There it is. He tries to play it casual, but I don’t miss the note of disappointment in his voice.
“Not too much,” I say, starting toward Remi. Renji beside me. “She’s more of a bike girl.”
A spark suddenly flickers behind his eyes, like he's just tucked that information somewhere important until he's ready to cash it in later.
The older Kuroda offers a nod and a friendly smile as we approach. But the peaceful moment doesn’t last.
Engines snarl in the distance, deep and aggressive. A fleet of five cars announces itself long before rounding the corner, mufflers roaring so hard I feel them in my chest. The unfamiliar crew spills out before the tires even stop rolling…loud, cocky, and bold enough to make every head atFuriatwist their way.
“That’s them,” Remi says, pushing off her car for a clearer look. “And I hate them already.”
I step beside her, arms folding across my chest. “I’m right there with you.”
“Supercars, a lot of muscle, all stock,” she mutters, already assessing their lineup like she’s running diagnostics in her head.
Then she starts forward, but Kuroda tugs her elbow. “And where exactly are you going?”
“Just a little friendly introduction,” she says. Except her face tells a different story.
With a chuckle, I follow behind them.
The newcomers are young, all around Remi’s age. Three girls and the rest guys. They climb out of their shiny imports and Euro-muscle like they already own the damn place. The crowd swarms, their phones out, voices loud, admiring paint jobs and engines.
But even with all that attention on them, I notice the way their eyes keep cutting back to us. Subtle, but unmistakable. Like they’re keeping tabs and clocking every move the four of us make.
Odd. How very fucking odd.
“Remi…”
“I see it,” she says immediately, already reading the same play I am.
A few weeks ago, we would’ve shrugged it off. Reputation, ego, the same old story. New crew shows up with something to prove, they do their homework, and of course they stare down the girls who’ve been taking everyone’s money.
But after all this Architect and Ledger bullshit, and the intruder from this morning, it’s impossible not to let paranoia get the best of us. And something about their presence here tonight seems intentional, making the Glock at my hip feel a little less idle.
I’m so locked in, my mind racing through every scenario, that I don’t even register footsteps behind me until a strong arm wraps around my waist and warm lips brush my temple.
“Hey, beautiful.”
For just a moment, the world fades out, and the noise and tension all dissolve when I find Maksim's eyes.
“You made it.”
“I had no choice but to be late, but you’re not going out of my sight anytime soon.”
Normally, I’d have a smart-ass rebuttal ready, something about possessive Russian men and overprotective tendencies, but after thatverythorough lesson in my office today, I know better.
Maksim jerks his chin toward the new crew before I can explain anything, but I don’t get the chance. A tall guy steps forward, his platinum shaggy hair partially falling over hiseyes, with sharp cheekbones and a smile that looks a little too practiced.
“Boaz,” he says, offering a hand. None of us take it.
But his smile doesn’t twitch. He just lets his hand fall back to his side, eyes sliding over each of us.
A cold weight settles in my gut.
Boaz leans back against a red Bugatti, hiking his sleeves up to the crook of his elbows before folding his arms like a smug little bastard. He starts talking, something about respect, and about wanting to race, but his voice fades into static.
Because I see it. A flash. Barely a second, but long enough.
