Page 7 of Bratva Beast

I’ve been driving competitively in the Semi-pro Stock Car Racing Series for seven years, finishing in the top five for four out of the last six years. We drive the same brand cars and race the tracks you see on TV with the pros. Our bratva and a group of investors own my team. I’m seventeen points behind the leader for the season, and I’m primed to win tonight’s race.

“Everything feel good?”

I nod. “Yeah. All good.”

Jack lets me know it’s time to go, and I hit the accelerator with full force, ready to hit the track before the pace car laps me. Iswing my stock car in front of the pace car and focus on getting back up the pack.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve got forty-seven laps to go, and I’ve moved up the field into the number two spot. The leader is a competitive asshole and a friend. We’ve worked up the circuits together since we were teenagers. I do everything my father wants and live for the strength of the bratva, but this is for me.

A little while later, we’ve got just five laps to go, and Trent, one of the young upstart racers, moves up behind me, looking to pass me on the left. “Punk. Don’t you know who I am?” I move my car into his path, and he pulls back, shifts to the right, and I move over again. I can see him yelling in the cockpit of his car.

My crew chief barks into the comms. “Stop playing with the child. Cyn.”

I move up on the lead car, hoping he’ll get my drift to school the new boy. We block the road, leaving the less experienced driver scrambling behind us. I chuckle as Trent tries a bump and run, hitting the back of my car and bolting to race around me. “Where you think you’re going?” I don’t take the bait. The lead car has no intention of giving him room. I’ll make a run for the win. The lead car increases speed, and I match him, leaving the young driver behind me. He’s not in tune enough with his car to keep up.

Jack yells from the pit into my headset. “Now’s the time.”

I take a breath and dive my car down to go below the lead car to pass, knowing he’ll adjust and block. It’s time. I’m actually aiming to pass him on the high side on the second to last turn of the road course. Just like I expected, he meets my car at the bottom of the track as I fly my car to go up and around. A thunk shakes my entire vehicle, and my engine dies. I pull out of the turn and straighten my car, coming to a slowed stop as the punk, Travis, and the rest of the pack fly by. “What the fuck just happened?”

Jack’s yelling in my ear. “Cyn? What happened?”

“A clunk sound like the whole bottom fell out of the car and now the engine’s dead.” The car comes to a stop, and I climb out, tossing my helmet and fire gear into the front seat. “Fuck, fuck. I wanted to win. I needed the win to get enough points to win the championship.” Groaning, I lean against the car for the wrecker to come get me and my piece of shit car, knowing my crew chief will figure out what the hell happened.

I walk into the paddock where the team has congregated. Everyone is speculating about the car as I approach. My crew chief meets me on my way to the group. “You okay?”

“Just pissed. What the fuck happened?”

“First glance tells me something unusual happened. I’ve got the guys ripping the car apart now. Prepare yourself, I suspect it was sabotaged.”

My eyes bug out of my head, and I grit my jaw so tight, I think I’m going to snap off my teeth. Years of being told to control my emotions are coming in handy. I lean down into his ear. “I want to be the first to know everything.”

He nods, because he knows the investors will be chomping at the bit to blame someone. “You will be.” He pats my arm. “Go to the after party. Hold your head up. You would have won, and you will win the next race.”

I flick my head and move out the door, ignoring the press questions and the intriguing ingenues hanging at the gate.

Two hours later, I’m sitting in a booth at a swanky club in Virginia. I’ve declined all the drinks sent my way and continue to just sip on my water as I watch the people, waiting for someone to spark my need to be mean. As my father’s second in command, he’s trained me well. From the moment I could talk, he’s taught me to read people. I scan the club, and my eyes keep coming back to the punk from the race. Trent keeps staring at me, then dodges my look. He’s feeling guilty. My brain scrollsthrough the past few days. Did he or someone from his team damage my car? I motion for the server. She approaches. “Do you have Milt and Dornhan Champagne?”

She scrunches her nose. “We do. It’s the second most popular, for the people who can’t afford the best brands.”

I clap my hands together with a smirk. “Excellent. Send a bottle to him.” I point to the second-place driver, and the server nods. “Second best for second best.” I laugh to myself at my joke. Time to get back to New York. I fucking hate people. Trent catches my eye again. “Punk.” I nod at the server so she can close me out while I stand up and move to leave, running into Trent as he meets me at the entrance to the VIP section.

Trent’s serial killer grin piques my curiosity. “A shame about your car.”

Don’t take the bait. I increase my stride, ignoring his remarks, allowing the irritation to float away. This isn’t bratva business. I’m my own man, and I can walk away. My teeth grind against each other as the itch to kill irritates my soul.

“Anytime you want a rematch, just get behind the wheel. I’ll let you have a head start.” Trent chuckles.

The fire flares inside me. I can’t ignore a challenge or an insult. I blow out a breath as I turn around with a Chesire grin. “How about now? Got a car to race?”

Trent’s eyes widen, and he’s taken aback by my question. “We can’t get on the course.”

I shake my head. “Shame you’re a chicken. Good to know.” I turn back around, heading for the exit as Trent calls me back.

“I’ve got a Lambo Huracan. Will that do?”

Got him. My fake smile could convince a priest of my sincerity. “Sure. I’m driving a C8 Corvette.”

Trent smirks. “My car has more horsepower. It’s not really fair to you.”

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