Santos 🥊
Chapter 46
Lorenzo
The deep, low rumble of modified engines echoes off the corrugated iron walls of the abandoned warehouse district.
The gates are open, but the actual party won't kick off for another half hour.
Right now, it's just the calm before the storm a raw, gritty world filled with the sharp scent of gasoline, burning rubber, and the heavy clanking of metal tools.
Instantly, my pulse settles. The heavy pressure that usually suffocates a Calloway begins to fade, replaced by a cold, sharp focus.
But my mind isn't entirely clear.
Not yet.
It still pisses me off how she talks to me. She snaps, she glares, and she looks at me like I'm something she wants to fucking scrub off the bottom of her shoe.
But the fucked-up part?
I don't mind. Not really.
In fact, it's intoxicating. No one talks to me without a fake, polite mask on.
Everyone else desperately tries to please a Calloway, chasing my approval like dogs begging for scraps.
Sophia doesn't give a single shit who I am.
She says exactly what she thinks the exact second she thinks it, staring me down with those fierce, unapologetic eyes under the harsh bathroom lights.
A dark smirk tugs at the corner of my lips as I step out of my G-Wagon.
So yeah, I'm fucking glad I'm here right now.
I need to burn off the restless, chaotic tension she left under my skin.
I walk straight toward my crew's designated spot.
The grounds are a hive of activity as the different mechanic teams frantically prep their bikes, tuning up engines before the crowds and the loud music take over the space.
"Take the red bike," Luis, my head mechanic, says without looking up from his diagnostic screen. He's the only guy in this underground circuit I actually trust with my life and my machine.
I slide my heavy leather biker jacket over my shoulders, zipping it up with a sharp click as I walk over to the machine. I run my knuckles along the sleek, matte-red frame, inspecting the new modifications he's spent the last week perfecting in secret.
"It's fully locked and loaded," Luis tells me, finally looking up with a rare, grease-stained grin. "New engine block, completely overhauled suspension, and fresh racing tires. She's ready to fly, Calloway. Just needs you to test the throttle."
"Yesss! Time to party!" Alex's loud, obnoxious voice cuts through the clanking of wrenches.
He arrives looking fully ready to tear the night apart.
He's got an open bottle of expensive champagne clutched in one hand and a stunning, red-haired girl draped over his other side.
The girl is supposedly with him, but the second her eyes lock onto me, her gaze lingers just a fraction too long, heavy with an invitation I have zero interest in accepting.
I ignore her completely, keeping my eyes fixed on the red frame.
"This show tonight is going to be legendary, man," Alex gushes, slamming his palm against mine in a tight, familiar handshake before dropping the girl's hand.
Then, his eyes turn sharp, a wicked, reckless grin stretching across his face.
"And I swear to God, Calloway, you better not lose. I bet my fucking car on you tonight."
He sinks down onto an overturned equipment crate, carelessly pulling the red-haired girl onto his lap.
"Don't worry," I murmur, my voice cold, steady, and dropping into that quiet register that means business. I pull on my racing gloves, flexing my fingers against the leather to test the grip. Losing isn't an option. It never is.
"Is Santos already here?" Alex asks, peering past the heavy metal doors toward the dark staging lanes outside.
I just shrug my shoulders, my jaw tightening slightly at the mere mention of my rival's name. "Don't know. Haven't seen him yet."
I swing my leg over the red bike, settling into the low seat.
I grip the handlebars and twist the throttle, letting the engine let out a deafening, raw scream that vibrates right through my ribs, drowning out the noise of the warehouse.
For a split second, the image of Sophia's flushed, tear-stained face in that bathroom flashes behind my eyes, but I violently blink it away, tightening my grip until my knuckles turn white.
Suddenly, the harsh, demanding ringtone of my phone tears me out of my thoughts.
I pull the device from my pocket and glance at the screen.
Padre.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. The cold weight of the Calloway name slams right back into my chest. I bite the edge of my racing glove, ripping it off my fingers with my teeth.
"I'll be right back," I mutter to Luis, flashing the glowing screen of my phone.
I march out of the garage bay, walking until the deafening roar of the engines and the shouting mechanics fade into a background hum. Only when I am completely out of sight and earshot do I press down on the screen to accept the call.
"Sì, Padre?"
I keep my tone entirely flat, trying to suppress the venom in my voice.
"Where are you?!" his voice demands, his deep Italian accent thick with an unspoken threat.
"I have business to deal with," I lie coldly, kicking a stray rock across the asphalt.
"I want you home, adesso," he commands, his sharp tone echoing in my ear. In the background, I hear the muffled voice of Kingsley, my father's right-hand man, and I roll my eyes in disgust.
"Can't. I'm out of town."
"You are..." my father starts, his anger practically vibrating through the speaker.
"I read the files," I interrupt, biting back the desperate urge to scream at him.
"I marked everything and changed the numbers. Everything you asked me for is sitting on your desk."
Before I can say another word, the line goes dead.
He hangs up. He always does that the exact second he is done with someone.
"Well, well. Do we have trouble in paradise?"
A mocking, arrogant voice echoes from behind me. Even before I turn around, I know exactly who it is. Santos. He is wearing his usual tight jeans and a shredded tank top, completely exposing his tattoos. Around his neck hangs a heavy gold chain that looks like he welded it together himself.
"Get lost, Santos," I growl, tucking my phone away. "I don't have time for your games. Go find someone else to bother." I shove past him, refusing to grant him a single glance. But Santos wouldn't be Santos if he just let it go.
"You know, that's a good idea. I should play a bit more," he sneers, his footsteps trailing right behind me. "Do you mind sharing that little blonde friend of yours with me after the race? I'm sure she would be..."
Before the last syllable can even leave his mouth, I snap.
I lunge forward, my fingers burying into the collar of his shirt. With a single surge of adrenaline, I hurl his entire weight backward, slamming his spine violently against the brick wall. A sickening, satisfied smirk plays on his lips.
"shut up," I warn him, my voice dropping into a lethal, quiet whisper. If he utters one more syllable of nonsense, I'm going to end this right here.
"What was her name again?" Santos provokes, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight because he knows he's drawing blood.
My grip tightens on his shirt, my knuckles turning white.
I can hear the grinding of my own teeth.
"After that little interaction in the warehouse last time, I've had a really hard time getting her out of my head," he whispers, leaning in close, his breath foul against my skin.
I can feel my hands shaking with pure, unadulterated rage. If he doesn't shut his mouth right now, I will lose it.
I know I shouldn't.
I know that's exactly what he wants from me. to make me snap before the race so I get disqualified.
So stay calm.
I try to force myself to breathe, reminding myself that he isn't worth losing my qualification over. Slowly, deliberately, I lower my arms, untangling my fingers from his clothes. I stare him dead in the eyes one last time, letting the hatred burn between us, and turn around to walk away.
"Sophia, right?" Santos calls out to my back, his voice dripping with pure, disgusting malice.
"I bet she tastes sweet like a cherry. Maybe I can make her strip for me when I win the..."
The it is.
The next thing I know, the air is thick with Santos's choked screams and Alex shouting a desperate, "No!"
Seconds later, Santos is staggering backward. His friends are crowding around him, holding up a phone, looking entirely satisfied with the video their crew just recorded. But it wouldn't be me if I stopped after just one hit.
In fact, I don't remember anything after that first punch. The rage blinds me entirely.
I only snap back to reality when Alex and Matteo suddenly slam into me, their heavy grips locking around my torso, physically tearing me away.
"Lorenzo, stop! For heaven's sake, stop!" Alex screams directly into my face.
The high-pitched ringing in my ears slowly fades, and the disaster I just created comes into sharp focus. Santos is slumped against the brick wall, a dark trail of blood pouring from his broken nose but the guy is grinning like a maniac. My hands throb with a vicious, white-hot pain from the impact.
"He started it!" I roar, my chest heaving as I fight against Alex and Matteo's grips.
"I know! Hey...Lorenzo, I know!" Alex aggressively grabs my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his frantic stare. "But you just forfeited the bet."
Alex steps back, running his hands through his hair, completely losing his cool. I look over at Matteo, who is standing there in his leather motorcycle jacket. He looks deeply disappointed, but there is a strange glint of understanding in his eyes.
"What did he tell you?" Alex wails, pacing back and forth, his nerves completely shot.
"What?"
"What in the absolute world did he say to make you lose your cool like that?! My Porsche is on the line, man!"
I take a deep, ragged breath.