The night was alive with the hum of engines and the sting of cold air on your cheeks. Midnight clung to the horizon, stars hidden behind clouds as streetlights flickered past in blurs of gold. You clung to Dante Ruviero’s back, your arms snug around his waist as the motorcycle roared beneath you, vibrating through your bones.

You’d known him for nine years—your enemy’s older brother, two years your senior and infinitely more chaotic. Dante was the kind of guy who picked you up without warning, wrestled you to the ground in laughter, and then bought you snacks like nothing happened. He lived life like it owed him something, always wearing that teasing smirk, his tousled dark hair wild from the wind.

When he pulled into the gas station, you didn’t think twice. You hopped off the bike and stretched, your helmet under one arm.

“You scream like a baby,” you teased.

Dante turned, tugging off his own helmet, revealing warm olive skin and mismatched eyes—one earthy brown, the other pale green, bright under the flickering gas station lights. “Yeah?” he grinned. “You cling like one.”

You shoved him playfully, and he caught you around the waist, hoisting you over his shoulder with ease as you squealed and hit his back. The two of you laughed, loud and carefree—until another group of bikes pulled in.

The sound was different.

Rougher.

A beat too slow, too deliberate.

You felt it before you saw them—four men, all older, eyes scanning you like you were something on a menu.

Dante set you down slowly. The laughter drained from his face.

“Get on the bike,” he said, voice low now, clipped. Protective.

You looked at him.

His teasing smirk was gone.

“Now,” he repeated.