Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles 6)

“You risked a lot,” Adamo said.

I shrugged, stepping closer to him. “Can you give me fire?” I put the cigarette in my mouth. Adamo leaned closer with the lighter, one of his hands protecting the flame from the breeze. Out of habit, because I always did it with Dima, I guided his hand with mine so the flame touched the tip of my cigarette. His hand was hot and strong beneath my palm. His eyes met mine and for a moment we were both frozen in the moment, in the realization of our sudden closeness. The second my tip kindled, I withdrew from Adamo and took a deep drag.

My eyes scanned the other cars, worried about Dima.

“He made it,” Adamo said as if my thought process was an open book to him. It was unsettling. “Fourth. But Kay won’t be happy with the way you two rammed him. He’ll file a complaint.”

I rolled my eyes. “This is illegal street racing. If he can’t stand the burn, he should stop playing with fire.”

Adamo chuckled and nodded. “His complaint will fall on deaf ears of course.”

“Because you want me in the final race,” I said, smiling challengingly.

“Because risky maneuvers raise the bets. And I have a feeling you’ll provide more reckless moves like today.”

“It’s all about the money, huh?” I leaned against my car, blowing out a plume of smoke. I was familiar with the business Adamo and his brothers dealt in. Money and power were all that mattered, but Adamo gave the impression that this was about more than that.

“The prize money for winning a main race is 25k. Winning the season, it’s 250k on top. Except for a few speed junkies with rich parents who never win anyway, every racer wants that prize money. But that’s not why you are here, Dinara, right?”

Considering that he and I both came from money, his derogatory words seemed hypocritical but I got what he meant. He searched my eyes, trying to dig deeper. I wondered what Remo had told him. Maybe half-truths like my father. If he knew everything, he wouldn’t look at me like this.

I smiled. “No, money isn’t what this is about. That’s what connects us.”

Dima advanced on us, expression hardening when he spotted Adamo beside me. “You risked too much,” he said in Russian.

“Some things are worth risking everything for,” I said in English, my eyes boring into Adamo’s.

Adamo inclined his head with a tight smile. “Congrats to you both for making the finals. Crank will send you the details of our camp so you can join us for the next race. If you don’t show up without a good excuse, you’ll be disqualified for the rest of the year.”

I nodded. “We’ll be there.”

Without another word, he turned around, heading toward the guy Crank, who’d registered us.

“He’s suspicious,” Dima murmured. “This could be a trap.”

I bit out a laugh. “You’re paranoid, Dima. There won’t be a trap for us. And I would have been disappointed if he weren’t suspicious. This makes for a more interesting game.”

Dima shook his head. “Don’t forget what’s at stake.”

I glowered. “Nobody knows what’s really at stake except for me.”

The first race of the season was scheduled almost two weeks after the qualification race where I’d met Dinara. We had forty races in total spread out over the year. Stepping out of my tent, I sucked in a deep breath of the still fresh desert air. Dozens of tents were set up around me, all of them circling a bonfire and barbecue area where the racers and pit girls gathered at night. Our camp always traveled from one starting point to the next. Many racers spent the entire year in our racer camp, their only home. Some compared it to the Burning Man festival, but the rivalry between some drivers made it less of a free-spirited and relaxed place.

It was the day before the race, the deadline when all drivers had to appear in camp. My eyes registered a neon-green Viper at the very edge of the camp. I stifled a sigh. Dinara was the last to show up and last night I’d worried she wouldn’t. I wasn’t even sure why I cared. Her presence meant trouble.

Our camp cook was flipping pancakes on a mobile gas stove and I grabbed a plate with a stack of steaming pancakes before I headed toward Dinara’s car.

I didn’t see her anywhere, only Dima who hunched over a cup of coffee, leaning against the hood of his car. I gave him a curt nod, which he barely returned. Stuffing a pancake into my mouth, I walked back to my tent. From the corner of my eye, a streak of familiar red caught my attention. Turning my head, I spotted Dinara. She came from the direction of the mobile showers one of our race workers transported on a truck from one camp stop to the next. Her hair hung in damp ringlets down her shoulders and she didn’t wear any makeup. A too-big Van Halen T-shirt was knotted above her belly and her jean shorts hung low on her hips, revealing a belly button piercing which made me want to discover the rest of her body to find out if there was more body jewelry hidden beneath her clothes.