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“In that case, you could have driven it back to me.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to know where you lived. What’s the point in you saving my ass if you throw me back to the wolves?”
“Take it and leave us out of this,” Logan says with a violence that tells me he’s done with me today.
I bite my lower lip, looking at both of them, and concede. “Put the wing back and you won’t hear from me again.”
Nodding, they both get to work, but I stop them the moment they bring a spoiler out.
“That’s not mine. I want mywing.”
“Fucking hell, you’re a piece of work, woman,” Logan snaps.
“Why? Because I know what I want? Because you’re putting a wing that isn’t mine back onmycar? I had a GT2 high wing carbon mount. What am I going to do with your fucking BA Trunk mount wing?”
“It’s a really good piece,” Racer mutters to himself.
“It’s good,” I agree. “But it’s not my wing. Mine is Japanese quality for a Japanese car. Mine is what gives me so much stability and grip, and the reason why I go so fast around turns. My wing is the reason, among many others, why I won that race, and you ended up owing me.” I narrow my eyes at them. “So put it back and keep your comments to yourselves.”
They exchange a look, and Logan shrugs before Racer walks to the back of the shop. Half an hour later, I’m leaving with my car again. It’s black, and since he took out my loud exhaust too, it’s discreet compared to the beauty I had brought here two years ago, but at least I have it.
As I drive out of their front parking lot, another car comes in. It’s too early for a customer, and I cross gazes with a small woman, probably only a few years older than me. Her eyes widening is a good indication that she knows who I am and didn’t expect to see me here, especially when she looks away as quickly as our gazes crossed. I keep an eye on her in my rearview mirror as I drive away.
I quickly come to a crossroads that I know could change my life, yet I don’t hesitate. If I turn left, I could leave the North Shore by the highway and drive right back to Stan. I don’t know how to get there, and it’s not like I have a GPS, but I can follow the signs to New York City and then the Hamptons.
But I turn right instead. There are a lot of reasons for that. I’m a vengeful person; I grew up surrounded by violence until I soaked in it myself. I’m stubborn. I make terrible decisions.
But mainly? I loathe Xi, and I have a raging need to get back at him for selling me out.
So I drive to where I know his house is, the motor of my baby purring softly under my foot.
NSC territories are much smaller than they used to be. When I was in high school, they owned our town, and us, the Kings, were tiny little insects they could crush under their boots.
Back then, they were supported by the Cosa Nostra, the Bianco family, to be precise. That made them invincible. But then Bianco went down. His power disappeared, and after a fight in the Death Cage, where we decide the fate of our town, the Kings took back power. Kayla and her dad got support from the Bratva Wolves, and we—the Kings of the North Shore—became the Kings of the world. At least inourversion of the world.
We took over the North Shore Crew, over the entire town. Their territories were ours, so their crew members started dying or joining us. We had suppliers where they didn’t. We stole their best dealing spots, their clients,everything. We didn’t need to kill their boss, Emma Scott, and her family; we could just slowly take everything away from them. And we did.
They kept fighting back, of course. Whoever stayed loyal to NSC were as devoted as they come. And no one is more devoted to NSC than Xi Benhaim. He led their drug operations. A small-town dealer who turned into a full-on businessman. CEO of feeding the rich kids from the South Bank and Stoneview their weekly cocaine.
No one can take Xi’s business away from him. Not only is money too important to everyone on the North Shore, but protecting those he loves is the essence of who he is. NSC has always had their own version of an enforcer in him, not because they paid him, but because that’s who he is deep inside. Taking the responsibility of everyone’s lives makes him irreplaceable.
I look up at the house and pause, blinking at what’s in front of me. What used to be a rundown house—scratch that. What used to look like an official waste dump has turned into the kind of house you would usually see on the South Bank. A smaller version.
It’s been repainted a clean white, slates repaired and put back together. The front lawn is green, freshly cut, his property lined with edges of pink peonies, and even his door is painted a bright pink.
“What the actual fuck,” I mutter to myself.
The guy is a lethal gang-member. Is he alright?
I reach over the central console, grabbing the crowbar I keep under the passenger seat.
“Fucking peonies,” I say to the wind as I walk past them. Just because he pissed me off, I destroy a large chunk of the edge before striding up the small pathway bordered by flowerpots. It leads right to his pink door. There’s a matt on the floor that sayswelcome homeand my entire body cringes.
Maybe he moved? He wouldn’t, though. Everyone knows this house is where his father died, and he was so close to him, he would never stop renting it.
There’s a small window next to the front door, and I roll my eyes. The guy forgot he lives on the North Shore.
Using the crowbar, I break the rectangular window, clear the frame of the shards, and slide my hand inside to unlock it.
