Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles 6)

One of these pit girls appeared on a podium off to the left with a start flag. Her hotpants didn’t even cover the underside of her ass cheeks, but I had to admit she could pull it off.

Dima came to a stop in his car to my right, sending me a warning look. “Don’t do anything stupid” was what his expression said. I rolled my eyes at him. We were here for a reason and nothing would stop me from reaching my goal.

My attention drifted over to my left where Adamo parked in his yellow BMW M4. His window was down and his muscled arm rested casually on his door. His eyes met mine and one corner of his mouth tipped up. My heart sped up and I narrowed my eyes at him, not liking my body’s reaction to the overconfident Falcone baby brother. But fuck, he looked all man, trouble and danger, how he lounged in his seat as if that was the place he was meant to be. His kingdom.

I revved the engine once, a challenge. I wasn’t easily intimidated. Adamo was a force to be reckoned with on the racetrack, but he wasn’t the only one who had speed in his veins. The sound of two dozen engines filled the silence, like a wolf pack growling in unison. Goose bumps rose on my skin and my fingers around the steering wheel tightened. I’d never been part of a race with more than a couple of drivers.

The pit girl raised a flag above her head, smiling daringly. Adamo nodded at me as if to say good luck.

I smirked. I didn’t need luck. I had skill, and the advantage of being underestimated by most of my opponents.

The second the pit girl dropped her arm with the flag, I slammed my foot down on the gas. Viper shot forward with a roar, dust rising up and hiding my surroundings from me. For several seconds I didn’t see my opponents or the street before me, only the impenetrable sand storm awakened by spinning tires. I steered the car straight ahead blindly, my foot on the gas not easing. Then finally the dust settled and my surroundings came into focus and with them, Adamo’s BMW which was a car length ahead of me. Dima was still on my right and another car had taken the spot where Adamo had been. We all drifted into the first bend in the road, but I barely reduced my speed, even as my car rammed into my unknown opponent. I sped up the second my car left the curve, my hands clutching the steering wheel to control Viper. Adamo was still ahead of me but I thought my risky maneuver had brought me closer.

My opponent on the left rammed my side, almost sending me flying off the road. Obviously payback. “Fuck you!” I raged. My foot on the gas became heavy from the force of the pressure I put down. Dima let himself fall back then slid over behind me and positioned himself behind my aggressive opponent. Then he drove into his trunk.

Grinning, I returned my focus to Adamo ahead of me. Dima would deal with the vengeful idiot.

I was slowly catching up to the BMW when Adamo suddenly slowed until we were hood to hood, and I could see his face. He grinned.

I cocked an eyebrow. A sharp curve lay ahead of us, much worse than the one before. Adamo raised his brows before he focused on the street and sped up again. The bastard had slowed to check on me. No matter how hard I jabbed my foot down on the gas, Adamo stayed half a car length in front of me. I entered the curve less than a second after him and my back tires broke out. I held on fast and carefully steered the wheel in the other direction before I sped up once more and catapulted Viper and me out of the dangerous bend. Four cars were only half a car length behind me, one of them Dima. We’d left most of the other racers behind, but only five of us would make it to the final race and I had a feeling Adamo wasn’t going to be on the losing side. He was too good and his car too damn fast.

Twenty seconds later, Adamo crossed the finish line first and I came in after him. I let out a battle cry. Pulling up beside Adamo’s parked car beside a makeshift winner’s rostrum, I let down my window. Adamo was already getting out of his car. The sinking sun had turned the sky into a fiery blaze behind him. He pulled out a cigarette packet from his jeans.

“Nice race, Falcone,” I shouted over the sound of the incoming race cars.

His lips twitched around the cigarette and he strode toward me. Again I couldn’t stop admiring his sun-kissed, strong forearms and the outline of his six-pack through his thin white T-shirt. As if he knew what I was thinking, his smile turned cocky. He held out the packet to me through my window and I gingerly snatched up a cigarette. Shoving the door open, I got out.