Page 65 of Enzo
“Sure.”
“It’s a Pontiac 1970 GTO.”
“Okay.”
“Jamie and Rio are both here.”
“I know.”
I know you won’t leave me alone. I know you look out for me.
“Later,” he murmured and then vanished.
I missed him as soon as he left.
TWENTY-TWO
Enzo
The Pontiac wasa pile of rusty shit held together with a hope and a prayer.
It was beautiful.
Everything started out okay. The air in the private garage smelled like old oil and rusting metal, which should’ve been familiar but only made my skin itch because it wasn’t Redcars and I wanted to get back to Redcars. Fast.
“Two thousand,” I said, my gaze running over the battered Pontiac. The once beautiful machine had seen better days—its black paint dulled by years of neglect, rust creeping along the wheel wells, and a busted headlight that gave it a lopsided glare. The engine had seized, the carburetor needed a complete rebuild, and the exhaust was barely hanging on. But under all that wear, the bones of a beast remained, and I knew Redcars could bring it back to life. Rio loved this shit, and Jamie was always good with a rebuild.
The man in front of me—Albie, a grease-stained, half-retired hustler who’d been around long enough to think he had leverage—scratched his chin, unconvinced. “Yeah, well, Logan said we could make a deal.” I knew for a fact he hadn’t even spoken to Logan.
“You’re dealing with me,” I said, arms crossed over my chest.
“Logan and I always had an understanding,” Albie muttered, running a hand over the dull, fading paint job of the old muscle car.
I didn’t have time for this. “Bottom line, you want to sell or not?”
The door swung open behind me, and two guys stepped in. Big. Purposeful. No gang tattoos I could see but these were heavies who were intended to intimidate.
My pulse kicked up, my hands flexing at my sides, muscles coiled and ready. My breath shallowed, a deep-rooted instinct whispering that something was off. Every nerve in my body braced for the next move; for the moment, things would shift from tense to dangerous.
Was this a set up? Was this Stone Cross and Mateo? Vinnie? Was this John pulling strings? I shouldn’t have left Robbie. Hands loose at my sides, I kept my stance wide enough that if this went sideways, I’d have room to move. The tension crackled in my chest, an old instinct kicking in whether I wanted it to or not.
Albie waved a hand. “Relax. They work for me.”
I didn’t relax. I stayed as I was, watching them flanking the exit, checking me over as though taking stock of what it’d take to put me down.
I didn’t appreciate being stared at in that way.
“We all need protecting,” Albie tilted his head, narrowing his gaze, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Heard Redcars got some trouble coming their way. Stone Cross making moves?”
My heart stopped.
I was on Albie in an instant—hand around his throat, slamming him against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. The guards beside him moved, but I shoved them back like they were nothing—children trying to hold back a wildfire.
“What did you say?” I growled, face inches from his, voice low and lethal.
Albie gasped, caught off guard, the smugness vanishing as he clawed at my wrist. I didn’t let up. Didn’t blink. He’d said too much.
“Nothing, rumors is all,” he scrabbled at my hands.
