Andrés was driving like a man fleeing an apocalypse—or like a man who had just been informed his older brother had been replaced by a body double with softer morals and a disturbing generosity streak.
He gripped the steering wheel of his own car—a matte-black beast—so hard he thought the leather might actually split. The engine roared with a frequency that usually soothed his nerves, but today his mind was a chaotic mess of disbelief. If the world wasn't ending, could someone please, for the love of all things holy, explain why Luciano was giving away his favorite McLaren? And not just giving it away to a business associate or a high-ranking lieutenant, but to a total stranger in the name of she is the "best friend of my fiancée."
Andrés had just stepped out of the shower that morning, water still dripping from his hair, when Ian knocked and entered with that carefully neutral expression he used when delivering bad news disguised as instructions.
