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“She bites,” he says, his voice light. “I should’ve warned them.”

Another figure steps up from behind a car. Taller. Sharper shoulders. Tattoo on his neck, some cartel symbol I don’t recognize. He pulls a knife, curved and stained from past use.

I square up.

He’s not the kind that tests first. He lunges.

I brace to take him.

But he never reaches me.

Rocco cuts through the lot like a blade himself. No warning, no noise. He’s just suddenly there—between me and the thug—his own knife already flashing once, twice. Efficient. Precise.

The man drops. Gurgling.

Rocco barely looks down.

He turns to me, knife still loose in his grip, eyes hard but alert.

“You good?” he asks, voice steady.

“I had him,” I say, not breaking eye contact.

“Sure you did.”

We both glance toward Javier—but he’s already walking away, casual as ever, weaving through clusters of drivers and gearheads, vanishing into the chaos.

“Loyal dog,” Javier calls back to Rocco, lifting two fingers in a mock salute. “She better be worth it.”

Rocco doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on the direction Javier took, then shifts back to me.

“We need to talk,” he says.

I cross my arms. “You here to scold me? You gonna do that thing where you lean on a wall and look disappointed?”

“This isn’t a game.”

I step toward the driver’s door. “And you’re not my handler.”

I yank it open, climb in.

He steps closer. One hand on the roof, leaning in slightly, not enough to trap me but enough to make it hard to ignore him.

“I saw the photo,” he says. “He’s not guessing. He knows.”

“No shit.”

“You think racing helps keep you hidden? Half of Miami just saw your face. What happens next time?”

“I drive better,” I say, voice tight.

He doesn’t blink.

“Just drive. Just run. That’s all you’re good at, right?” he says. His voice isn’t angry. Just… flat. Like he’s tired of having to say it.

I don’t answer. I just turn the key, and the engine roars to life.

“You following me, Rocco?” I ask.