Page 41 of Rose
“Come on,” Sarai said, already slipping off her waist apron. “I know how to drive one. We’ll go check on her together.”
Kyre blinked. “Wait—what? You do?”
Sarai winked. “Don’t let the pretty fool you. I used to ride heavy back in college with Sin. And I still take Gold’s delivery bike when I need to clear my head.”
Kyre shook her head in disbelief. “Ray Ray, you got a business to run.”
“Bitch, Iownthe business. I can leave whenever the hell I want.”
Sarai turned to Chris, one of the managers, who was already watching from the bar.
“You good?” she called out.
“Got it, boss,” Chris nodded with a grin. “Tell your girl to be safe.”
Without missing a beat, Sarai turned to Kyre. “Let’s go before that Uber drops her off and she holes up somewhere you can’t reach.”
Kyre didn’t argue. She just followed—because if there was one thing stronger than trauma, it was the people who refused to let you suffer alone.
???
Carter Customz.
It wasn’t just a garage. It was Savior’s peace. His pride. His passion. A black-and-gold building with concrete floors polished like obsidian and ten garage bayslined with rides that ranged from basic builds to six-figure beasts. Savior didn’t just fix cars—he transformed them. Wrapped them in power. Injected them with adrenaline. Turned dreams into speed. His crew ran like a machine, but Savior was hands-on with every project. Every detail mattered. From the stitching in the leather to the hidden nitrous tanks. This was his escape. From the blood. From the chaos. From the woman whose face he couldn’t forget. The way her eyes glowed but still held darkness.
The way her beauty took up all the oxygen. Even her tears moved something inside of him. The length he took to make sure she felt better with the surprise at Sarai’s shop was something he never did for no woman. He hoped it worked. But he couldn’t stop wrapping his head around how much this woman got to him without trying.
But right now? The only thing on his mind was the scent of oil, vinyl wrap, and the hum of engines purring under his touch. This was his rhythm. His silence. The only time he didn’t feel like Khaos.
Savior was elbow-deep in the guts of a 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback, sweat sliding down his spine, oil smudged across his abs, and Lil Wayne thumping through the surround sound speakers like a heartbeat. This wasn’t just any car—it washisfather’s car. The first one the old man ever let him drive. A rare moment of pride. A rare moment of love. He tracked it down himself, paid for it in cash, and now he was breathing life back into it bolt by bolt, gear by gear. Not for nostalgia. Not for redemption. But because somehow, this machine still held the ghosts of his childhood. Some memories he wished he could erase. Others he couldn’t let go of if he tried.
There was blood in the steel. History in the engine. And every time he touched it, he felt the weight of everything he’d survived—and the man he refused to become.
The rest of the crew was gone—he sent them home hours ago. He wanted this moment alone. Out there, he was Khaos, the commander, a ghost with a kill count that terrified governments. But in here? He was just a man. A car lover. An artist crafting redemption in the form of steel, rubber, and speed. His shop smelled like burnt rubber, grease, and vinyl wrap. To him, that was incense. Peace in a world where he was trained to bring nothing but destruction.
Shirtless, skin glistening under the shop lights, tattoos dancing across his muscles with every move, Savior worked in silence, hands moving with the rhythm of a man who knew machines better than people. He was mid-weld when his phone buzzed against the metal table. He wiped the grime off his hands and checked the screen. Olivia Stone.
He smirked as the phone buzzed in his hand. If she was calling, that meant she had a lead—and not just any lead. Olivia didn’t reach out unless it was urgent, locked in, or bloody. She wasn’t just his best friend. She was family. Been in his corner since they were six, and now? She was the shield behind his sword. Head federal detective by title, ghost operator by reality. Olivia was the reason Khaos ran Miami unchecked. No records. No whispers. No heat. She kept the law blind and the streets theirs.
He answered, voice low and expectant. “What’s the word?”
“Got something. Name and location,” Olivia said cool and clean, no fluff.
“Aight. Good looks. Send it through.”
“Name is Bernard Willis. Warehouse job by day. Drowns himself in liquor at some rundown club every night. This man is a bum, Sav. What the hell did he do to make your list? He ain’t no corrupt judge, trafficker, or psychopath. Not your usual lineup.”
He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Olivia was the only one outside his bloodline who could question him and live. But even then, he couldn’t tell her the truth. Couldn’t admit that he was hunting a man over a woman he didn’t even know.
“Loose end,” he said flatly.
“Can’t stand those,” Olivia muttered. “Just sent it. Address is on a timer. Ten seconds.”
Ding.
He opened the message. Name. Photo. Location. It disappeared before the thought could settle—just like they trained. No trails. No evidence. No second chances. Even this call was untraceable. A ghost whisper in the wind.
“Got kids? Wife? Anybody that might give me pause?” Savior asked, though he already knew the answer wouldn’t change shit.
