The street felt like the fucking Wild West. Luciano's blood ran ice-cold as he counted the silhouettes standing in front of the blockade. The men had that calm, trigger-happy stillness that screamed professional killers—no wasted movement, no twitchy nerves. Just stone-faced motherfuckers with their guns pointed at his head like this was just another night at work.
Val? She didn't freeze. Didn't hesitate. Didn't blink. She just revved the engine. The growl of the bike ripped through the silence like a war cry.
"Val—"
"Shut up."
Luciano's pulse slammed against his skull. His grip tightened around the revolver in his lap, and his breath felt too fucking loud.
Then—
The first shot rang out. The bullet barely missed them, slicing through the air near Val's shoulder.
"FUCK IT—HOLD ON!"
The bike EXPLODED forward, the tires screeching against the pavement as Val gunned it straight at the blockade.
Gunfire ERUPTED. —CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!—
