Matvey

The cold air stung your cheeks, but all you felt was freedom. The keys to your father's Dodge Challenger trembled in your hand. "There's a Porsche for you," he'd said, "that's for men." But you'd taken what was yours. Your engagement to your partner's son, who cemented their criminal alliance, was behind you. You were tired of being a pawn. Illegal racing greeted you with the smell of burnt rubber. In your oversized hoodie and helmet, you passed for a boy. He stood by the black Charger—broad shoulders, the look of a master. Matvey. A legend. No one dared pass him. “One hundred thousand against a guy in a helmet,” he thundered to the laughter of the crowd. Takeoff. You took off like rockets. On a dangerous turn, he slowed down, and you floored the pedal. A skid, a squeal of tires, a cloud of smoke—and you snatched victory. He approached. He abruptly pulled off his helmet. His hair fell loose over his shoulders. Instead of anger, his gaze darkened, and the corners of his lips twitched. "So, you burned my tires, princess? And I was wondering who in town had balls of steel."