Page 25 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

I resonate with this so hard.

There should be an addition to the Ten Commandments:Thou shalt not drive like a slow-ass bitch in the left lane; lest ye be yeeted from the road like the prick you are.

Amen.

“Yeah, we’re definitely being followed.” Something shifts in Luca, and it’s like he mutates into a professional race car driver. His foot is heavy on the gas pedal, and the SUV answers with a growl. “Head down, Lenny.”

His eyes move constantly between the road ahead and the mirrors. I look behind and spot the motorcycles. They know he’s onto them, and the chase ensues. Okay, here we go.

The four cycles surround us, two in the front, two in the back. They’re closing in, trying to box us in, to slow us down. Luca doesn’t flinch. He handles the wheel like he’s done this a thousand times before. If this is a normal Monday for him, I’m in way deeper than I ever thought.

Without warning, Luca slams on the brakes, and I’m thrown forward. The seatbelt digs into my chest, pulling me back. My hands shoot out to catch myself on the front row seats, my breath catching as the world seems to lurch forward with me.

The motorcycles behind us didn’t anticipate the move and crash into the rear of the SUV. The collision makes every muscle in my body tense as metal strikes metal. One of the cyclists is thrown over the front of his bike, and his helmet crashes into the rear window.

It’s an explosion of glass, and I scream, but no one hears.

Luca is already slamming his foot hard on the gas, reigniting the squealing tires and billowing smoke that drenches the cyclists behind us. Enzo’s window is going down. His long legs push against the floorboards, and he extends the top half of his body out of the car.

With both hands on his revolver, he aims. One flash of his gun pops, and one of the cyclists in front of us goes down. His bike wobbles twice before it crashes to the highway, its momentum sending it skidding into the next lane.

The other cyclist in front does a quick maneuver and spins his bike around. It seems like a second passes, and he propels himself forward, riding between the wall and car.

Jax seems to know what’s going to happen before I do, and he grabs the back of my neck, pushing my head between my knees. He covers me with his body as there is a bang, followed by another explosion of glass.

This time the fragments are in the seat next to me, and a breeze immediately rushes into the car from the blown-out window.

The SUV is a monster as it races forward, Luca calm and steady as he guides the car between the unsuspecting motorists commuting alongside a mafia car chase.

The cyclist that shot at us has turned their bike around again and is gaining speed on us. The other rider behind us picks his bike up, starts it, and races after his companion.

In the distance beyond them, more commotion on the highway catches my attention, and I squint.

“More are coming,” I call out. “Looks like several Mustangs and some other model of car I don’t know but fuck?—”

I count the chaos that seems to be weaving between cars, just like we are.

“There’s six.”

“Good girl, Len.” Luca’s comment is quiet, almost like he spoke it to himself, but somehow it blasts around me like the wind billowing through the car. My stomach does that annoying flippy thing, and I swallow it down, getting back to the task at hand: not dying.

Jax and Enzo take action, somehow moving in sync without a word. Jax climbs over me again, his gun pointed at one cyclist while Enzo mirrors him from the other side. Jax hits his mark. Enzo misses, a curse ringing out as he ducks back into the car to avoid gunfire from the remaining rider.

The cars behind us are gaining, and Luca pushes the SUV harder. The car jerks in and out of traffic, forcing me to clutch the seats in front of me as if they were lifelines.

There’s only one cyclist left, but the chaos is far from over. High-performance sports cars scream toward us, engines roaring like wolves on the hunt.

Luca is in his element, the car almost an extension of his body as he maneuvers through the madness. The remaining cyclist weaves through traffic, trying to keep up, but Luca is too good. It’s as if he’s analyzed the road ahead, mapping out the perfect path.

The motorcycle charges at us again, the rider determined. Luca abruptly veers two lanes over. The cyclist overcorrects, and Luca uses the opportunity to position the SUV on the rider’s left, with the highway shoulder to his right.

Luca jerks the SUV toward him, forcing the rider onto the loose gravel of the shoulder. The bike spins violently, flipping end over end before crashing into the dirt. The rider is thrown clear, his body skidding across the highway. The wreckage of his bike arcs in an ugly slide.

“Fucking asshole,” Luca mutters. Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror, and he gives me the faintest smile and a slight nod. It’s both a question and a statement.

Are you okay?

It’s going to be alright.

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