I tore into the Rust Belt, the tires spinning on the gravel as I drifted the car into the garage lot. The Lamborghini looked out of place against the backdrop of the garage.
I slammed the door shut and marched toward the door. But as I reached the entrance, I stopped.
Parked near the entrance was a blacked-out Dodge Charger and a pair of customized choppers, more custom builds of Cane’s, I presumed. Standing around the bay were four men who didn't look like the usual grease-monkeys.
These were the garage’s high-stakes clients, the silent partners of the Miami underworld. They were men with thick necks, scarred knuckles, and eyes that had seen too many shallow graves in the city. The leader, a man everyone called 'Viper,' stood by a stripped-down engine block. He wore a leather vest ove
