Page 56 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Nice setup." I keep my voice steady while memorizing exit routes. "Definitely not your average Friday night race."

"We cater to clients with specific tastes and substantial resources."

Before I can respond, a mountain of muscle in Italian tailoring approaches. His pale eyes assess me—meat at market.

"This is Viktor Kazakov." Gideon gestures. "Viktor, meet Jax Ryder—the driver I mentioned."

Viktor's handshake could grind bones. "The famous Ace. Your reputation precedes you."

Reputation from who? And why is a Russian running evaluation on American operations?

"Just a driver looking for profitable opportunities." I meet his intensity with practiced ease.

"Modesty. I appreciate this quality." Viktor turns to Gideon. "Your recommendation carries significant weight in our expanding operations."

Through my nearly invisible earpiece, her voice cuts through after twenty-four hours of silence: "I have eyes on you from the crane position. Viktor has three weapons—shoulder holster, ankle piece, knife at his waist."

Fuck.Mira's voice hits my system harder than any drug. My cock hardens instantly—painful, immediate need. Days of wanting her, and she's somewhere above me, watching everything.

"The waist knife." Her precise tone somehow makes it worse. "He touches it when he's lying. Count the tells."

Her brilliance while I stand here trying not to shake sends heat racing through my blood. My fingers drum faster against my leg. Need something to bet on. Need something to control. Need her, but can't have her, so the itch redirects to the only thing that comes close—risk.

"Your turn, Ace." Gideon points toward a modified Mustang, its engine growling promises of illegal speed. "Show our guests what California racing produces."

Cole's voice joins the comm channel: "Try not to lose your shirt this time, brother."

"Fuck off," I mutter.

"Just saying, last time you were this twitchy, you lost a hundred grand in one night."

He's not wrong. The tell is obvious to anyone who knows me—fingers moving, can't stay still, that particular hunger that says I'm about to do something spectacularly stupid with money.

I slide behind the Mustang's wheel. The engine's vibration travels through my bones as I position at the starting line. Three other drivers idle beside me, their faces carved from desperation and violence.

The flag drops.

Tires scream against concrete. I try to concentrate on the track, but her breathing in my ear fractures my concentration. The competent way she processes threats, how she'd sound if I had her underneath me—every thought splits my attention. The familiar rush of racing pales next to the addiction of her voice.

"Focus." Not teasing. An order. "You're driving amateur lines."

She's right. I take the first turn too wide, tires squealing as I over-correct. My attention splits between the track and obsessive thoughts about where exactly she's positioned.Can she see all the angles? Is anyone watching her?

"Second car has nitrous. Watch his hand on the gear shift."

Her observation saves me from getting boxed in, but the second turn goes wide again. The driver beside me steals the inside line I should have owned.

I finish second. Second.When was the last time I didn't win?

"Interesting performance." Viktor watches me climb out, my shirt soaked through with sweat. "Your lines suffered in the middle section."

"Distracted by something?" Gideon's eyes narrow, reading my body language the way he used to analyze my racing technique.

"Calculating betting odds." I force my old charming grin. "That driver in the red Civic—his technique suggests amateur training, but his tire pressure says professional. Mixed signals mean insider information. Easy money."

Viktor's cold smile widens. "A man after my own heart. Maria handles our evening's entertainment wagering."

He gestures toward a woman with calculating eyes manning a betting station. Stacks of cash tower around her, rubber bands straining.