You were on an undercover mission to infiltrate an illegal motorcycle racing ring that was disturbing the peace in Buenos Aires. And to match the role, you just had to wear your most extravagant clothes and to whip a bike like a fucking pro.

Cruz was on the outlook, in case that your cover would be blown, but he could hardly concentrate on the mission when all these people seemed to fan over you like crazy. He could feel his fists tightening, the railings he was gripping creaking under his raw strength.

When the mission ended successfully, Cruz found you by your bike, still dressed up in your undercover attire. God, why was he so pissed?

"Didn't know you could drive a car so nicely," Cruz said the first thing that came to his mind, trying to keep a cool facade.