"Hey, slow down! Why are you jumping on my bed?"
Fabio was laughing like a maniac, pillow in hand.
"It's too early for this," I groaned, grabbing my blanket. "What do you want at this hour? I swear I'll kill you, Fabio!"
He only laughed louder and ran out of the room.
Before I could even process what was happening, I heard Dad calling from downstairs.
"Isabella! Breakfast!"
I rubbed my eyes and sighed. My body felt heavy—unusual for me. I was usually full of energy in the mornings, but maybe staying up late last night finally caught up to me.
When I reached the breakfast table, the room was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone was focused on their plates. I looked at Avila for some hint of what was going on, but he just smiled faintly at me.
Dad finally spoke.
"Isa, you and Dante will leave on Friday night's flight instead of Monday morning."
I glanced at Dante—he was calmly eating, not even reacting. "But why, Dad?"
He didn't look up. "Just go early, meet the people there, get familiar with the hotel project. It'll be better this way."
I nodded slowly. Something about the way he said it made me uneasy, like he was hiding something. Or maybe I was just imagining things.
Across the table, Rafael cleared his throat. "Isa… can I talk to you later?"
I looked at him. His usual cheerful face looked strangely serious. I just nodded. "Sure."
Later that afternoon, a knock came at my door.
I frowned. Rafael never knocked—he usually just barged in.
He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking nervous.
"What's going on?" I asked.
He stepped inside, pacing the room. "Isa, you know… you're my sister. You've always been someone I looked up to."
That made me even more uneasy. "Rafael, what's wrong? Just tell me."
He turned his back for a second, then faced me again. "You'll do anything for me, right?"
I crossed my arms but nodded. "Of course."
He smiled, pulling something from his pocket and handing it to me. I looked down—confused—then looked up again.
"Can you please bring these items?" he shouted suddenly.
I slapped my forehead. "Rafael! I swear—"
He laughed, already backing away toward the door.
"Fine," I said, narrowing my eyes. "I'll get your stupid items—but only if you tell me what Dad's up to."
He scratched his head, pretending to think. "You know Dad… no one interferes in his plans."
I sighed. "You have a choice, Rafa."
He paused, smirked, and said softly, "I'll give you one word. The rest, you'll figure out yourself."
I waited.
He leaned in and whispered, "Grandpa."
Before I could react, he ran out of the room laughing.
"Why doesn't he want me to meet him?" I shouted, but he was already gone.
A few hours later, I found Marco sitting outside, tinkering with his motorcycle.
"Marco bro, what are you doing?" I asked, sitting beside him.
He looked up and smiled. "Isa, you remember what's on Friday night?"
I nodded slowly, pretending I did.
He shook his head. "It's G.R. night."
Then it clicked. "Oh… but I have a flight that night."
He smirked. "The race starts at eight. Your flight's at 11:45. You can still make it. And rumor says the CEO of MS is coming."
I raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Should be interesting."
G.R. Racing Club — the best underground racing team in B.C., Canada.
It's illegal, fast, and dangerous. The kind of place where names don't matter—only numbers do.
The first time I came here, it was because of Marco. He was struggling back then, lost a race, and I came looking for him. That night, I ended up racing for him. I won—and since then, I've competed every year.
Marco taught me everything—how to balance, how to handle speed, how to listen to the road. I was still in high school when I first got on a bike, and now… I'm one of the best racers in the country.
I tapped Marco on the shoulder. "Hey, where's that CEO guy?"
He scanned the crowd. "I'm looking for him. Haven't seen him yet. But the race starts in ten minutes, so we should get ready."
The air buzzed with energy—engines revving, lights flashing, people cheering. I went to the changing area and grabbed my gear. My motorcycle was number 4, but tonight, the one I was curious about was 10—the newcomer.
I didn't see it anywhere—until a deep, powerful roar filled the air.
Turning toward the sound, I froze.
A Ducati Panigale V4 R rolled into the lot.
It was breathtaking—brand new, the kind of model that came out just last year, almost impossible to get. Its body was sleek, with a matte black finish and red accents slicing through the curves like fire. Under the lights, the chrome shimmered, reflecting the restless crowd around us.
The sound of its engine was like thunder contained in steel—smooth, confident, dangerous. It wasn't just a motorcycle; it was power, precision, and perfection sculpted together.
"Wow…" I muttered under my breath.
That had to be bike number 10.
It stopped beside the track. The rider, hidden beneath a dark visor, didn't move. Their stillness carried something magnetic—an air of confidence, maybe arrogance—but I couldn't look away.
Engines roared to life around us. The crowd screamed louder. I fastened my helmet, my pulse syncing with the rumble of the machines.
"Alright," I whispered, gripping the handlebars.
"Let's see what you've got, number ten."
10… 9... 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…
GO
My heart pounded as the world blurred into streaks of light. The sound of the engines drowned everything—then, suddenly, darkness.
My body felt heavy. The air smelled like smoke… and blood.
What happened?