Page 2 of Green Flag
The police behind nudged me to keep going as they tried to force the now cuffed Pedro into one of the police cars on the tarmac.
“No!” I cried, trying to shove past one of them to get to the car before it took off. “He hasn’t done anything!”
The officer before me grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “Touch one of us again and you’ll be in cuffs too.”
Tears blurred everything as they yanked the backpack off my shoulders.
They were rifling through Pedro’s as the car door closed, separating us.
Every Ciclati member stood behind a line of police, watching as I sobbed. They gawked like they always had, whispering their nasty gossip just loud enough to be heard.
Other than Dad.
He stood beside the steps, talking to one of the officers.
He didn’t look surprised.
And worse—he lookedrelieved.
His shoulders relaxed as the car taking Pedro drove past. Like he was grateful that his daughter’s too-old boyfriend was being arrested.
We’d been able to dismount from the plane five minutes ago.
This had been planned.
They had been ready for our landing.
And when the person searching Pedro’s bag called out, I watched my dad smile.
My knees buckled slightly.
Because I knew, as I watched him smile, that my father had finally gotten what he wanted.
Pedro out of my life.
Even if it destroyed me.
1
Chapter 1
Everly
Dad’s face dropped the second I stepped into the Ciclati garage. His wiry brows furrowed, carving fresh lines in his forehead. More wrinkles had deepened and white streaks now threaded through his black hair—a stark contrast to the olive skin we shared.
He pulled himself together in front of his staff, gave a little head shake, then smiled and stepped forward—arms outstretched as he passed the bikes he adored. “Everly!”
“Dad,” I said, accepting his embrace. His clothes radiated with the August Austrian sun.
His shock at seeing me at the StormSprint championship would’ve been unwarranted once. I’d grown up on the racetrack. I’d learned how to ride a battery-powered motorbike before I learned how to pedal a bicycle.
He’d even named me after a vintage bike model.
He’d fostered my love of racing—then snatched it away.
So I didn’t feel bad when he frowned at me as I pulled back. I didn’t have an ounce of sympathy over going behind his back to secure a job on his motorbike racing team, Ciclati Sport. It wouldn’t be his team for much longer anyway.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, gripping my shoulders, giving me a once-over. “You look well—” His eyes caught the lanyard.
