Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles, #6)(20)

“I bet your father knows a few tricks as well.”

He did. But my father was better at putting up a sophisticated exterior, while the Falcones lived their madness openly. “With a race of this dimension, won’t we get into trouble with the police?”

“We might. That depends on the county we’re passing. Some are easier to control than others. A few sheriffs are definitely out to catch a few of us.

And every year they succeed and one or two land in prison for a while. But like I said, mostly the police turn a blind eye to what’s going on. We mainly drive in remote corners of our territory, not to mention in the evening or night.”

“Then let’s hope we don’t get arrested today.” I pushed away from the hood when Dima’s car rolled toward us.

“I’m sure your father will bail you out if you do,” Adamo said with a shrug, but I didn’t buy his disinterest for a second. He was trying to figure out how much my father knew of me racing in Camorra territory.

“I don’t like to rely on others to save my ass,” I said. Dima was stuck behind a crew of five mechanics who were taking care of a car. I wondered how much funds you needed to have a team of that size around you. Money wasn’t an issue for me. Dad’s black American Express paid for everything and he never asked why I spent too much money, but I wanted to earn my expenses with prize money.

Adamo followed my gaze to Dima. “His ribs are cracked from the way he moves. He won’t be able to stick to your side if you don’t slow down for him. He’ll need breaks.”

“Dima is tough, and he knows I won’t slow for anyone. I can protect myself.”

“If you drive as fast as last time, you won’t have to. You’ll be at my side, and I can keep an eye on you during the rest hours.”

“How chivalrous of you,” I said. “But I don’t think I trust you, Falcone.”

He tilted his head, one corner of his mouth moving up. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

I generally didn’t trust easily, even if Adamo didn’t strike me as a danger—for me at least.

I headed for the trunk of my car and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka and opened it.

“Drunk driving might make you reckless but not necessarily faster,”

Adamo commented.



“I’m not getting drunk, but hard liquor dehydrates my body and makes me pee less. I won’t waste time on a toilet break.”

Adamo shook his head. “You stop at nothing to reach your goal.”

“That’s right.” For a moment we stared into each other’s eyes then Dima broke the moment as he got out of his car. Adamo strode away to the front of the grid where his car was.



My fingers around the steering wheel became sweaty as the minutes until the start trickled by. I’d never driven such a long race. It would be exhausting and explained why every year drivers crashed their cars without outward influences. Even a straight street can become a challenge if you’re too tired to keep your eyes open.

From my position in the middle of the field, I couldn’t see the pit girl with the flag but as long as the cars in front of me didn’t move, I was locked in anyway. It would take a while to reach a better position with more room.

Soon the roar of engines rang in my ears and Viper vibrated under me. Dima gave me a warning look. He was worried but he had no reason to be. I could handle my car.

Dust rose up before me, cloaking the cars ahead as they drove off. My foot hovered over the gas and the second the brake lights of the car in front of me died, I slammed my boot down. Viper roared like a wild beast and then we were off. I had to slow almost instantly or risk bumping into the car in front of me.

A start surrounded by all these cars was madness, even worse than the last row.

Time lost its meaning as I fought my way past car after car. Night fell around us and soon the crowd dimmed around me. I wasn’t sure how many cars were ahead of me, except for the three I could see. One of them was Adamo’s Corvette. The other was the black monster from the rich kid. The third belonged to the Mexican guy who’d started beside me. I hadn’t even seen him pass me by.



Dima was a few car-lengths behind me with three other cars. I wondered how long he’d be able to keep up. Maybe he could ignore his injuries after only an hour of racing but his pain would only get worse as the time passed.

My assumption turned to reality after five hours on the road. Dima started falling back and then he stopped. I thought he might need a toilet break but instead I watched through the rearview mirror as he bent over and threw up.

For a moment, my foot on the gas eased but then my gaze focused ahead again, on Adamo and the two other drivers in front of me. Dima was tough.

He had been a member of the Bratva for almost ten years. He wouldn’t give up easily and a few cracked ribs were nothing.

After eight hours, even the cup of vodka and my lack of hydration didn’t stop my bladder from feeling full. My eyes burned and the road became blurry on occasion. The deep blackness where the headlights didn’t touch my surroundings only added to my body’s need for rest. But the distance between me and the three cars in the lead had grown and a break would put me even farther behind, not to mention that it would allow my two pursuers to catch up, or worse overtake me. Gritting my teeth, I tried to ignore the pressure in my bladder. To banish my exhaustion, I turned on the radio, blasting my favorite playlist of Classic Metal from the speakers. Welcome to the Jungle by Guns N’ Roses awakened my senses as usual.