If Tobey's crew was built for racing—buying cars, scouting routes, handling comms—everything neat and within the rules, then Leon's team was the opposite: violent, offensive, aggressively proactive. They were part special-ops, part cops, part mob. There was even someone in the hotel who slept with explosives beside them. The whole squad had a menacing presence.
Put them side-by-side and Leon's crew looked far stronger—far more terrifying. Tobey's outfit was a grassroots racing gang; Leon's was an elite army. The gap between the two wasn't small. Tobey was impressed. He'd thought the three girls Leon showed up with were just pretty faces—ornaments for show. He never expected every one of them to have a lethal specialty. Beauty and capability in the same package—Tobey couldn't help but envy them.
Benny, Finn, and Joe sat dumbfounded, stunned into silence. Those three delicate-looking women? Each was a thorn once roused. If they decided to strike, none of them would be easy to deal with. The contrast was so great the men simply couldn't process it—intimidated by the women's aura.
"The Leon Cup invitation won't be a problem—but winning the race is another matter," someone warned.
Leon gave a faint, enigmatic smile. "How about we make a bet?" he said.
"How do you mean?" Tobey asked without thinking.
"If I win at the Leon Cup, every one of you joins my team." Leon's tone was casual but cold.
"And if you lose?" Tobey asked.
"Two hundred billion for the car—cash." Leon answered.
Two hundred billion. Tobey's jaw dropped. Two hundred billion for one car? And cash, not installments? Even imagining a billionaire buying at that level felt unreal. The number was obscene—especially with the economy in freefall; few people would ever drop that kind of money on a car. But Leon's confidence was infectious.
"I say it's worth two hundred billion because it is," Leon continued. "Once the Palace—when the Palace knows, they'll fight over it." He spoke with absolute certainty. When he opened his mouth, his words read like fact.
"Soft-metal body, ultrasonic self-cleaner, quantum tires…" Leon rattled off a list of seemingly impossible technologies. Tobey's eyes widened—every single thing Leon named sounded like sci-fi. Any single item would fetch hundreds of millions; all of them on one car was insane. And there was a greater secret Leon wasn't naming: the plasma engine. Tobey understood the rules—this car had that level of kit and the heart to hit those insane speeds. The real details on the engine, though, Leon only offered up if someone actually beat him.
When the math was done in their heads, the price started to make sense. Two hundred billion might actually be real. The crew sucked in air, stunned. What kind of team could source tech like that? Each gadget alone would be jaw-dropping—together they screamed "West Coast supremacy."
"All right. We'll take that bet," Tobey said, extending his hand. "Let's race."
"Pleasure doing business," Leon said, and shook.
Dino—who'd been trying to act tough earlier—had long since been reduced in the eyes of everyone present. Even before prison, Tobey had been a tier above Dino. Five years behind bars hadn't cured that. One could argue that Dino's 500 km/h run was just a heavily modified car—whether it would hold up in a true head-to-head was another question.
—
The next day, Leon and Shaw showed up at Caffè Reggio. In this young country, the cafe was a place steeped in history—used as a filming location for The Godfather Part II, once a campaign stop for a presidential candidate, and rumoured to be where the world's first cappuccino was served. The décor still retained relics, some dating from the 17th century; the shop's pride was an old Italian espresso machine. People who come here either come for the legend or because they're connoisseurs.
At a corner table sat a slightly plump middle-aged man, thumbing his phone and sipping coffee. Leon walked up, unceremoniously dragged a chair out and sat down. Shaw mirrored him.
"Can I help you two?" the man asked, lowering his phone; his coffee barely touched.
"Cut the act. Monark—you've been waiting for us," Leon said, pointing at the empty cup. "If you're going to pretend, at least drink the coffee first."
Monark's fingers froze. Of course the man didn't drink the coffee in a half hour—that wasn't the point. A man like Monark, a recluse and the organizer of the underground "Leon Cup," didn't choose a famous place by accident. He had an agenda.
"Well done, West Coast Car God. I think they underestimated you," Monark admitted.
"Flattery won't get you far." Leon's tone stayed flat. "Now send the invitation for the Leon Cup."
At that, Shaw produced a small bomb from his pocket and slammed it onto the table. The click made Monark flinch. Was the man used to carrying bombs everywhere? Leon leaned forward, his tone hard as steel.
"The Leon Cup is a contest between East and West. If you don't give me the invite, I'll blow you up and then set the time and place myself."
Monark's face went white. He believed Leon wasn't bluffing—this was not idle posturing; it was a promise. Monark tried to reason with him.
"Think carefully about this event," Monark said, grim-faced.
"What do you mean?" Leon narrowed his eyes.
"This is Dino's revenge match. Revenge means killing," Monark said in a low voice. "They're cooperating with Braga this time. The plan is to ambush Tony."
Braga—Leon paused. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. Convenient. Kill two enemies with one scheme, he thought.
"Enough. Invite letter or not?" Leon's patience snapped; he pulled the safety off the miniature device, the threat explicit.
Monark nearly lost it.
~~----------------------
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