We jump
Chapter 62
Lorenzo
Having them here—having her here—is a fucking nightmare.
I know Santos. I know the last time he had the position to choose the place and the conditions, and I know his head is filled with nothing but absolute shit.
Seeing him smirk from across , sending silent death wishes straight toward us, is clarity enough.
Today's show is not going to be like the rest.
He thinks he can beat us. He thinks he can play with my territory.
Am I scared?
Please. I don't even know how to spell that word.
Am I pissed that he thinks he has the upper hand?
YES
Because there is one thing that is clearly not going to happen again. Him winning. No matter what the bastard thinks, Santos is not the one in control. Not today. Not ever.
"Let's start tonight's show by picking the first two names from the audience!" the guy with the microphone screams into the crowd.
His loud voice echoes through the room, making everyone clap and cheer in sudden excitement.
Behind me, Sophia is completely silent. I don't need to look back to know how tense she is.
I can feel her fear vibrating against my spine, and it only makes the protective, lethal urge in my chest burn hotter.
"Number 12 and 17, please come up to me!" the announcer bellows.
We watch as two guys step out of the crowd and walk up to him. They look well-trained, shoulders broad and posture rigid, but they are not real competition. Not for what is coming.
The announcer turns to them, a sickening, showman smile plastered on his face. "Okay, buddies. Who do you wanna compete against?" he asks.
"Saint!" the crowd erupts, the heavy bass shaking the concrete floors.
Alex turns to me. "Fucking idiot," he screams over the deafening music, a massive grin plastering his face. He already knows he is going to win this. There isn't even a shred of doubt in his posture.
"Oh, personal problems or what?" the guy on the mic laughs, his voice booming through the speakers.
But number 12 looks dead serious. He doesn't smile as he is led upstairs. At the exact same time, a large canvas is lowered from the ceiling, instantly projecting the scene from our deck onto the screen like a massive cinema. Everyone can see us now.
"But I thought it's Weststar against Downtown," Sophia asks from behind me.
I bring my full attention back to her, stepping closer to block her from the view of the crowd.
"It is. But for now, anyone who wants to rove somthig can do taht now " I explain, watching her face closely.
Her expression is tight, still completely confused by how our world operates.
"They race now. If the guy wins, he is let into the team and gets a wish. If he loses and Alex wins, he is under his debt."
"And what is the debt?" she pushes further, her eyes searching mine, desperate for real answers.
"It depends. He can either pay or work it off."
I turn my gaze back toward the screen, where Alex is already in his zone, pulling on his helmet while the other guy is still struggling to choose a bike.
"Look, stalker, I'll explain it to you when we actually have time," I murmur, and pull her gently with me, guiding her back behind the heavy curtains, away from the prying eyes of the audience. "But for now, just sit here and wait."
I guide her gently down onto the sofa beside Maria. Ben is already sitting on the armrest, bursting with excitement, holding out a handful of popcorn.
"Want some?" he hooks the basket toward Sophia, his eyes glued to the screen. "Let the show begin," he grins, turning his full attention back to the TV.
"I'll check on Alex. Can you please have an eye on them?" I turn to Matteo. He gives me a quiet nod, his posture shifting into a defensive stance near the curtain.
I make my way down to the pit where Alex is already waiting, completely locked in. "That idiot really thinks the bike will make him look good. I feel like I'm waiting for my sister in a shoe store," Alex scoffs the second I approach him, crossing his arms over his chest.
I pat him on the shoulder. Wishing a guy like Alex good luck is completely unnecessary, so instead, I just let my hand rest heavily on his shoulder for a second, making him understand my point.
Then I step back from Alex and lift my chin toward the massive canvas screen lowered from the ceiling.
An industrial techno beat vibrates through the soles of my boots.
Around us, hundreds of bodies press together, eyes locked on the screen above, waiting for the show to begin.
They scream, waving betting slips in the air.
The CCTV footage is cold and distorted, cutting between the concrete spiral ramps and the empty, oil-stained parking decks of the floors above.
On screen, Alex looks like a ghost clad in black leather, completely still on his bike. Next to him, number 12 revves his engine, exhaust smoke clouding the camera lens.
The announcer's voice cuts through the bass.
"Three... two... one... GO!"
The roar of the engines explodes through the speakers, deafening and sudden.
The two bikes launch forward, tearing through the upper parking deck.
Alex takes the first sharp corner with terrifying precision.
His knee pad practically scrapes the concrete as he ruthlessly forces his opponent toward the outer wall.
They dive down the spiral ramp, a dizzying blur of speed captured by one static security camera after another. I should be watching the track. I should be calculating the lines. Instead, my gaze instinctively drifts to Sophia.
The contrast is jarring. While the screen flashes with steel and speed, Sophia is completely frozen.
Her eyes are wide, glued to the monitor, her lips parted slightly as she breathes in the chaos.
Ben lounges next to her on the armrest, completely relaxed, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
But Sophia looks entirely overwhelmed. The urge to walk back over to her, to block her view and shield her from all of this, hits me like a physical blow.
On screen, the bikes burst through the exit gates, flying out into the neon-lit, wet city streets. Number 12 tries to make a desperate move, his rear tire fishtailing dangerously on the slick asphalt, but Alex cuts him off without mercy.
The crowd downstairs erupts into pure chaos. Alex twists the throttle one last time, crossing the finish line a full bike-length ahead.
The room goes wild.
Alex steps off his bike, tossing his helmet aside with an arrogant grin, while number 12 rolls in behind him, completely defeated.
"I'll be in touch," Alex calls out, pulling off his headset as he walks over to me. He grins. "Told you they didn't stand a chance."
"Like I said pay night," Ben says, stepping up beside us, already celebrating.
The next four rounds go exactly the same.
The guy on the microphone picks other competitors from the crowd who wants to race against either us or Santos's people.
After five rounds, the score stands at 5 to 2 in our favor.
The preliminary rounds are officially locked in. Now, it's Westside against Downtown.
But bevor taht it's a 10 minuts break so enough time to walk her an Maria out.
"Okay, we're done here. Time to go," I say, my fingers closing around her small leather bag.
Sophia stands, her jaw setting as Maria rises right behind her. "Is the race over?"
"No, but..."
"Then I'm not leaving." She plants her boots, defiance flashing in her eyes.
A dark amusement tethers my chest. I don't argue, and I don't waste breath raising my voice ether .I simply wrap my hand around her wrist feeling her pulse hammering against my thumb and effortlessly pull her out of the VIP section.
"Oh, look at what we have here."
I turn leisurely, watchig Santos walking toward us, flanked by two of his heavy hitters. He wears that sickening, arrogant smirk, completely oblivious to how outmatched he is. Next to me, Alex shifts his weight, casually blocking the space in front of Maria like a wall.
"Back the fuck off, Santos," Alex growls, his voice dropping into a lethal register.
Santos doesn't have the brains to be afraid. His eyes crawl over Maria, then slowly drag across to Sophia. It's a filthy, lingering look that strips her bare. A cold, quiet rage settles over me.
I am going to fucking ruin him for that look.
"Comon Calloway don't hide your toy" Santos purrs, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip as his gaze locks onto Sophia's face. "If you boys are bored with them, hand them over. I promise you, my crew knows exactly how to make use of little things like them."
The air goes completely still.
In my mind I'm already counting down the second before I rip his head off.
Santos's two guards look around, suddenly realizing the gravity of what their boss just said. They know who I am, even if Santos is too high on his own ego to care.
I take a slow step forward, completely unbothered by his men. My hand idly twitches. I could have him erased from this city by midnight.
But, a sudden tug on my leather jacket stops me.
Sophia steps right out from behind me, completely bypassing my shoulder to face Santos head on. Her face is pale, but her eyes are pure, burning ice. She looks at him like he's a piece of trash stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
"And what exactly is your purpose here?" her voice rings out, razor sharp against the heavy bass thumping through the walls. "Is your only job in this crew to stand around looking pathetic and stupid?"
The smirk dies instantly on Santos's face. The silence between us becomes deafening. Santos's guards stiffen, their eyes darting to me, terrified of how I'm going to react to his response. "What did you just say to me, bitch?"
Alex lets out a loud, mocking laugh, completely enjoying the show. "You heard her, man. Pathetic and stupid."
Santos's face turns a dark, ugly red. Completely blinded by ego, he snaps his hand up, pointing a finger directly into Sophia's face. "You little..."
He never finishes the threat.