Chapter 1
DOMINIC AND CLAUDIA’S STORY
“Took you long enough. My grandma rides faster than you.”
Emilio elbows his identical twin, Massimo, cackling at his joke.
“God, Em, cut it out. You’re not even funny. You promised you’d behave.”
Emilio smirks.
“Fuck you. I am behaving.”
These guys chirping in my ear are driving me crazy already. It was Holli’s idea to add mics in our helmets since it’s January and freezing, with temperatures already below normal, making it impossible to ride without helmets like we did in the fall.
I rev the throttle.
The bike’s rumble vibrates through my legs, turning the relentless hum in my brain into something quieter, at least for a moment. Outside the late-night coffee shop—our latest rendezvous to warm up—exhaust fumes rise in the punishing cold.
Diego flips his visor up, winking at me. He’s the one I trust the most, though Hollister is always messaging me and trying to get me to show up to these rides.
Emilio’s mouth is already running, and I haven’t even cut my engine yet. Massimo stands beside him, arms crossed, looking like he’s bracing for whatever reckless thing his brother might say or do.
I kill my engine and peel off my helmet, killing their annoying voices in my ear. My vape is in my jacket pocket, peppermint-laced nicotine that dulls my overthinking.
Doesn’t calm me.
Not nearly enough.
Emilio mimics me by yanking his helmet off. Massimo doesn’t, flipping his visor instead. Still astride his bike, Diego is texting Isabella like a whipped puppy.
Or whipped pussy.
I’m glad for him. He’s got a hell of a woman with a hell of a father. A new family from his own.
I’d be a son of a bitch to be jealous of him, and yet I am. Diego’s idol is his girlfriend’s dad. Badass. My idols died decades and centuries ago. No one is worth idol worship in my eyes. But Dr. Rossi gets close.
Emilio points at my hands while stuffing his in his leather jacket pockets.
“Bet you’ll regret not wearing gloves once we hit the highway. Frostbite on the knuckles, man.”
I roll my eyes.
His concern is as vapid as he is. He’d fucking love it if I got frostbite. Make a special trip to the hospital to laugh his ass off at my expense.
“Feeling is overrated.”
The words come out clipped. Don’t need him telling me how cold my hands will get when the wind chill’s below zero—I’m already well aware and regret coming. I glare at him, exhaling a slow plume of vapor.
Hollister slides closer, cradling a paper cup. Steam wafts from the tiny opening.
“Got you a black coffee, Dom. No peppermint. Figured your vape had you covered.”
He offers it without a word about my mood, trying to be thoughtful.
“Where’s mine, Holli?” Emilio whines, his hands trying to reach for mine before his brother punches his chest, and he crumples. “Damn, bro.”
Holli hands it over, ignoring Emilio’s snicker yet sending him a scathing glare on my behalf, which is unnecessary.
I don’t need help beating Emilio’s ass. The first time we met, he ran that fucking mouth too much, and I had him pinned and bloody in no time.
That was until his brother tackled my ass and had us throwing punch for punch.
Hollister grabbed Massimo.
Diego grabbed me.
He whispered that everyone does that to Emilio. Not to sweat it. The fool popped up from the ground, blood all over him, and shook my hand. I’ve learned that he loves to fight—his mouth starts most of them.
I glance at the cup and tilt my head.
“Thanks, Hollister.”
I take it because refusing would be more of a hassle than it’s worth.
It’s some weird thing Hollister started when I complained of the cold last winter.
Now, every time we meet up, I’m usually the last one after debating a thousand times in my head about coming.
Hollister’s always waiting for me with a coffee.
A quick sip, then I press my lips together. It’s too bitter but better than the biting cold and gnawing wind. Massimo throws a leg over his bike, straddling it.
“Can we get rolling? My toes are numb.”
Emilio lets out a noisy sigh.
“Don’t be a bitch, Mas. It’s winter. Of course, your toes are numb. Suck it up.”
Massimo’s jaw sets.
“I’m not the one running my mouth nonstop and nearly getting smacked.”
Emilio’s grin widens. He leans over, shoulder-bumping Massimo.
“I love you too, bro.”
Diego, who’s oddly quiet tonight, tucks his phone in his pocket, zips his jacket to his chin, and taps his front wheel to mine.
Our silent check-in.
I shrug.
He knows that means I’m not in the mood for a heart-to-heart, but I’m not about to bail yet. Hollister’s the one who texted me all morning, but Diego’s the only person here who really understands how desperate I am for this distraction.
I should be in the lab right now.
I’ve been dodging everyone—my advisor, peers, the department chair—because I’m close. Close to finishing the research, I nearly got crucified for it at Princeton. Close to proving I’m not a delusional freak with a god complex.
They laughed at me back then. Called it theoretical madness. A memory-reactive compound that could identify trauma signatures on a molecular level.
Too sci-fi.
Too unstable.
Too much.
It’s not.
Fuck them.
I’ll prove those fuckers wrong.
“So, we riding, or standing around freezing?” I chime in, sounding too much like the impatient twin. I toss the mostly full drink in the trash while Hollister settles on his bike. Emilio rakes a hand through his hair.
“We’re definitely riding. I’m tired of you pussies bailing because it’s too cold outside. It’s Boston, what the fuck do you expect?” Emilio shoves his brother’s shoulder. “Hey, you want the scenic route or the backroads?”
Massimo shoots him a pointed look.
“You always pick the route that ends up with us trying to outrun the cops, or sliding on black ice.”
Emilio cackles, sending puffs of hot breath into the cold air. His eyes flash with idiocy. A common term Diego uses to describe him. I’m inclined to agree.
“That was one time! And we outran them, didn’t we?”
Diego tightens his gloves, shoving his visor down and draping over the handlebars with a disinterest that’s usually my signature move.
“We got lucky. Let’s keep it chill,” Hollister answers for the group.
I take another drag from my vape before tucking it away to check my phone.
Nothing special, just another text from the lab about tomorrow’s meeting.
My mind starts buzzing with tasks, data sets, and obligations.
The noise in my head spikes. I exhale through my nose and slip my phone into my pocket.
If this ride doesn’t help, I’ll smoke a joint when I get home.
“Holli Halls! I don’t want to—”
“Let’s go! We’ll head toward the outskirts, maybe loop back by Silhouette for something warm,” Hollister cuts off Emilio and earns a smirk from me.
His brother rubs his hands together, flipping his visor down. Diego just revs his bike, appearing more ready than any of us.
Emilio pulls on his helmet and shouts through the mic, which blares through my ears the same minute I tug my helmet on. “Last one there buys drinks.”
Massimo groans, zipping his jacket.
“You always say that and then cheat. How about we stay together for once?”
Emilio revs his engine in response, tires squealing on the ice-flecked asphalt. I roll my eyes and jam down the volume of my mic so everyone is barely a whisper. Their muffled voices are a welcome relief from the swirling in my brain.
We roar out onto the street in a ragged line—Emilio up front, Diego near me, Hollister and Massimo trailing. The wind is bitter, stabbing my fingers. It’s fucking miserable. If my goddamn brain didn’t need some relief, my cold ass wouldn’t be sitting on this freezing bike blasting down the street.
Emilio slows to fall in line with the guys behind us. Probably plotting some stupid stunt and forcing his brother to keep him in line. At the first red light, Emilio jumps off his bike, sprints to me, and flips open his visor to speak.
“Is your mic not working? I can’t hear you!”
He wiggles his eyebrows like a bratty kid.
My heartbeat thuds against my ribs. My hands curl tighter around my handles, restraining myself from punching him. I flash him double birds, refusing to raise the volume of my mic or speakers.
It’s enough that my ass is out here.
I don’t need to hear him chirping like a bird in my inner ear. Doesn’t he ever get tired of fucking talking?
He swats away my freezing hands and then runs back to his bike. His brother leans over, pats Emilio’s helmet, and slams his visor down. They bicker over the mics, mine low enough that it doesn’t bother me as much as it usually does.
“Chill, Em. You’ll wake up in a ditch if you don’t pay attention to the ice.”
“Whatever. I’m not the one who almost wiped out last time on that tight turn. That was you, Mas.”
“Stop bickering. Light’s green,” Diego’s irritated voice rumbles louder through the mic.
Something is definitely up his ass. Hollister guns it forward. Everyone follows.
The city recedes as we head toward emptier roads.
Apartment buildings give way to barren trees and salt-stained paved shoulders.
The rumble of the bike merges with the roar in my ears.
Each rev is a wave of static to cancel out the incessant churn of outstanding project tasks that clutter my thoughts.
Emilio darts forward, swerving around Hollister, then slows to practically dare the rest of us to catch up. Massimo’s behind him, shaking his head. I speed up, a jolt of adrenaline hitting my veins.
We cruise onto a back road, snow piled on either side.
Diego and Hollister keep a steady pace, but Emilio tries to go wide on a curve, forcing me to slow down or risk colliding.
I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to snap at him through my comms. When we finally stop at a crossroads, my temper is fuming.
I yank my visor up and bark, “Trying to get us killed?”
Emilio laughs and pushes his visor open.