Chapter 1
RENZO
I always expected my glorious life to flash before my eyes in the seconds before death, especially snuffing it at twenty-seven, the age of the most revered in the Twenty-Seven Club.
Jean-Michel Basquiat, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain.
Turns out it was all a pile of bullshit.
As the percussive hit from behind sends me careening towards the gravel at insane speed, there’s only one thing that flashes like a fast forward movie reel – her.
The tilt of her chin, the dark veil of her hair beneath a halo of sunlight, the sound of her laughter echoing in a cathedral. Her beautiful pale green eyes. Those sweet, plump, infinitely fuckable lips.
Giada. Always Giada.
The rear axle snaps with a gunshot crack. My car spins once, twice, then slams sideways into the barrier at 190 miles an hour before it launches into the air, suspends for a brilliant cinematic three seconds. Before the world detonates into fire.
Metal screams, my body jerks like I’m in a giant tumble dryer, and the smell of burning rubber and fuel floods my helmet.
The crowd roars in horror – or maybe it’s my screams? – an ocean of sound muted by the concussion ringing in my skull. My head slams against the seat restraint, and everything in me goes white-hot, then nothing but silence – no engine, no heartbeat, no air.
I should’ve been ready.
I’ve flirted with death since the day I could drive, kissed it on the corner of every lap as I ignored brake pedals. But this… this feels personal.
Before it all goes black, I remember the promise I made to that fucker Nightowl – the ghost in the machine who’s been in my ear longer than anyone realises. They promised to help me find her. To trace the ghost who vanished the night my mother died.
They failed spectacularly.
So yeah, if I die now, I swear to fucking God I’ll find their puny ass in the afterlife and haunt them into eternity.
But… maybe this far too early death is okay too. Because I’ll finally see her, even if I can’t touch her and taste her. I’ll know where she is, where she’s hidden all this time. If she’s safe.
Fuck, please God, let her have been safe. Don’t let her—
Static screams in my ear. Then voices. Loud and urgent.
Right. Okay. So I didn’t die. Unless the devil is shouting in my ear?
‘…Renzo – can you hear me? Stay with me, you little shit, stay—’ Rafa’s voice, rough, desperate, cutting through the crackle of radio and the roar of flames. Of course my second oldest brother would threaten me even as worry thickened his voice.
My visor’s gone. Something stings my eyes. I smell blood. Mine.
‘Get the extinguisher – now, now!’ someone screams.
Hands tug at my suit.
Metal shrieks as the marshals tear the cockpit open. Someone curses in Italian, then another voice, lower and colder, cuts through the chaos. Cesare. First born. Underboss. Everlasting pain in my ass.
‘Listen to my voice and hear me well. If you die, Renzo, I’ll drag your soul back and kill you again myself.’
Typical. My eldest brother doesn’t even believe in God but he’s making threats into the afterlife.
There’s movement. I smell smoke. I think I hear Rafa again, his tone splitting between command and panic.
Then someone on the medical team. I think. ‘Pulse is weak – Renzo! Hey, Salvatore! Stay with me. Open your eyes, sir—’
My tongue feels heavy. My throat burns. I want to tell him I’m fine. That I’ve had worse. That the spin was beautiful right up until the impact.
But all that comes out is her name. ‘Giada.’
The medics freeze. Someone mutters, ‘Who the hell is Giada? Does anyone know a Giada?’
If only they knew. That she’s everything.
Angel. Ghost. Soul-wrecker. Fucking traitor.
I drift again. Voices fragment into muffled radio chatter. Helicopter blades thump above me, whipping the smoke into ghosts. Pain pulses somewhere distant, like it belongs to someone else.
‘Move him… he’s burning up—’
‘Christ, he’s still breathing. But that pulse… Shit, it’s thready. We need to go!’
‘We have instructions to wait. The other Salvatore driver’s on the way – someone tell him he needs to hurry!’
The other Salvatore driver. Dante.
Shit, my twin brother. He’ll lose his mind.
We’ve always joked that if one of us went out, the other would feel it first, some twin telepathy bullshit. Maybe he does. Maybe right now he’s hurling his helmet across the paddock, swearing to God and the devil both that I’d better not die before him.
‘Tell him…’ I try to speak, but my lips barely move. My vision fills with light, blinding white against the charred black. ‘Tell Dante—’
But it’s too late. The world starts to fold in on itself.
Sound tunnels, vision narrows. All that’s left is the scent of burning oil and lilies, the echo of church bells, and her face… soft, haloed and unreachable.
I can barely move my tongue. Or my hands. Or even blink. But it feels fucking essential that I speak my last word before the darkness claims me. And when I do, it’s not to pray for heaven or salvation.
It’s her name.
It’s always been her fucking name.
‘Giada.’