The cool night air rushed past my face. Behind me, the roar of four modified engines signaled that I wasn't alone. Rico, Rat, and two others trailed me on their bikes; my personal shadows.
We pulled up to ‘the Mint’, a club located in the heart of the Brickell district, where the skyscrapers are so tall they seem to touch the sky. It was the kind of place that required a triple-digit cover charge and a bloodline check, but the Blood-Hounds didn't do lines.
Rico swung his leg off his bike, his eyes scanning the velvet rope. The bouncers, massive men trained to handle unruly brats, took one look at the scars on Rico’s neck and the cold, "don't touch me" look in my eyes, and stepped aside.
Neon light pulsed in time with a bass line that felt like a heartbeat. We moved to a booth in the co
