Prologue:
“What the actual fuck kind of driving is that?!” Kazimir chucked the glass bottle in his hand, already storming away before it hit the brick wall and shattered.
No one else seemed to notice or care, too busy either cheering or cursing up a storm same as him. The crowd was pretty thick for an impromptu race, and Kaz had mistakenly taken that to mean the racers themselves were worth the attention.
Bull.
Fucking.
Shit.
It wasn’t often that he bothered coming down to these events at the Docks. Hoverbike racing was one of the very few illegal things he didn’t dabble in personally, but most of his friends and well-known associates raved about the place, so every now and again he’d cave, show up, and throw some money at it.
Money he typically won back.
He kicked at one of the metal poles that held up the fencing surrounding the makeshift track. For an under-the-table event, it was always nicely put together. No one would be able to tell that it wasn’t legally sanctioned—not only because of theprofessional look and feel of it either. A quick glance around and one could easily pick out more than a few familiar faces.
Like the Chief of Valeo Police.
Or Professor Wilks.
Or Redwood, the Heir Imperial’s personal bodyguard.
Kaz swore again after seeing that guy and spun on his heels, pushing his way through the throngs of people. The last thing he needed was to make this day worse by running into that asshole. Given his current mood, he’d most likely end up punching Red in the face.
Again.
Several streets surrounding the docks had been cordoned off for the races, the large parking lot at the main location filled with all kinds of makes and model of hovercars, from expensive luxury vehicles to junkers that were honestly a miracle to see working. His XF-57 was parked in a private lot close to the boathouse though, because like hell was he risking his baby amongst the idiotic masses. People were stupid by nature, and Kazimir was under strict watch at the moment, which made impromptu murder a bit riskier than it typically would be.
In a very short period of time, Kaz had been promoted to
underboss of the Brumal mafia. Up until recently, he and the next in line for the throne, his cousin Baikal Void, had merely been in training for the positions. They were seniors at Vail University, too young to be taking on the massive responsibilities their new titles required of them, even though they’ve always known they were destined for them.
Their previous Dominus, Baikal’s father, had succumbed to an incurable illness. He’d held on for as long as he could but, in the end, had lost the battle. One day he’d been there and the next, he was simply gone. Sickness was fucked up like that.
The deadliest killers were the ones you couldn’t see coming.
Understandably, his impending doom had put the entire Brumal on edge, and the Satellite—those who specifically followed under Baikal’s leadership—weren’t immune. Hell, they probably had it worse even.
That was why Kazimir had come here in the first place, to blow off a little steam and distract himself. Betting had always taken the edge off, playing the odds. Tempting fate. He’d placed a bet on some hot racer he’d never seen before because he’d been told the opponent was good. If not for that pesky fact he was under close watch by Whim, the previous underboss, he’d be off right now to find the lying bastard who’d given him that bullshit piece of information to wring the man’s damn neck. As it were, he was just going to have to settle for breaking one of his legs.
Because Kazimir could exercise self-control, no matter what his cousin thought.
Which was why he onlylightlyslammed open the wooden door of the boat house on his way in. Technically, there were three boathouses: the main one used to actually house boats during the winter months, another that was utilized by the Academy and Vail crew teams, and then this one, which was owned by Royal Madden Odell, or as Kaz liked to call him—
“Royal Asshole,” he didn’t pause as he entered and spotted his target standing in the center of the building, “Care to explain what the actual fuck—” Kaz did however stop when he realized Madden wasn’t alone.
The boathouse was mostly used as an office space for Madden, the top racer, and the person responsible for starting the whole event. It had two levels, the main which was open space, and the loft above where the Royal kept a bedroom. The walls were decorated with posters, and glass cases held trophies and medals from his past wins, both professionally and unprofessionally, since the illegal dock races weren’t the only ones he participated in.
A large area had been sectioned off with bookshelves and turned into a hangout pad of sorts, and one of those shelves had been blocking Kazimir’s view when he’d entered, so he hadn’t noticed the other man talking with Madden until he’d cleared it.
The guy had his helmet off and his arms down at his sides, but it didn’t appear as though he’d been in the midst of getting torn a new one by Madden—like he damn well should have been. Kaz may not have gotten a look at his face before the start of the race, but the outfit was the same, the tight black pants tucked into a pair of workman’s boots and the gold and black racer jacket giving him away.
“You.” He snapped his fingers and started heading for them again, his anger now directed at the racer instead of the Royal who’d suggested where Kaz placed his bets for the evening. “You owe me five thousand coin. You call that driving?”
Madden blew out a breath and rested his hands on his hips, sending the man an apologetic glance that only served to set Kaz off even more.
“You’re not innocent in this either, Royal Asshole,” Kaz snapped.
