Page 13 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

I spin my keys around my finger as I walk—an old habit, the rhythm grounding me when everything else feels like chaos. The metal catches the light with each rotation, hypnotic.

"Another fifteen on the Mustang taking the first heat!"

This bet goes to a woman with silver hair and prison tattoos on her knuckles. She takes my money with a smile that says she knows exactly what she's seeing.

"Three bets, five minutes," Cole hisses through the comm. "It's not about the money, Jax. We don't give a shit about thirty grand. But your addiction is going to compromise everything."

"Roman came here," I mutter, knowing they can hear me. "His last notes mentioned Lynch. I'm maintaining cover."

"You're feeding your sickness," Asher corrects. "There's a difference."

Fuck them. Fuck being sick. Fuck everything.

I rip the earpiece out, stuff it in my pocket. Can't think with them being right at me. The warehouse speakers blast a remix of something with too much bass, and the vibration travels up through the concrete into my bones.

"Jesus Christ, is that really you?"

The voice stops me cold, freezing my blood and super-heating it at the same time. I turn slowly, like I'm in a dream, and there he stands.

Gideon Lynch.

The man from my past life. The man in Roman's notes and the reason I'm here.

Older now, silver threading through his dark hair like expensive highlights. His face carries new lines, but they make him look distinguished rather than worn. Still has that confident swagger, that way of moving through space like he owns it. Leather jacket that probably costs five grand, jeans that fit too well to be accidental, boots that have never seen actual work.

Roman tracked you. Roman's dead. Connected?

"Holy shit, Gideon!" The words explode out of me, my volume control completely shot. "Man, you look—I mean, seriously, what's your secret? You selling your soul to the devil or just really good moisturizer?"

My hands gesture wildly. "Because honestly, if it's the moisturizer thing, I need that brand name. My skin's been shit lately, you know? Too much time in the sun, not enough water, probably the stress of—"

He crosses the space between us in three strides and pulls me into a bear hug that smells like leather and expensive cologne and memories I've tried to bury.

Don't trust him. Can't trust him. But God, I missed this.

"Look at you, kid." His hands grip my shoulders as he steps back, studying me like he's filing away the changes. "Still breaking hearts and speed limits, I bet."

My throat tightens unexpectedly. The smile on his face is so damn proud, like I'm still his star pupil instead of the guy here to find out if he's connected to Roman's death.

"Yeah, something like that." I force my voice to steady. "Still finding ways to make engines scream. Though these days it's four wheels instead of two, so that's... progress? Or regression, depending on who you ask."

He laughs, the sound cutting through the warehouse noise. "I heard about your racing career. Professional circuits,underground scenes. Always knew you'd find a way to keep flying, even after..."

The sentence hangs unfinished. Neither of us says Tommy's name, but his ghost materializes between us, young and laughing and forever nineteen.

Tommy. Always Tommy.

"Cars don't try to kill you as much as bikes do," I manage, my voice barely audible over the crowd noise.

"Smart choice." Gideon's hand stays on my shoulder, steering me through the crowd. "Come on, let me show you the real show. VIP section's where the serious money plays."

Serious money. Serious problems.

We walk through the warehouse, and I notice how people move out of his way without him having to ask. Respect or fear, maybe both. He points out different cars as we pass, giving me stats and stories, and for a moment it feels like old times. Like Saturday mornings at the track, him teaching me about compression ratios and power bands while Tommy practiced wheelies in the background.

The VIP section announces itself before we reach it—the crowd gets better dressed, the security gets more obvious, and the air gets thick with the smell of money being burned for fun.

Plush leather couches curve around flat screens showing race footage from tracks around the world. Monaco, Suzuka, the Nürburgring—a greatest hits of speed and danger. At the mahogany bar, bartenders in bow ties pour drinks that cost more than many people make in a day.