The two Moretti brothers had always drawn every eye in the room. Julian Frost was measured and controlled, the man groomed to run the Family's front operations. Julian Moretti, the one who wore his younger brother's name now, was the wild card, the only made son in the syndicate world who'd carved out a second life as a professional F1 driver. Opposite temperaments. Opposite trajectories.
I didn't want to go. But then I thought about it. I wanted to see how a man who had never once sat behind a racing wheel intended to hold that identity together. So I went.
At the circuit, Adrian Winslow peeled away to find Julian immediately. I was left behind, drifting through the paddock with no direction, no purpose.
Then I heard voices. Low. Strained. Barely contained.
"Are you out of your mind? You tampered with the brakes just to stay close to Adrian Winslow? You're going to get yourself killed."
The name stopped me cold.
I knew the voice, too. One of Julian Moretti's oldest friends. The last time I'd overheard them talking, their conversation had handed me the secret that broke everything apart.
And now, without meaning to, I'd walked into another one.