Page 5 of Claimed Bratva Virgin

The countdown officially started with the lights hanging overhead. As the digital numbers went down from three to one, I counted alongside them under my breath.

Tre.

I was going to win this.

Due.

I was going to win this.

Uno….

Game time.

The loud buzzer cut through the chants in the air, spreading tension from the drivers to the grandstands—everyone could feel it.

“Partenza!” Gavin charged over the earpiece.

As the numbers turned green, I slammed the accelerator, and my baby surged forward like a wild animal unleashed. The prize. The harsh sound of tires screeching or rubber burning didn’t matter. The wind whipped, and I felt the heat in my helmet. The world beside me and behind faded to a blur. I kept my eyes on the goal—the finish line.

Heat haze shimmered. The sun beat down, and the track gleamed like molten gold, the surface reflecting the vibrant colors of the cars.

A quick glimpse, and I caught the speedometer needle dancing toward triple digits, and my stomach dropped with each sharp turn. I felt weightless, free, alive.

Narrowing my focus to the road ahead, my mind raced faster than the few cars ahead of me. I calculated, swerved the wheel, instinctively adjusted my line, braked, and then accelerated. From the window, I heard the audience go wild.

But it shrank. The noise and chants from the stands, the roar of engines beside mine—everything minimized to a singular, thrilling purpose: crossing the line first.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rival Ferrari bump into mine. Ivan was attempting a daring overtaking maneuver. My heart rate spiked.

I’m going to win this.

I gripped the wheel tighter and shot a brief glare at him through the window before focusing on the track’s curvature.

Then, I floored it.

My tires bit into the asphalt. Ivan’s Ferrari’s nose edged closer, its exhaust growing louder, our cars mere inches apart. The rush of adrenaline was intoxicating as we hurtled toward the turn’s apex. I silenced the harsh pounds of my heart in my ears like drums and countered his move, subtly adjusting my steering.

Gavin was yelling something aggressively in rapid Italian over the earpiece, but I couldn’t hear him. Not when I was sucked into a hole of emotions and memories, seeing nothing but all the times I’d broken my back to put the best into this sport: my stubbornness, as Papa would call it. My pain, my tears, my beginner’s stage victories—all of it.

My ears were ringing, and my hands were shaking on the wheel.

If Ivan Yezhov or any other person thought themselves capable enough to snatch this moment away from me, they most certainly had another thing coming.

I held firm, my rear end rotating subtly in response to the throttle, and his car fell behind.

With his hot breath on my bumper, I didn’t bother turning back. After the race, I’d rub his shit on his face.

The loud cheers from the spectators, the sound of screeching tires, and cars racing into each other fueled me and pumped the exhilaration flowing to the depths of my soul.

I got this.

The finish line was dead ahead, its bright colors like a beacon, and I was so close, close enough to taste the sweetness of victory.

With a final, desperate burst of speed, in a quick flash of colors and blurs—

Time slowed down.

My heart raced against my chest with the speed of quicksilver.

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