Chapter 5 Kristen
The roar cleaved through the air like it belonged to something alive.
The men turned just as the motorcycle hit the shoulder. Its front wheel clipped the one with the cigarette—his body flew sideways, limbs flailing before he hit the guardrail with a sound like meat dropped on tile. The other two jumped back, shouting, but the bike didn’t slow. It looped wide, kicking up a spray of gravel and dust, the headlight burning hot through the settling haze.
I couldn’t move.
The rider wasn’t trying to escape. He wasn’t helping me get away. He was circling like a predator. Like they were prey.
One of the men raised a pistol. “Back the fuck off!”
The bike skidded to a stop in front of them, low and pulsing, engine humming like something restrained. The rider’s boots touched pavement. Leather. Black. Worn.
He didn’t speak.
He swung one leg off the bike and stepped forward slowly.
The helmet stayed on—glossy black, no markings, visor down. Just a dark mirror where his face should be. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. The way he moved—calm, silent, deliberate—it made something sharp twist in my chest.
The gun pointed at him didn’t shake. Not at first.
Then the man shouted again, panicking now. “I said BACK OFF—”
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
The rider raised one gloved hand.
The pistols crumpled.
Not dropped. Not jammed. Buckled. Like they’d been made of foil. Metal screamed as both weapons twisted inward on themselves in their owners’ hands, sharp pieces curling like claws. One of the men screamed, clutching his shredded palm. Blood hit the pavement in dots.
I screamed too.
The man who still had his legs tried to run. The rider moved with terrifying speed—one arm up, helmet in his hand, and he threw it.
The heavy black shell hit the man square in the back of the head with a wet crack. He dropped instantly.
Silence followed.
Except the bike.
Still humming.
Still ready.
The rider turned to me.
He spoke at last.
Low. Deep. Measured.
“Get on.”
I stared at him.
“What—what the fuck just—”
“Kristen.”
My name in his mouth was unfamiliar. Steady. Final. Like a command disguised as a kindness.
I took a half-step back.
“No,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere with you—”
Behind him, one of the men stirred. I saw the glint of rust before I saw the pipe—jagged, long, ripped from the guardrail or maybe the engine compartment of some old wreck.
“Look out!” I shouted.
He didn’t turn.
He just lifted his hand.
The pipe exploded mid-air. No sound. Just pressure. Metal particles rained down like ash, hissing as they hit the ground.
I stared at his hand. Still raised. Perfectly still.
Then I looked at his face as he reached up and pulled off the helmet.
The visor came off with a hiss. Underneath, he was older than I expected. Rough. Gorgeous in the way dangerous things were. Sharp jaw. Grey streaks at his temples, threading through black hair. His eyes were dark and unreadable. He looked at me like he already knew everything I was about to ask.
My heart kicked once, hard.
He walked toward me slowly. No blood on him. No scratches. No bruises. His boots made barely any sound on the road. When he reached me, he held out his hand.
Not urgently.
Like an offer.
“Get on,” he said again. “You’re not safe here.”
I didn’t move for a second. The air smelled like burnt rubber and blood and something else I couldn’t place. My knees still stung from the fall. My throat was raw.
But I reached out and took his hand.
It was warm. Calloused.
Real.
“Who are you?” I asked, breath catching in my throat.
He turned without letting go of me.
“Leo Moretti,” he said.
My feet moved on their own as he pulled me gently toward the bike.
He climbed on, hands already at the grips.
He looked over his shoulder, voice quiet, steady.
“Your father’s friend.”
The engine roared under us, louder than before. I slid onto the seat behind him, arms instinctively wrapping around his waist.
And I didn’t look back.