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We approached a delivery truck blocking half the road. Christian swerved right, nearly clipping a row of parked cars. I went left, accelerating into oncoming traffic for three heart-stopping seconds before cutting back into my lane ahead of him.

Our bikes shot past outdoor cafés, the patrons’ heads turning in unison at the silver and black blurs. A police cruiser parked outside one of the hotels flashed its lights, but we were gone before the officer could react.

South Pointe Park appeared ahead. It was the halfway mark. Christian braked hard, executing a tight turn that sent his back tire sliding. I matched his maneuver, using my weight to control my slide as we came around for the return journey.

For a brief moment, our eyes met through our visors. I saw something familiar there—not just the physical resemblance, but the same intensity, the same instinctive understanding of risk and control that I felt in myself.

The return leg became a chess match at ninety miles per hour. The traffic had thickened, forcing even more creative navigation. Christian found a rhythm, leaning his Ducati at impossible angles to slip through gaps I thought was too narrow for any vehicle.

But I pushed the Mercedes to its mechanical limits, feeling the engine’s vibration intensify as we approached triple digits on a clear stretch. A bus pulled out unexpectedly, forcing us onto the sidewalk for thirty terrifying yards, sending pedestrians diving out of our path.

Christian handled the detour flawlessly, his back tire kicking up sand as he rejoined the street. I followed, grudgingly impressed by his control.

As Primal Luxury Resort came back into view, we were dead even. I hunched lower over the handlebars, squeezing every possible ounce of acceleration from the German machine. Christian matched me, both of us threading through the final stretch of traffic like needles through fabric.

We crossed the invisible finish line simultaneously, tires smoking as we braked hard in front of the hotel. I could see the shock on Cruz and Santari’s faces as I removed my helmet, my heart pounding against my ribcage. Christian did the same with sweat glistening on his forehead as he grinned.

“Tie,” Cruz announced, stepping out in front of us.

“Bullshit,” I countered. “I had the edge.”

“In what universe?” Christian laughed, but there was no malice in it. “I was ahead by half a wheel.”

Santari’s eyes were wide. “That was insane! You two were flying!”

Before I could respond, a silver Audi swerved aggressively toward the curb, the horn blaring from an obvious angry driver. The car screeched to a stop, and a red-faced man in an expensive but ill-fitting suit launched from the driver’s side.

“What the fuck is wrong with you assholes?” he shouted, stomping toward us. “You nearly killed my girlfriend back there! Racing like fucking maniacs!”

Christian stepped forward, his posture shifting subtly into a defensive stance. “Back up, man. Nobody got hurt.”

“Don’t tell me to back up!” The man jabbed a finger into Christian’s chest. “You know what? I’m calling the cops right now. Let’s see how those fancy bikes look getting towed away.”

Christian shoved him back with enough force to create distance but not enough to be considered assault. “Touch me again and you’ll regret it.”

The man stumbled, then redirected his rage toward me. “Fuck you!” He flipped us off. “You think Ocean Drive is your personal racetrack?”

He charged forward, his arm cocked back for a punch.

I let him come—let him think he had a chance—before stepping slightly to the side.

My fist connected with his jaw in a clean, swift swing that transferred maximum force with minimum effort.

He dropped immediately, unconscious, before hitting the pavement.

“Fred!” A woman’s voice cut through the aftermath.

I turned to see blonde hair rushing from the Audi’s passenger side. Her face was contorted with rage, and her eyes were fixed on me.

“You fuckin’ animal!” she shrieked, lunging with outstretched hands, with her nails aimed at my face.

Santari intercepted her with a right hook to her jaw. The woman folded instantly, collapsing beside her boyfriend in an unconscious heap.

A guffaw slipped from my gut, and Cruz shook his head and whistled. We both stared at Santari with lust in our eyes.

Valets and guests gawked at the two bodies on the pavement, then at us, then back at the bodies.

“Damn, girl,” Cruz murmured, his eyebrows raised at Santari.

“What?” she replied, shaking out her hand. “That bitch had it coming.”

Christian gazed at Santari with newfound respect, then burst into laughter. “Now I see why you keep her around. She’s exactly your speed.”

I fought back a smile but grabbed Santari and drew her close by her throat. “Now, why would you turn me on in front of these people like that?”

She licked up my face, and I bit her bottom lip and sucked in her tongue.

“My suite is on the fifteenth floor of the Fontainebleau,” Christian offered. “There’s plenty of space, and the bar is fully stocked.”

I mounted my bike, and Santari mounted behind me. “Some other time.”

“There’s still a million dollars at play,” he added.

I sucked my teeth. “Not for long.” I revved my engine. “Hold tight,” I told Santari as we accelerated away from Primal Luxury Resort, leaving two unconscious bodies and questionable onlookers in our wake.