Outside, my bike is exactly where I left it, leaning like a predator in sleep next to Mercedes, BMWs, Escalades, and all the luxury cars one could want. Not me. My vice is this bike. The Ducati Diavel V4—matte black, custom mods, ceramic brakes, tuned exhaust—she is not just a motorcycle. She’s astatement.
Roar.
The Ducati comes to life with a sound that splits the night. She doesn’t purr. She growls, deep, violent, and guttural. She knows exactly what I need. Some might say I’ve got rage issues. They wouldn’t be wrong.
I do.
It’s not the kind of rage you punch out of your system or drown in bourbon.
It’s old. Bone-deep. Etched into the marrow of who I am. Because I know—I know—I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I was never meant to be someone’s grunt. Not Stephano's sidekick.
I was meant to be on top.
I might have been born and bred in shadows and forged in silence, but I will be crowned. I don't know how I know this, but I do. It's in my DNA. God help anybody in my way of getting there. Because I will. One name at a time. One betrayal at a time. I will bury anyone who thinks they can stand in my way.
This burn is what keeps me going, especially when I think ofher. Sophia.
She's been married for three years. The thought tastes like metal in my mouth.
Just like I know I was born for something more—something bigger—I know Sophia was neverhis. Not truly. It doesn’t matter that she wears his ring or sleeps in his bed. None of it matters.
One day, she will be mine.
Not because I’ll take her.
Because I’ll show her.
Show her what it means to be seen. To be chosen. To be loved with every shattered piece, every shadow, every scar.
I’ll give her what she’s never been given before: a choice.
And if, when all is said and done, she still chooses him—if she truly loves him—I’ll walk away.
Even if it kills me.
Because more than I want to have her… I want her to be happy.
But until that day comes?
Nothing is going to stop me.
I twist the throttle and launch down Bowery like a bullet through smoke. The city comes into sight and blurs around me, steel, glass, and traffic lights that I ignore.
I run every red.
Every. Single. One.
The sound of the engine cuts through the night like a war drum. Cars swerve. Horns blare. The wind whips around my helmet, the untamed power of the motor between my legs is just what I need. I lean into each curve, taking the Ducati to eighty miles an hour, ninety,one hundred. Somewhere behind me, a siren lights up in protest.
Let them come.
I spot the cruiser two blocks behind me in the rearview. NYPD. Their lights are blazing; their siren is wailing. They think they’ve got a runner. I chuckle. They'll learn. This is just what I needed.
I slice through lanes, split traffic like a ghost, take a hard left onto Canal, faster, tighter. I skid through an alley too narrow for anything but bikes and rats, but they’re still chasing. I imagine the cop calling it in and chuckle again. I’m already gone.
Two more turns. A narrow staircase. I angle the Ducati like a battering ram, jump the curb, and cut down a side street that turns into a tunnel. The sirens fade. Then vanish. I pull up in front of the computer store I bought, and the old neon lights still flicker. It looks just like the kind of store nobody on the straight and narrow would walk into. Just what I want it to be.
I honk twice—the signal for Yosh.
