47. Vlad
CHAPTER 47
VLAD
Weeks blur into an indistinct fog, like watercolors bleeding together on a canvas. Night and day—it's all the same now. Work, racing, spending my lonely evenings online, stalking him.
This pain caused by the loss of one thing that made me happy feels like there's a piece of glass embedded in my soul. And every time I take a breath, it's cutting deeper and deeper. Soon, my heart will be sliced into ribbons of blood and tissue. Soon, I will stop experiencing emotions altogether. But until then, I'll allow myself this one weakness—to watch from the sidelines as he rises, taking his rightful place at the helm of his uncle's empire.
Whispers reach my ears, praising his leadership, his strength. It's a bitter pill to swallow.
It's why I did what I did. To give him a chance to have everything he deserves.
But it hurts anyway.
And there's just one way to dull this agony, to turn it off for a second.
The race.
Engine's roar shattering the calm of the desert night surrounding the track of the Enclave is always a welcome sound. Jun's underground racing mecca on the outskirts of Vegas has become my second home these past few weeks.
Each time the flag drops and the rumble of the horsepower vibrates through my bones, I'm transported back to those reckless days in Moscow. I was young and had a small role in my father's business. Back then, on the track I could forget what I was and what I did. Just like today out here, on this track, I can almost forget too. For a fleeting moment, my heart pounds with something other than anguish.
So night after night, I slip into the driver's seat. My tires scream against asphalt as I hurtle forward, the world diminishing into streaks of lights and shadows. The speedometer climbs, the needle quivering like a dagger's point. Higher, faster, until the very air seems to fracture around me.
For a few glorious seconds, I am untouchable, immortal. The past and the future fall away, leaving only the razor's edge of the present. But as quickly as it comes, the rush fades, leaving me hollow. An empty vessel desperately seeking something, anything, to fill the void.
As I cross the finish line, the cheers of the crowd sound distant, muffled by the weight of my own existence. I stumble from the car, my body thrumming with fading adrenaline. Around me, the night is filled with a feverish energy, but inside, I am numb.
I crave that fleeting high, that moment of oblivion when the pain recedes and I can breathe again. But it's never enough. Like a junkie chasing the remedy, I am forever seeking that elusive fix, knowing full well that it will never satisfy the gaping wound within.
* * *
An oppressive silence blankets my home office as I remove my jacket and study the new racing suit that has arrived today. Custom-made. Beautiful. Black with a drop of white. Ivan stands before me, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on my person.
"Are you going there again tonight?" He chooses his words carefully as if measuring each one against a potential fallout. Beneath it all, worry threads its way into the fragile spaces between us.
I don't grace him with a look. My attention is on the suit. "Not your business, Ivan. You're hired to follow me and protect me, not question my decisions."
"I can't protect you on the racetrack, Vladimir, not when you're gunning your car at three hundred miles per hour."
I shift my gaze at him. "So what?"
There's a pause, tense and meaningful. Ivan takes a breath. "Maybe not tonight."
"I'm in the mood to go tonight ," I contend. A muscle in his jaw moves.
"What is it?" I ask, knowing him enough to realize he's not telling me something.
"Word on the street..." He hesitates, his eyes searching mine. "Shtyk is back in the States. Esteban's men said he is no longer at Guanajuato."
The mention of this name hits me like a physical blow. A reaction I didn't anticipate. I expect for more. Expect for hatred to come, for this anger that's still in me, buried deep down, to resurface. But as seconds tick by, I'm left with a realization that Shtyk no longer triggers that animalistic need to kill in me. It's more of ambivalence that I feel. Or rather not feel.
Parts of me remain detached. My sole purpose is to chase that fleeting high and the thought of ending Shtyk's life doesn't do it anymore. Doesn't get my blood bubbling like before.
"I'm going to the Enclave," I tell Ivan and leave the room.
* * *
Later that night, the familiar roar of multiple engines greets me as I arrive at the track. I silently drive my car past the psyched crowd. I'm told I have fans. My racing earned me that much. But their faces are part of the blur in my peripheral. I don't know a single soul here except for Seven who usually comes along to these things with me as my mechanic.
Ivan is a shadow. He's just there, in the background. A plan B in case something happens. But Jun runs this place tight. No one and nothing, unless approved by him, gets past the entrance. Ivan's worry that I may get killed is unfounded. The only thing that can kill you at the Enclave is your car if you have communication problems.
And I'm a damn good driver. Always have been.
Again, I exchange terse nods with a few of my rivals as I climb out of the vehicle. Shtyk's rumored return is suddenly on my mind. Questions burn in my head, but I swallow them back, focusing instead on the thrill of the impending race.
I change just like I do every time, then return to the track and I fall into the familiar ritual of preparation. My hands glide over the lines of the car, checking the engine, the tires, every detail with a knowing eye. Seven does a great job. He deserves a bonus , I remind myself as I slide my helmet on, secure it.
The world narrows to this moment, this singular purpose.
Then I'm in my seat, completely at the mercy of the car I chose to bring over tonight. My hands curl around the steering wheel, my foot poised over the accelerator.
In the distance, the flag rises, a splash of color against the night sky. The engines rev, a crescendo of sound that drills through my very bone marrow. My hands curl around the steering wheel, my foot firm over the accelerator.
For a second, I am at peace. The chaos inside my mind is quieted by the promise of the race. Here, on the fringe of speed and danger, I am alive, untethered from the burdens of my past and the uncertainties of my future.
The flag drops, and I surge forward, the car leaping beneath me. The surroundings are reduced to a patterns of light, and I am lost in the rush.
The tires shriek against the asphalt. Heart pounding. Breath ragged. The speed climbs higher, numbers blending together.
My competitors become nothing more than smears of color in my peripheral vision. I weave through them, daring, reckless. The adrenaline is a drug, and I am its willing slave.
Trying to outrun the ghosts. They cling to me, whispering oaths of retribution. Shtyk's face flashes before my eyes. Then Nico's. Then Mama's.
I don't know who I am anymore. I push harder. The car becomes an extension of my will, a weapon against the demons that haunt me.
The course twists like a serpentine ribbon of no return. I take each curve with precision, tires barely kissing the edge of oblivion. The other racers fall away, mere specks in my rearview mirror.
Another sharp hairpin that demands absolute focus. A flicker of doubt creeps in. The car seems to have a mind of its own.
And then time slows. I am suspended in a moment of perfect clarity, the past and future colliding in a dizzying kaleidoscope of images and everything I should have done differently or haven't done at all.
My stomach lurches.
The last thing I see before the darkness claims me is a flash of crimson against the stark desert night, a splash of color that could be blood or just another trick of the light.