Romeo
2673 Words
The first thing Romeo Valenti heard that morning was steel screaming against steel.
Not alarms. Not traffic.
Steel.
A shrill metallic grind echoed through the half-finished skeleton of the twenty-three-storey tower as three tonnes of unsecured framing shifted violently above the sixth level scaffolding.
Every worker onsite froze.
Romeo looked up instantly.
“MOVE!” he roared.
The sound ripped across the construction site like a gunshot. Men scattered. A bundle of steel beams lurched sideways from the crane hook, clipping the edge of the concrete slab before slamming into temporary supports hard enough to shake the entire structure. Bolts rained downward. One smashed against the ground beside a laborer’s boot.
Silence followed.
Then came the swearing.
Romeo was already moving before the crane operator’s panicked voice crackled over the radio.
“Boss, the rigging slipped—”
“I can see that.”
He vaulted over a stack of timber barriers and strode through the dust cloud with the kind of controlled fury that made grown men avoid eye contact.
At twenty-five years old, Romeo Valenti was the youngest commercial construction owner in Melbourne with contracts worth more than most men twice his age could dream of touching. People in the industry called him lucky.
Nobody who worked for him called him that.
Lucky men didn’t survive eighty-hour weeks.
Lucky men didn’t rebuild companies from debt.
Lucky men didn’t bury their fathers at nineteen and take over businesses that everyone expected to collapse within six months.
Romeo crouched near the damaged supports, dark eyes scanning every connection point. Sharp. Calculating. Furious.
The workers nearby waited silently.
He picked up the fallen shackle from the concrete.
Cheap metal.
Wrong load rating.
His jaw tightened.
“Who signed off on this rigging?”
Nobody answered.
That was answer enough.
Romeo slowly stood.
Six-foot-two. Broad shoulders under a black high-vis jacket dusted in concrete powder. Tattoos crawled from beneath his sleeves, disappearing beneath the collar at his throat. His face carried the kind of sharp, intimidating handsomeness that magazines loved and enemies hated.
But it was his eyes that unsettled people.
Too calm when angry.
Too cold when thinking.
“You all got real quiet suddenly,” he said softly.
The crane operator climbed down pale-faced. “Romeo, I swear to God, the supplier said—”
“The supplier didn’t install it.”
Silence.
Romeo looked around the site.
Nearly eighty workers.
Concrete pump running.
Excavators growling.
Nail guns firing somewhere overhead.
Millions of dollars in machinery and equipment.
And one cheap shortcut nearly crushed three men to death.
His voice lowered dangerously.
“I ask one question.” He held up the shackle. “Who signed off on this?”
A foreman near the temporary fencing shifted nervously.
Romeo noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
“Darren.”
The older man swallowed. “It was temporary.”
Romeo stared at him.
“Temporary?”
“We were waiting for the proper hardware delivery.”
“And until then you thought we’d just suspend steel using equipment rated for half the load?”
“It held yesterday.”
Romeo took one slow step toward him.
Then another.
The entire site seemed to hold its breath.
“It held,” Romeo repeated quietly. “That your safety plan?”
“No, boss, I just—”
“You just gambled with lives because you didn’t want delays.”
Darren rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re already behind schedule.”
Romeo’s expression darkened.
“You think I care about schedules if somebody dies on my site?”
“No.”
“No,” Romeo echoed. “I don’t.”
Then louder:
“SHUT IT DOWN.”
The entire site paused.
The concrete pumps stopped first.
Then machinery.
Then drills.
An eerie silence settled over the tower.
Romeo pointed at Darren.
“You’re off-site effective immediately.”
Darren blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Romeo, come on—”
“You cut corners on my build, you’re done.”
“Mate, I’ve worked for this company since your father owned it.”
That landed harder than intended.
The workers watched carefully.
Romeo’s face revealed nothing.
“That company almost died under my father,” he said coldly. “This one won’t.”
Darren’s expression hardened with embarrassment. “You gonna sack me over one mistake?”
Romeo stepped close enough that the older man had to tilt his head upward slightly.
“One mistake kills people in construction.”
Nobody spoke.
Finally, Darren ripped off his hard hat and stormed toward the site exit muttering curses.
Romeo didn’t watch him leave.
Instead, he turned back toward the twisted steel.
“Inspection on every rigging point,” he barked. “Every floor. I want load checks, weld checks, bolt checks. Nobody lifts another damn beam until I say so.”
The crew exploded into movement.
That was the thing about Romeo.
People listened.
Not because he yelled.
Because he knew exactly what he was doing.
—
By midday, the rain started.
Cold Melbourne rain hammered against the unfinished tower while Romeo stood inside the site office staring at blueprints spread across a massive table.
Coffee went cold beside him.
Phone vibrating nonstop.
His assistant, Isla, entered carrying another folder.
“You’ve got Brighton Developments on hold again.”
“They can wait.”
“They’ve been waiting.”
Romeo signed off on amended engineering documents without looking up. “Then they can continue waiting.”
“You’ve also got an issue with the Richmond project.”
“Waterproofing?”
“How did you know?”
“Because God hates me.”
That almost earned a smile from her.
Almost.
Isla had worked with Romeo for four years and still hadn’t decided whether he was a genius or clinically insane.
Maybe both.
“You should eat something,” she said.
“I’ll survive.”
“You’ve said that since six this morning.”
Romeo finally leaned back in his chair, rubbing tiredness from his eyes.
Twenty-five.
Million-dollar contracts.
Over one hundred employees.
And he slept maybe four hours a night on average.
The office television murmured quietly in the background with business news coverage.
“Valenti Infrastructure continues its rapid expansion—”
Romeo muted it instantly.
He hated interviews.
Hated attention.
Hated hearing people talk about him like he was some inspirational success story instead of a man barely holding chaos together with caffeine and anger.
Isla studied him carefully.
“You firing Darren was the right call.”
“He has three kids.”
“He nearly killed someone.” Isla pointed out.
Romeo exhaled slowly.
That was the problem.
He remembered every worker’s family.
Every apprentice trying to buy their first home.
Every laborer working overtime for school fees, extracurricular activities, food on the table.
The weight never switched off.
His phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
He answered immediately. “Romeo.”
“Still racing?”
The voice was distorted slightly through poor reception.
Romeo’s expression changed instantly.
Not visibly to most people.
But enough.
Enough for Isla to notice.
He stood and walked toward the rain-streaked window overlooking the site.
“Who’s asking?”
A chuckle.
“Heard there’s a new king out west. Figured I’d see if the rumors were true.”
Romeo remained silent.
Underground racing in Melbourne worked on whispers.
Names carried weight.
Reputations spread faster than police reports.
Nobody used real identities.
Nobody asked unnecessary questions.
“You got the wrong number,” Romeo said.
“Do I?”
Another pause.
Then:
“Midnight. Port district.”
Click.
The line disconnected.
Romeo stared at the phone for several seconds.
Isla crossed her arms. “That look usually means trouble.”
“Everything means trouble.”
“You doing something stupid tonight?” Isla knew better than to ask.
Romeo grabbed his keys from the desk.
“Probably.”
—
The warehouse smelled like fuel, burnt rubber, and rain-soaked concrete.
Romeo rolled up the shutter door just after 9pm and stepped into darkness illuminated only by overhead fluorescent strips.
Then the car came into view.
Low.
Black.
Aggressive.
A heavily modified Nissan GT-R sat beneath workshop lights like a predator waiting to wake up.
Most people saw a car.
Romeo saw therapy.
He tossed his jacket aside and walked around it slowly.
Wide-body kit.
Custom twin-turbo setup.
Carbon fibre hood.
Built engine pushing horsepower numbers illegal in three different ways.
His mechanic and closest friend, Luca, emerged from beneath the lifted chassis wiping grease from his hands.
“You’re late.”
“I own the company.”
“And I own common sense. One of us should respect schedules.”
Romeo smirked faintly.
Luca eyed him carefully. “Rough day?”
“Steel collapse.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No.”
“But?”
“But close.”
Luca nodded slowly. “You look wired.”
“I am wired.”
“That’s usually when you drive like a psychopath.”
Romeo grabbed a wrench from the bench and spun it absently in one hand.
“Got a call.”
Luca’s expression changed immediately.
“What kind of call?”
“Port district.”
“Tonight?”
Romeo nodded.
“That’s not local crew.”
“I know.”
“That’s organized money out there.”
“I know.”
Luca slammed the rag onto the bench. “Then don’t go.”
Romeo looked at the GT-R.
Rain tapped softly against the warehouse roof.
“You know why I like racing?” he asked quietly.
Luca sighed. “Here we go.”
“For ten seconds…” Romeo rested a hand against the matte black roof, “…nothing exists.”
“No pressure.”
“No meetings.”
“No workers depending on me.”
“No banks.”
“No expectations.”
Luca leaned against the workbench.
“And if you wrap yourself around a pole at two hundred kilometers an hour?”
Romeo smiled slightly.
“Then at least I’d finally get some sleep.”
“Jesus Christ.”
But neither of them laughed.
Because exhaustion sat permanently beneath Romeo’s skin now.
The kind no amount of money fixed.
Luca tossed him the keys.
“You rebuilt the transmission?”
“Bulletproof.”
“Boost map?”
“Adjusted.”
“Tires?”
“Fresh.”
Romeo nodded once.
Then paused.
“What’s the catch?”
Luca hesitated.
“That call wasn’t random.”
Romeo’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you know?”
“There’s a guy looking for drivers.”
“What guy?”
“People call him Nero.”
Romeo scoffed. “That sounds made up.”
“I’m serious.”
Luca’s expression remained grim.
“He runs money through underground races. Big money.”
Romeo leaned against the car.
“And?”
“And drivers who race for him don’t exactly retire peacefully.”
Silence settled between them.
Then Romeo opened the driver’s side door.
“Good thing I don’t race for anyone.”
—
By 11:47pm, the industrial port district looked like another world entirely.
Fog rolled across shipping containers beneath towering cranes.
Engines echoed through abandoned loading yards.
Hundreds of people crowded illegally parked cars under flickering warehouse lights.
Music pounded somewhere in the distance.
Romeo drove in slowly.
Heads turned immediately.
The GT-R’s engine note alone was recognizable.
Whispers spread through the crowd.
“That’s him.”
“No way.”
“Valenti?”
“Thought he stopped racing.”
“Holy s**t…”
Romeo ignored them.
That was another thing movies got wrong.
Real underground racers weren’t loud attention seekers.
The dangerous ones stayed calm.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Like Romeo.
He parked beside a line of modified imports and stepped out into cold night air.
Instantly people moved aside.
Not out of fear exactly.
Respect.
A woman leaning against a Toyota Supra smirked as he passed.
“Construction must be paying good.”
Romeo glanced at her.
“Clearly not enough if you’re still driving that relic.”
Several nearby racers burst out laughing.
She flipped him off.
A familiar voice called out. “Well, well.”
Romeo turned. A tall man approached wearing an expensive charcoal coat despite the rain. Mid-thirties maybe. Clean-cut. Too polished for the street racing scene.
Dangerously polished.
“Romeo Valenti,” the man said smoothly. “You’re difficult to find.”
Romeo’s instincts sharpened instantly. “And you are?”
“Nero.”
Of course.
The man smiled slightly.
“I’ve heard impressive things.” Nero had a smirk plastered on his face. Mockery?
“I haven’t heard anything about you.”
“That’s intentional.”
The surrounding atmosphere shifted subtly.
Even the nearby racers pretended not to listen.
Romeo folded his arms. “You dragged me out here to talk?”
“I dragged you out here because I wanted to see if the stories were true.”
“And?”
Nero’s eyes flicked toward the GT-R.
“They undersold you.”
Romeo didn’t react.
Nero stepped closer.
“I’m putting together drivers.”
“Not interested.”
“You haven’t heard the offer.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Five hundred thousand.”
That got his attention.
Barely.
But enough.
Nero noticed.
“One race,” he continued calmly. “Winner takes all.”
Romeo stared at him.
“Nobody offers half a million for a legal race.”
“Good thing this isn’t legal.”
“What’s the catch?”
Nero smiled.
“Smart.”
Romeo already hated him.
“I’m not your driver.”
“You misunderstand.” Nero glanced toward the growing crowd near the starting line. “I’m not asking.”
Before Romeo could answer, engines roared nearby.
A silver Ford Mustang GT rolled aggressively toward them.
The driver stepped out.
Massive build. Tattoos. Broken nose.
The kind of man who solves problems violently.
He pointed directly at Romeo.
“You Valenti?”
Romeo met his stare evenly. “Depends on who’s asking.”
The man grinned.
“Heard you’re fast.”
“Heard wrong.”
“Good.” The man cracked his neck slowly. “Makes losing easier.”
The crowd sensed tension instantly.
People gathered closer.
Phones came out.
Luca appeared beside Romeo looking concerned. “That’s Kane.”
“Should I know who that is?”
“He races dirty.”
Romeo’s expression remained calm.
Kane walked closer until they stood only feet apart.
“You and me,” Kane said. “Right now.”
Nero watched silently.
Of course he did.
This was planned.
Romeo saw it immediately.
A test.
The rain intensified around them. Water gleamed across black asphalt beneath industrial lights.
Perfect conditions for someone to die.
Romeo looked at Kane.
Then at the quarter-mile stretch ahead between stacked shipping containers.
Then back to Nero.
“You set this up?”
Nero smiled faintly.
“I wanted entertainment.”
Romeo laughed once under his breath.
Then he looked at Kane again.
“You crash into me,” Romeo said calmly, “and I’ll drag you out through the window myself.”
Kane grinned wider.
“That sounds fun.”
The crowd erupted as both drivers moved toward their cars.
Luca grabbed Romeo’s arm briefly.
“This feels wrong.”
“It is wrong.”
“Then don’t race.”
Romeo looked toward the black GT-R waiting beneath the rain.
Engine ticking softly.
Like a heartbeat.
Then toward the thousands of tonnes of responsibility waiting for him again at sunrise.
Bills.
Workers.
Pressure.
Noise.
For one race, all of it could disappear.
Just speed.
Just instinct.
Just silence inside his own head.
Romeo opened the driver’s door.
“You know what the worst part about construction is?” he asked quietly.
Luca frowned. “What?”
“You spend your whole life building things…”
Romeo slid into the seat.
“…knowing one mistake can destroy everything.”
The GT-R roared to life.
And across the starting line, Kane’s Mustang answered like a challenge thrown straight from hell.
- Writer
