating through the vacant hallway of Eclipse like a gunshot. Heart hammering in my chest, I dial Ivan's number, my hand shaking with both rage and... something else.
" Da ?" he answers curtly.
"Meet me downstairs, in the alley. Bring my racing suit," I bark before ending the call, leaving no room for questions or doubts.
My mind is pounding along with my heart, a strange feeling. As if my entire being vibrates.
I stride toward the elevator, my pace picking up. I wonder if by moving faster, I could outrun the brewing madness, madness ready to spill out and consume all around me. Madness that only comes when you shut off all emotions to torture and kill a man for information. It eats you from the inside out.
And him… Nico Morelli… That the cocky little bastard, thinking he could manipulate me? Over my dead body.
I emerge into the darkness-soaked alley, where the stench of trash and desperation clings to the very air. One of the guys that works for the club is further down, finishing up his cigarette. He offers a tip of his chin by way of greeting when he sees me exiting the building. I don't grace him with any kind of response.
My eyes search for a familiar hulking figure. Of course, Ivan is there, as always, gym bag slung over his broad shoulder.
I don't bother with pleasantries, just wave my hand in the direction of the warehouse, and we set off to the end of the alley. Ivan's footsteps behind me is a steady rhythm counterbalancing my frenzied pace. The noise of the city mirrors the chaos of my thoughts. I try to untangle all these raging emotions but I can't.
In Mexico, I had to do the things I hate doing. And ever since I got out of that room where I did the unspeakable to a complete stranger, I haven't been able to bounce back mentally. It used to be so easy–shuffling between the states of mind. It's not anymore.
As Ivan and I round the corner and approach the warehouse, I punch the code into the keypad and wait for the faint beep.
As soon as the lock disengages, I yank the door open and march inside. Immediately, I'm assaulted by the scent of oil and rubber. I narrow my eyes against the dark and scan rows of vehicles standing at attention, each one whispering promises of escape.
Ivan hits the switch and light pours over the cars and bikes.
My eyes dart from vehicle to vehicle, searching for the right one. Something that can be an outlet. A partner. A lover. Just for tonight.
Then I see it—a sleek black Mustang, all curves and menace. It was here, among the collection of cars—original engine—when I took over the club. No one ever used it. Some said it belonged to Isaac. Some said it belonged to Hawk. One day, Ricky approached me and said it was mine. Its engine's been modified since then, its powers tested more than once.
It's perfect.
I approach slowly, reverently. My hand glides over its smooth surface, feeling the latent energy thrumming beneath even before I turn on the engine.
"Vladimir." Ivan's gruff voice breaks the spell. "I don't like where this is going," he states in Russian.
I turn to face him, jaw clenched. "I don't pay you for your opinions, do I?"
"You pay me to keep you alive," he counters, eyes hard.
"Then do your job and get in the car," I snarl, yanking open the driver's door.
Ivan hesitates, his loyalty probably warring with concern. Good. Let him worry. Let someone else carry this weight for once.
I slide into the seat, gripping the wheel until I can't feel the fingers. The leather creaks beneath me, cradling my body like a rough blanket.
I close my eyes. Nico's face flashes in my mind—hurt, confused. I banish the image, focusing instead on the raw power embracing me, even though I know I was wrong to take my frustration out on him.
To race.
This is what I need. This is how I'll outrun the demons nipping at my heels.
The passenger door opens and Ivan settles in beside me.
"The money?" I ask.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick envelope. I take it and place it into my own pocket.
Then I peel out of the warehouse, tires screeching against the uneven asphalt of the alley before we finally merge with the city traffic. The night swallows us up as we weave through the noisy streets, each turn bringing us closer to the edge of sanity.
Ivan's voice cuts through the engine's growl sometime later. "The Enclave, boss? Is that wise?"
I laugh, the sound sharp and brittle. "Wisdom left the building hours ago, my friend."
"Those guys are sneaky bastards," Ivan presses. "Everyone knows how Serra clawed his way to the top. Why do you keep going there?"
My grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles white and almost cracking. "And how's that different from me?"
Ivan falls silent.
He knows. He's always known.
The truth about me.
I am my father's son.
I accelerate onto the interstate, the cityscape blurring into a fractured image behind the tinted windows. Neon signs and streetlights melt together into a psychedelic dreamscape of urban decay. Each flash of color is a memory I'm desperate to outrun–my father's cold eyes, my mother's lifeless body. Nico's wounded gaze.
The speedometer climbs. A digital tally of my desperation. My thoughts are a tangled web of rage and need, each thread pulling tighter until I'm sure I'll snap.
"You don't have to do this," Ivan murmurs over the purr of the engine. His usual stoicism cracks for a second.
I don't answer. There's no explaining this mayhem inside me, the sudden hurricane of negative emotion threatening to tear me apart. Instead, I push the accelerator further, chasing that razor's edge where everything else falls away.
* * *
On the fringe of the city, where nothing but commercial lots and buildings are chaotically grouped together, the Enclave materializes out of the darkness. All lit up and flashy, as if telling anyone who dares to trespass that this is not their territory.
The Enclave guys don't get involved in the crime underbelly machine unless someone wishes to hire them for their talents. Otherwise, they don't have any claims.
Which works well for everyone.
But they don't like people coming around uninvited either.
Still, I dare.
I dare to impose at the main gate where two armed guys stop my vehicle. After a short delay to check in with the president the metal gate slides open and I drive through.
A cacophony of revving engines and screeching tires assaults my ears as I steer the car to the main building. Window rolled down, I inhale deeply. Inhale it all—the acrid stench of burning rubber, high-octane fuel, old leather, adrenaline drenching the air itself.
I pull up to the pavilion where the rest of the participants are gathered. The racing track sprawls before us, a vast expanse of asphalt carved into the wilderness at the city's edge. A foreign developer's playground, now the domain of self-proclaimed racers and criminals.
"Home sweet home," I mutter, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Ivan's eyes dart nervously. "Boss, maybe we should—"
"Stay with the car," I cut him off, climbing out into the electric atmosphere.
The crowd, eyes curious, parts as I stride past the sea of painted chrome. There are whispers behind my back. But that's okay. People have been misjudging me all my life. One of my superpowers.
I'm a shark in a pool of minnows, and they know it. They've seen me race, seen me in action. They don't collect my fee at the gate anymore. They collect it here, at the hub of all the VIP activities.
The pavilion rises ahead as I approach the entrance where a makeshift throne room is erected for the king of this asphalt jungle. I spot him immediately–the main man of the Enclave.
He's not always here but he is today, perched on a black chair atop a small pedestal. Every lithe inch of him screaming that he is the ruler of his domain. Slim and tall, with shoulders that speak of hours spent sculpting perfection. His face is a contradiction of features–puffy lips and high cheekbones, and sharp eyes that calculate my every move.
Leather clings to his body—jacket and tight pants—in a way that you wonder if he was born this way. He's a jewelry man. A thick chain around his neck. Several rings on his fingers. Both ears are pierced, a definite act of rebellion against the societal norms of his mother's land.
For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine a different scenario—bumping into this man at a bar, buying him a drink, seeing where the night leads. But reality crashes back as he flashes a foxy smile, acknowledging me with a slow nod. If I didn't know Nico, if I didn't feel things for him, I would have probably like someone like Jun Serra.
"Look what the cat dragged in," he drawls, voice smooth, but the hint of sarcasm is there. "I didn't think Vlad Solovey would stoop so low and come over to race himself. I thought last time you were here was a matrix glitch."
I meet his gaze, refusing to be cowed. "What can I say? Sometimes you need to get your hands dirty."
He leans forward, interest piqued. "And what has the great Vlad Solovey so... desperate for a thrill?"
Memories of Nico resurface. "Let's just say I have some steam to blow off."
"Don't we all?" He chuckles, his eyes roaming over me. "Well, you know the rules. Entry fee's steep for newcomers. Once you complete ten races, then we can talk about a discount."
I reach into my jacket, pulling out a thick envelope. "Will this cover it?"
His eyebrows raise slightly as he takes in the sum. "My, my. Someone's feeling lucky tonight."
As he pockets the cash, I ask, "And you? Feeling lucky yourself... Jun?"
His smile widens, a predator sensing weakness. "Always, Vlad. Always." Then he jumps off the pedestal and takes a few steps in my direction. Arm thrown casually across my shoulder, he leads me out and I play his little game.
"Let's see what you're riding today, my friend," he whispers in my ear as we stride back to my car, side by side as if old buddies. I actually don't mind this display of friendship. It serves my purpose.
Jun's voice drops to a murmur only I can hear. "So, Vlad, how are you really doing? Word on the street is you've snagged yourself quite the Italian prize."
My blood runs cold. Even the Enclave knows Nico and I are a thing. I keep my face impassive.
Jun chuckles, a low sound that sets my teeth on edge. "Or should I say, Italian stallion? That's what they're calling him around here."
Fury ignites in my chest, white-hot and consuming. Before I can stop myself, I hiss, "Watch what you're saying."
Jun's eyes widen in mock innocence as he steps back and looks at me, hands raised. "Hey now, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just repeating what I hear."
I force myself to take a deep breath, unclenching my fists. "Just... get me set up for the race."
"Of course," Jun purrs, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Wouldn't want to keep you from your... escape."
I turn away, desperate to put distance between us. He's dangerous. He looks young and innocent, like a fashion model trying to pull off bad boy vibes, but everyone knows he's older than me. Almost pushing forty.
The world blurs as I make my way to the changing area. There, as I peel off my shirt and pants, Nico's face flashes before me again. I shove the image away, focusing on the race ahead.
Ivan materializes at my side as I approach the car later on. Our eyes meet briefly, volumes passing between us. As I step toward the driver's side, he retreats, giving me the space I need.
My hand trembles slightly as I grasp the door handle. The cool metal grounds me, but my thoughts churn like a tempest-tossed sea. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, a heady cocktail of fear and anticipation. For a moment, I'm paralyzed by indecision.
But it passes quickly.
And then I'm behind the wheel, all suited up, ready to risk it all.
The starter's flag drops. Engines erupt. I slam the gas, my body pressed back into the seat.
Tires screech. Metal groans. My heart thunders.
The track unfurls before me like an asphalt ribbon slicing through the night. I weave through the pack, each move planned, desperate.
A memory emerges—Mom's laugh, bright and clear.
I grit my teeth, taking a turn too sharp. The car fishtails.
"Fuck!" I snarl, wrestling for control.
Another memory—Mom's casket, lowering into the ground.
My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. The speedometer climbs.
Hundred and twenty. Hundred and thirty. Hundred and forty.
Sasha's terrified face when Logan and I found him after Toro's men took him on the order of Shtyk.
Hundred and fifty. Hundred and sixty.
Nico's eyes, filled with hurt and betrayal.
"Fuck!" I growl, shaking my head violently.
The wind howls outside, beating against the Mustang's body. Exhaust fumes seep through the vents, acrid and choking. My heart pounds a frantic bruise against my ribs.
I take another turn, tires squealing in protest. The car in front of me wavers.
An opening.
I gun it, slipping past with inches to spare. The finish line is the only thing on my mind, a shimmering mirage.
But it's more than a race now. It's a hopeless flight from my demons, from the ghosts that haunt me.
And I feel like I'm running out of track.