Page 17

I adjusted Santari’s leather jacket, making sure every inch of her skin was covered. Protection was paramount for what we were about to do.

“The wind will slice through any exposed skin at high speeds,” I said, tugging the collar higher on her neck. “You’re gonna need everything buttoned up tight.”

Santari turned, her daring eyes filled with anticipation. “I’ve been on motorcycles before.”

“When?”

“My dad let me ride when I was five, and my mom killed him when we got home.”

I chuckled as her lips spread wide.

“I’m afraid this will not be like your daddy’s ride, sweetheart.”

“No?”

“Not a chance.”

We moved through Primal Luxury Resort’s expansive lobby, and my eyes scanned the area out of habit. Hotel staff nodded as we strolled, stepping aside as we passed. The manager approached us in quick strides, straightening his tie.

“Mr. Valentine, we’ve parked your motorcycle at the front entrance, away from the other vehicles.”

I nodded. “The keys?”

He handed over a small black box. “Inside, sir.”

I nodded my dismissal and guided Santari toward the revolving doors.

The thick Miami humidity swamped us immediately, but my attention was captured by the gleaming silver and black Mercedes AMG Solar Beam parked at the curb.

Its sleek frame looked ready to devour the road, and my muscles flexed as I remembered the way it navigated under my direction.

“Damn,” Santari whispered as we approached. Her fingers trailed along the machine’s contours. “She’s beautiful.”

“Seven hundred horsepower in a bike that weighs less than me,” I said, opening the box to retrieve the keys. “German engineering at its finest.”

The rumble of another motorcycle engine cut through the ambient noise of Ocean Drive. My head snapped up, eyes narrowing as a matte black Ducati Panigale roared up the hotel’s curved driveway. The rider brought the Italian machine to a stop beside my new purchase and removed his helmet.

Christian Valentine’s face emerged, his eyes fixed on me rather than the bike.

“Didn’t I kick you out of my hotel?” I asked, bristling at his unexpected appearance.

Christian smirked, hanging his helmet on the handlebars. “You invited me to leave. I did. Now I’m back.”

“How convenient you happened to bring your bike from St. Louis.”

“I shipped it ahead of time,” Christian got of his bike, patting the Ducati’s tank. “Miami roads deserve proper machinery, not a rental. And I never left the city, I just switched hotels.”

Santari stepped forward, her posture deliberately casual but her eyes alert. “You ride often in St. Louis?”

“Every chance I get,” Christian confirmed. His gaze shifted between us. “Some of my best thinking happens on two wheels.”

“What do you want?” I asked bluntly.

Christian gestured toward my Mercedes. “I saw you heading out with this beauty. I thought maybe we could ride together—get to know each other without the old man around.”

The mention of Ron made my jaw tighten. “I don’t need family bonding time.”

“I’m not offering therapy, just a ride,” Christian countered. “Unless you’re worried that fancy German engineering can’t keep up with Italian craftsmanship.”

I studied him, noting the challenge in eyes that were the same shape as mine.

Irritated, I responded. “You’re trying to race me?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to spend ten minutes in my company, then yeah.” Christian straddled his Ducati again. “Four miles down Ocean Drive to South Pointe, then back. That should give us enough time to see what these machines can do.”

“There’s traffic,” I pointed out, looking at the steady stream of cars crawling along Ocean Drive.

Christian grinned. “That’s what makes it interesting. One million says I cross the line first.”

My eyebrows raised at that. The money meant nothing to either of us—this was about proving something. But was it worth my time?

“If you want to lose that bad, that’s all you have to say.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Cruz, cutting my eyes to Santari.

“What’s good?” Cruz answered. The ambient noise in the background said he was already out.

“Are you close to Primal?”

“I’m ten minutes out, why?”

“Head this way. I’m about to take this fool’s money.”

Cruz’s voice dropped. “Everything straight?”

“Yeah, just get here pronto,” I replied before ending the call.

Santari placed her hand on my arm. “You know I can ride with you, right?”

“And you will—after I handle this. I can’t put precious cargo on my back while riding this fool into the ground.”

She stared at me, then nodded slowly. “Alright. But you better win.”

I arched a brow. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you thought you were fucking a loser.”

“First time for everything,” Christian interjected with a smirk.

I cut my gaze at him. “Your confidence is dinner for my gut, but I like the cockiness. Keep it up.”

“Ditto. It must run in the family.”

I glared at him, my nostrils flaring. Biting back a curse, I revved my engine. Cruz arrived fifteen minutes later, his red Hellcat purring as it pulled to the valet stand. He stepped out, his eyes immediately landing on Christian with suspicion, then Santari, before turning to me.

“So, this is the money?” Cruz asked, approaching our group.

I nodded. “Cruz, meet Christian Valentine. Apparently, he rides.”

“As in your brother, Christian Valentine?”

I spoke through clenched teeth. “Chill with the family dynamics, motherfucker.”

He smirked. “Awww, how sweet of you to be getting to know your family,” he teased.

“Fuck you, bitch.”

His guffaw was loud and ridiculously boisterous.

“Cruz…” Santari chided.

He slapped my shoulder. “I’m just fuckin’ with him, damn. Wouldn’t be right if I didn’t. Besides,” he reigned in his laughter, “it’ll make for a great story later, I’m sure of it.”

Cruz extended his hand, which Christian shook firmly. “You’re from St. Louis, right? The corporate lawyer?”

“Sports and entertainment law,” Christian corrected. “You got quite a reputation yourself. Club Fetish is legendary, even in the Midwest.”

Cruz’s expression remained neutral, but I caught the slight surprise in his eyes. “I get that often.”

I pulled Cruz aside while Santari engaged Christian in conversation. “I need you to keep Santari with you during this race. Don’t take your eyes off her—not for a second.”

“Are you expecting problems?”

“No, but until we put the nail in the coffin of the motherfuckers responsible for her kidnapping, I’m taking no chances.”

Cruz nodded. “I got her. But don’t bury that nigga. Try to keep whatever this is light, aight?”

My grin was mischievous. “Bury? You speak like I’m the Grim Reaper.”

“Then we have an understanding.”

I winked and grabbed Santari, drawing her to me and growling into her mouth as I sucked her tongue.

“And just like that, my pussy’s wet,” she murmured.

I smashed her lips with mine, then released her. “Be good,” I said, putting on my helmet. “Or don’t.”

She smiled, and Cruz pulled her between his stance, wrapping his arms around her and sinking his lips into her neck.

She moaned and bit her bottom lip, winking at me.

Christian glanced from him to Santari to me but didn’t comment on his thoughts. That was a good thing because I gave no fucks about his thoughts anyway.

We established the rules: four miles down Ocean Drive to South Pointe Park, then four miles back. The first to return to Primal Luxury Resort won the million. Cruz and Santari would stay behind and watch this play out from afar.

Miami afternoon vibrated around us as we prepared our bikes at the hotel entrance. Traffic moved in its typical stop-and-go rhythm along Ocean Drive. Tourists weaved between colorful Art Deco buildings and palm trees, completely unaware of the high-stakes race about to unfold.

“On Santari’s count,” I said, straddling the Mercedes and starting the engine. The machine hummed between my legs, its power waiting to remind me why I chose it in the first place. Santari strolled over and stood between our bikes. I winked at her, and she blew me a kiss as I revved my engine.

Christian adjusted his gloves. “There’s still time to back out if you’re nervous.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response; instead, I focused on the road ahead and analyzed the traffic patterns and potential paths through the congestion. This was my town, and there was no way he would emerge victorious.

Santari raised her arm. “Three... two... one... GO!”

I twisted the throttle, feeling the front wheel lift slightly as the Mercedes shot forward. Christian’s Ducati launched with equal ferocity, both bikes weaving immediately to avoid a taxi pulling away from the curb.

Beeeeeeeep!

The driver raised his middle finger and cursed us to hell, and I laughed, the thrill already brewing inside me like a raging storm.

The Miami heat pressed against me as we accelerated, slicing between cars like they were standing still.

Christian took an aggressive line, squeezing between a tour bus and a parked Bentley with inches to spare.

I countered by hugging the center line, overtaking three cars before a red light forced a decision—brake or risk it.

Christian chose risk, blasting through the intersection as cross traffic began to move. I followed, ignoring the blaring horns and expletives from startled drivers. The Ducati’s taillight remained ahead, taunting me as we approached seventy miles per hour in a thirty five zone.

Ocean Drive unfolded before us—a gauntlet of obstacles. Convertibles with tops down cruised in the left lane. Tourists darted across crosswalks. Valet attendants dashed between parked luxury vehicles. Each required split-second decisions and instant calculations of speed and trajectory.

Christian handled his bike with unmistakable skill, threading the Ducati through impossibly tight gaps in traffic. I matched him move for move, the Mercedes responding to my slightest touch as if it was an extension of me.