I already know what that feels like—nope.Not going there again.
I stomp off, pushing deeper toward the house. I shake off a stray hand that tries to grab my wrist and dodge anothercarrying a tray of shots. Near the sliding glass doors, I spot a guy leaning against a pillar, wearing a team jacket—the matte black of Dominic’s colors.
He’s clearly low on the totem pole—maybe a social media intern or a logistics runner—the kind of position that doesn’t require being at the track until later. He’s leaning back with a red plastic cup, looking like he’s won the lottery just by being invited. He’s my best bet.
I grab his collar and yank him down so he can hear me over the bass. "Where is he?"
The guy blinks, startled, his drink sloshing precariously close to my hand. "Whoa. Feisty."
"Dominic," I snap, my patience paper-thin. "Where is he?"
"Inside? Upstairs, maybe? I don't know," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the house. "He disappeared like an hour ago. Probably got sick of people asking him for selfies."
I release him with a shove. "Move."
The interior of the mansion is just as I remember. It’s the same maze of high-end art and wall-to-wall trophies from the first time I was forced inside, only now it’s packed with college kids who look like they’ve never seen the inside of a laundromat.
Every gleaming silver cup and framed podium photo feels like it’s mocking me, a literal shrine to the Valerio name that I’m currently stuck navigating. Still no Dominic. My frustration sharpens into something reckless.
I head for the stairs.
I’ve never been to the second floor. The higher I climb, the more the noise dulls into a distant thrum. The hallway is lined with closed doors and soft carpet, feeling far more private—and far more off-limits—than the floor below.
I stop at the end of the hall. The door is ajar.
I push it further open, bracing myself for another assault of gold and silver, but the room is... quiet.
It’s unmistakablyhim—the scent of expensive leather, and that faint, sharp metallic tang of a racing garage—but it’s a jarring departure from the rest of the mansion. There are no floor-to-ceiling trophy cases here. No framed newspaper clippings or backlit podium shots. Downstairs is a museum dedicated to the family name, curated with clinical precision. This room feels like a bunker in comparison.
The walls are mostly bare, save for a few dark, minimalist prints, but my eyes snag on a single, small frame sitting on the nightstand. It looks out of place in a room this modern, this controlled.
It’s a younger Dominic and Luka. They’re barely teenagers, their faces lacking the sharp, cynical edges they both carry now. They’re standing on either side of a dark-haired woman with a radiant, tired smile, the family resemblance unmistakable in the set of their eyes.
Luka is grinning at the camera, already looking like he owns the world, but it’s Dominic who draws my attention. He’s smaller then, his expression unusually soft as he clutches a stuffed animal to his chest—a small, worn-out plush bear with one ear matted down. It looks like it’s been through a hundred pretend races and survived them all.
Something in my chest loosens without my permission. The arrogant persona doesn't fit with the kid in that photo. A soft smirk tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
"Breaking and entering," Dominic says, his voice a low vibration that cuts through the muffled bass from downstairs. "Bold choice, Shortcut."
I spin, my heart doing a little dance against my ribs for getting caught. Dominic’s leaning against the far wall by the attached bathroom door.
He’s dressed in raw, dark denim and a matte black shirt that clings to his shoulders, looking less like a host and more like atactical weapon. His hair is messily pushed back, and a single beer dangles from his fingers.
My first, treacherous thought is how good he looks. The contrast between the dark clothes and his skin, the sharp, clean lines of his silhouette—it’s a perfect design, a blueprint I shouldn’t be appreciating, but am. My gut clenches in that dangerous, visceral way it does when I’m near him, and I hate it. I hate that my default setting for him is admiration in this moment, even when I'm ready to commit murder.
He doesn't look surprised to see me. He looks like he was waiting for me to trip the wire.
I exhale slowly, forcing my brain to switch back to diagnostic mode. He’s not a flawless design; he’s a faulty machine. I need to find the leak. "Your party is loud. In case you were wondering."
He lifts the bottle in a mock salute. "That’s sort of the point of a party."
"You’re losing control of it," I say, gesturing vaguely toward the outside.
"Am I?" His mouth twitches, but he doesn't move. He just watches me from the dim light.
"Yes. It’s obnoxious."
He straightens slightly, his attention flicking to the photo on the nightstand before returning to me with a sharp, clinical intensity. "You always this honest when you’re trespassing?"
