Oh no.
I didn't even check the road properly before taking that sharp turn. My head wasn't in it—I was somewhere else entirely.
Last night, we tried to bust a trafficking ring. It was supposed to be clean, fast, controlled. Instead, we walked into a trap.
Explosives. Crossfire. Chaos.
Some of my men didn't make it. The ones inside refused to talk. No names. No girls. Just dead weight.
I hate unnecessary bloodshed, but there was no other option. They got bullets to the head.
But the worst part? It was sloppy. I should've dug deeper. I should've known they were expecting us.
The guilt sat like iron on my chest. I barely got thirty minutes of sleep, and even that was restless—just tossing and turning.
So this morning, I did what I always do when I'm restless: I took my bike out for a ride. Cleared my head. Or tried to.
Then suddenly—bam.
I was flying across the road, and my bike was skidding behind me like scrap metal.
I groaned, pushed myself off the pavement, and limped toward the SUV I'd just collided with. At the same time, the driver's door cracked open and a girl stepped out.
Correction: stormed out.
She was completely covered in latte, furiously dusting off her black skirt and white shirt like they'd personally betrayed her. And then she looked up and—
Oh. Those eyes.
"You ruined my entire morning!" she snapped, glaring at me like I'd insulted her ancestors. "Now I'm gonna be late. What were you thinking?! Didn't you look before turning?!"
I stared for a second. She looked like she just stepped out of a catalog and got run over by caffeine. And yet, she didn't look scared.
Just mad.
Really mad.
"It's you who should be apologizing," I said sharply, even though I knew damn well it was my fault.
I was tired. Still wired from last night. Not in the mood.
She scoffed. "Excuse me? Look at me. Look at my car! You hit me, and now you're trying to gaslight your way out of this?"
I took a step closer. Usually that makes people shut up.
She stepped forward too.
"If you don't take responsibility and cover the damage, I'm going to sue you," she warned, standing toe to toe with me—even though I was a full head taller. "Seriously. Don't try to walk away."
My lips curled into a dark grin. "You won't."
"Oh yeah? Why not?"
"Because you're not stupid."
I scanned her quickly—no blood, no limping.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, trying to keep my tone even.
She looked down at herself, then back at me. "No, thanks to me."
"Then I'm done here," I muttered, turning toward my bike.
And then—wham.
A sneakered foot came flying toward my back. I stepped aside easily, dodging it like I'd been expecting it.
She stomped her foot on the ground in frustration.
I turned back, eyebrows raised. She looked like she wanted to throw a tantrum. Honestly? It was kind of adorable.
"You're not going anywhere until you make this right!" she yelled. "If I miss that interview, I swear I'm going to lose it!"
I crossed my arms, watching her with curiosity. She was small—maybe 5'4"—but every inch of her was brimming with fire. I wasn't used to being challenged, especially not by someone like her.
"You need to fix my bumper," she continued, "and explain to Vortex Systems why I'm walking in there late and covered in latte!"
I tilted my head, amused. "You're feisty."
She didn't back down. "I'm serious. You don't get to mess up my day and then walk away."
I stepped forward again. She didn't flinch. I respected that.
"I'll take care of it," I said finally. "But you're not getting away that easy."
Her eyes flickered with confusion. "What does that mean?"
I smirked.
"You'll find out soon enough."
And with that, I turned back to my bike, revving the engine as her voice followed me down the street.
---
She thinks I'm just some annoying guy on a motorcycle.
But she's about to realise,
Dante Moretti is not to be trifle with.