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I could hear it: the noise, the yells, and the cheering of youths mixing with the scent of smoke and burnt rubber that filled the air. Their energy was palpable, and the distant roars of engines vibrated through the lot.

The black SUV we arrived in pulled up at the corner, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

My younger brother, Yulian, was nestled behind the wheel; he killed the engine and heaved a sigh.

He turned to face me in the front passenger seat with that mischievous grin playing on his lips, the same one he used to cajole me into coming here with him.

If it hadn’t been because of his ridiculous insistence, I wouldn’t be here tonight, watching a bunch of free-spirited youths running wild like untamed beasts. I had better things to do than waste my time in such crazy gatherings.

When I was much younger—perhaps two decades ago—I used to be excited about things like this. The rush of adrenaline, the risk of losing my life at any second, it all used to make me feel alive. During my years of reckless living, I’d come face-to-face with death more times than I could count.

Ironically, these daredevils sort of reminded me of myself a lifetime ago, before work and reality swallowed me whole. Nevertheless, I still would rather be at home, in my study, working. Or better yet, resting.

“Alright, brother,” Yulian said, his icy blue eyes fixed on me. “Time to make some money.” He flashed me that corny smirk of his.

I just sat there, my expression blank and unwelcoming.

His grin faltered gradually, and a sharp exhale left his lips. “Look, I know you’re not particularly thrilled to be here. I get it,” he began, his voice soft and polite. “But trust me, brother. We’ll make a solid profit tonight. I can guarantee you that.”

“It’s unwise to guarantee something you’re not certain about, Yulian,” I muttered.

He chuckled lightly. “Oh, ye of little faith.” His hand rested on my shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of my impeccably tailored black suit.

“Believe me, brother, our rider is the best at what he does. There’s no way in hell he’s gonna lose.

” His eyes darted out the window for a moment.

“I mean, look at these idiots, running around like headless chickens. There’s no man on the Irish crew that can beat ours. ”

“Your confidence is reassuring,” I said, a small grin struggling to break free. “Who is this guy you speak so highly of?”

“Pavel Nikolai,” he said, handing me a file, a profile of our rider.

I squinted my eyes, going through the folder in my grasp, taking in the details that I could.

“He’s a damn legend, brother,” Yulian said, his soft tone dripping with conviction. “Known as The Phantom Rider .”

“Phantom Rider. I’ve heard that name before,” I said, flipping through the pages of his documents.

“Of course you have,” he replied. “He’s famous for never losing a race. Not once. He doesn’t just ride, Sergei—he owns the road. It’s like the bike is an extension of his soul or something.”

I chuckled, intrigued by my brother’s fascination with this guy. His faith in him was remarkable…to a fault.

Yulian leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly as if to keep the secret between us. “I’ve seen him pull off turns that should’ve killed him. I’ve seen him cut through traffic like he can bend time. I’m telling you, he’s got this.”

I raised my chin for a moment and faced him, eyes narrowing.

He tapped the folder in my grasp. “Here. Read that. Pavel Nikolai has clocked more underground wins across Europe than anyone else on the scene. Dublin, Prague, Warsaw, Paris—clean sweeps. He’s never left a track without the pot in his pocket.

Not once.” His lips curled into a smile, a glint of pride flickering in his gaze.

“You’ve praised this man enough.” I closed the folder and handed it back to him. “For your sake, he better win.”

“He’s not just gonna win, brother. He’ll make your time here worthwhile.” He chuckled, accepting the folder from me. “Now, let’s go make some profit, shall we?”

Yulian had always had his way with words, and over time, he mastered the art of communication.

The man could talk his way out of any situation, no matter how sticky.

He was that good. His sharp tongue, sharp instincts, and quick wits made him the perfect Bratva interrogator and enforcer.

He could extract anything from anybody, any information at all.

I didn’t know how he always managed to do it, but he always had the right words for every situation.

He was also great at convincing people to do what they originally wouldn’t want to do. And that’s how we got here. That’s how he managed to lure me out of the comfort of my home.

That little brat would be the death of me.

The door opened, and I stepped out of the vehicle, burying a hand in my pocket, my gaze sweeping across the lot.

“Just like old times, yeah?” Yulian halted beside me, his ash-blond hair catching in the fire drum across from us.

No response.

I walked toward the gathering where bodies were packed shoulder to shoulder, smoke curling into the night sky.

Engines roared like mechanical beasts, charging the air as strobe lights flashed against steel and chrome.

The crowd, a blur of faces and shadows, was ecstatic, cheering and jeering with a noise loud enough to wake the dead.

I was too old for this shit, and the savage yells seemed rather unnecessary, so I kept my distance at the outskirts.

With a hand in my pocket, my eyes caught the surrounding area, drinking in every detail.

This was a wild place, and as fun as it was supposed to be, shit often went south in locations like this.

My training kicked in, prompting me to be mindful of my surroundings.

A few folks turned in my direction, their gazes lingering but for a moment. My tailored suit and completely different appearance must have piqued their curiosity, hence the quick glances in my direction. I stood stiffly amidst the chaos, watching, observing, even though I didn’t belong here.

My brother, on the other hand, was already thriving.

He moved through the crowd with ease, laughing and shaking hands like he knew a good number of those idiots.

He mingled with the betting crew, and I watched him exchange cash and cocky reassurances.

Yulian was so sure of tonight’s win that he could even bet his life on it.

Still, I maintained my distance, shifting my gaze toward the line of bikes gearing up at the starting mark.

Nothing special about them. Just the usual: faceless racers behind their helmets, identities concealed under leather suits and padded jackets.

Amidst the revving engines and the chaos, one rider caught my attention for a fleeting moment.

They seemed oddly disconnected from it all, clad in baggy pants with a low posture that appeared almost slouching.

They were out of place. No swagger. No taunt.

Just stillness. Probably just some Irish kid trying to look enigmatic.

Now, it was time.

The race began with a thunderclap, and in that moment, engines roared as tires spun smoke into the air. The crowd erupted in a unified cheer, their voices filled with enthusiasm.

I stood still, arms across my chest, as I watched these speedsters race toward the finish line. Dust and dirt filled the air, mingling with smoke and the roaring of engines. Each rider was determined to take the lead, their bikes maneuvering through obstacles with deadly precision.

However, one rider stood out, their bike taking the lead by at least five feet. The crowd cheered, throwing their hands in the air as this biker gapped his opponents like he was using a turbo engine.

“Yes!” Yulian rejoiced, his gaze tracking the rider with an impressed grin on his face.

It was him. It was Pavel Nikolai. The Phantom Rider.

Pavel’s bike carved through the chaos, cutting corners with surgical grace. This man was stealing spaces that shouldn’t exist; it was almost like he owned the road, and the others behind had nothing on him.

It looked like Yulian was right about the man; he was an excellent rider. With his speed and accuracy, this didn’t seem like a fair race, considering how far behind his opponents were.

And then just as I let that thought rest, it happened.

A rider burst out from the mid-pack, breaking formation.

At top speed, they slipped through three others like a shadow, hugging the inside line of a tight curve with deadly precision.

It wasn’t luck. No, it was intent. Calculated, effortless.

This rider knew what they were doing, and their skill was rather remarkable.

My eyes narrowed, and my brows furrowed. The biker had just caught my attention; they’d caught everyone’s attention with how ridiculously close they were drawing to the lead rider. Even Pavel himself had to glance back at the one quickly catching up with him.

Now, things were starting to get interesting.

I leaned forward, watching the black-clad rider gaining ground with terrifying speed.

“No, no, no….” Yulian shook his head, breath lodged in his throat as both riders hurtled side by side.

As the finish line loomed closer, it was almost like the entire crowd held their breaths, eyes fixed on the two riders seesawing back and forth, engaged in a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.

Pavel would pull ahead, his tires screeching, only to be countered by his opponent’s strategic moves and fast reflexes.

This new guy was good. No arguments there.

The final stretch was a blur. Pavel leaned in, his throttle wide open, with his bike flying at high speed. The stranger, the unknown rider, yanked up the front tire of their bike like an expert, and like lightning, they beat Pavel across the finish line by mere inches.

The crowd erupted around me, the Irish screaming for joy like they’d just won a war.

I was never interested in the bet or the profit that Yulian was yapping about.

And for some reason, minutes before both riders crossed the finish line, my bet was on the stranger.

I was rooting for them to win. Their speed and precision, their determination and raw skill, had drawn me to them.

“Fuck, goddammit!” Yulian swore, loud and angry, already shouting at someone, probably trying to salvage what he could from the loss.

That was not my concern; the winner of this race was.

I locked my gaze on the victor, watching them slowly coast to a stop. They peeled the helmet off with a smooth, deliberate motion. My eyes squinted ever so slightly when a mass of reddish-chestnut hair spilled out, catching the lights and the smoke, a living flame.

My brows arched in a mix of shock and astonishment. It was a woman, a young girl in her early twenties, maybe.

The great Pavel Nikolai, the so-called Phantom Rider, was bested by a girl. Interesting.

My lips curled into a faint grin.

She shook her hair loose, then lifted her head, her striking hazel-brown eyes burning with fire and triumph. She didn’t look around, didn’t pose for the cheering crowd. No. She just smiled, owning her victory.

My breath caught in my throat, her beauty striking me like an arrow to the heart. I’d seen a lot of beautiful women in my time, but this wasn’t just beauty. It was danger. And I was drawn to it.

For the first time in decades, I felt it. That quiet thrum beneath the surface. That tug in my chest.

Who was she?

I didn’t know her name. But in that moment, with smoke hanging in the air and the taste of loss bitter on my tongue, I was certain of one thing:

I needed to find out who she was.