“Still—”

“It’s all original!” I snap.

“No performance brake kit?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

She makes an irritating little “Hmph!” sound, like she proved her point.

I’m starting to remember why nobody liked Camille at school. ‘Cause she’s a stubborn little know-it-all.

“Did you add a turbo?” she says. “How much horsepower is it at now?”

She’s really pissing me off. She’s acting like I’m some rich kid down at Wacker Drive, not knowing the first fucking thing about my own car.

“It’s not unbalanced!” I snap.

“Then why is it overheating?”

“You tell me, mechanical genius!”

She straightens up, glaring at me. “I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t work for you.”

“Where’s your dad?” I say. “He knows what he’s doing.”

I knew that would piss her off, but I underestimated how much. She snatches up the closest wrench and brandishes it like she’s going to hit me upside the head with it.

“He’s sleeping!” she yells. “And even if he weren’t, he’d tell you the exact same thing I’m telling you. Which is to FUCK OFF!”

She turns around and storms out of the auto bay, heading up the stairs to who knows where. Probably her apartment. I’m pretty sure her whole family lives above the shop. “Whole family” meaning her dad and that little brother who’s been selling Molly for Levi. I wonder if she knows about that. I don’t think Camille even drank in high school—she’s always been the responsible type.

Well, that’s her problem, not mine.

My problem right now is getting my car running smooth again. And if Camille’s going to stomp off, then I’m still gonna use her tools. No point letting a perfectly good garage go to waste.

Most of her equipment is older than Moses, but it’s well-maintained, organized, and clean. I set the radio to a better station, so I don’t have to listen to Shakira or whatever the fuck that was. Soon I’m elbow-deep in the engine, sorting out the Mustang.

After about an hour, I’ve concluded that there might have been a teeny sliver of truth to what Camille said. With some of the mods I’ve put on the engine, it’s running at double the horsepower it was originally intended to withstand. I may need to rethink some of the additions.

But that’s a job for my own garage. For now, I just need to top up the coolant. I sort that out, then I toss a couple hundred bucks on the workbench in return for the tools and materials.

I may be a criminal, but I’m not cheap.

5

Camille

I’m so mad I could scream!

Who the fuck does Nero think he is, coming into my shop and acting like I just sweep floors around here?

I can hear him down there messing around with my tools. I’ve got a mind to grab the power washer and blast him out of there like a junkyard dog.

The only reason I don’t is because my dad starts coughing again. He’s supposed to be taking a nap, but he keeps waking up every ten minutes with another round of hacking and groaning. I feel frozen in place in the kitchen, vacillating between going in to check on him, and leaving him alone if he might be falling back asleep again.

I’ve got a sick feeling of dread, like I’m standing in an abandoned building and the walls are starting to crumble down around me. Vic is getting in trouble. That cop is up my ass. And now something’s wrong with my dad. It’s not just the coughing—he’s been sick for a while. But we don’t have insurance. We’re self-employed. I’ve looked several times, and the cheapest plan we could get is $1200 a month. I’m lucky to have a spare hundred bucks after we pay for utilities, groceries, and the rent on this place, which keeps going up every year.

I keep working harder and harder, just to watch my dreams slip through my fingers like sand. I want my brother to go to a good school and become something great, like a doctor or an engineer. I want him to live in one of those big, fancy houses in Old Town, not an apartment. I want my dad to have a fat savings account so he can retire when the heavy lifting of the job gets to be too much for him. I want him to be able to take a vacation somewhere sunny now and then.

And for me . . .

I don’t know. I don’t even know what I want for myself.

I want to not feel like a fucking loser. I want to have time for friends and dating. And I’d love to be able to do the kind of work that really interests me. I love cars, more than anything. But changing brake pads is tedious at best. I’d love to be able to do more creative projects.

There’s a huge market for custom mods, and it’s growing all the time. If I had the capital, we could be doing matte finishes, wraps, custom lights, body kits, all kinds of stuff.

That’s just dreaming, though. We’ve barely paid off the equipment we’ve got. And if my dad doesn’t get better soon, we’re not going to be taking on extra work, either.

At least he’s quieting down, finally. I think he’s actually asleep.

I make myself peanut butter toast and eat it with a glass of milk. When I’m sure he’s getting some rest, and the noise coming from his room is just snoring, I put my dishes in the sink and head back down to the garage to tell Nero to get lost.

Looks like he’s already gone.

The right side of the bay is empty, his Mustang apparently fixed enough to carry him back home.

The radio is playing Drake. He changed my station. Are there no depths to which this man will not sink? I snap it back to Top Hits, swapping over to “Watermelon Sugar” instead. Thank you, Harry Styles. You’re a true gentleman. You would never fuck with a woman’s torque wrenches and then force her to listen to Canada’s worst export.

At least Nero cleaned up after himself. Actually . . . the only thing he left out of place is a wad of bills on the workbench.

I walk over to it, slowly, like there might be a scorpion hidden inside.

I pick it up. There’s six hundred bucks here. All Benjamins, of course. Douche.

I hold the bills, wondering why Nero bothered to leave money. Not because he felt guilty for being an asshole—I’ve never heard him apologize for anything, not once. Not when he broke Chris Jenkin’s arm during gym class basketball. And certainly not when he got a blow job from the Henderson twins, on the same day, an hour apart, without telling either of the sisters that he was going for a matching set.

And that was just high school shit. He’s done a lot worse since then. Serious criminal activity, if the rumors are true. They say he’s in the Italian Mafia, along with his brother. I wouldn’t doubt it. His father is a don, not just your regular goombah.

I remember the first time I saw Enzo Gallo pull up to the auto bay in a sleek, gray Lincoln Town Car that looked a mile long. He got out of the back wearing a three-piece suit, Oxford shoes, and a houndstooth overcoat. I’d never seen a man dressed like that. I thought he must be the president.

He shook hands with my dad, and they talked for a long time. They were laughing at one point. I thought they must be friends. Later I found out that Enzo’s like that with everybody. He knows everyone in our neighborhood—the Italians, and everybody else.