Vincent's hand hovered over his gleaming black helmet.
He slammed it onto his head.
With a roar, he straddled his bike, the engine coming to life beneath him.
The race starter, a leather-clad woman with a fiery mane of hair, stepped onto the makeshift podium.
She held a flare gun in one hand, her eyes scanning the lineup of bikes.
She twirled the flare in her fingers.
The girls on the sidelines, began to sway to the rhythm of the moment.
The woman raised the flare gun to the sky, the metal glinting under the harsh lights. "Ready," she shouted, her voice cutting through the tension.
The bikes roared in response, their engines snarling.
The racers leaned over their bikes, their eyes locked on the finish line.
"Set," she yelled.
"Go!" The flare gun exploded with a deafening bang, the red light arcing through the sky like a fiery comet.
The bikes surged forward as one, their wheels spinning in a blur of motion.
Vincente shot ahead, his bike a sleek shadow cutting through the night.
His hands gripped the handles with the confidence.
The air rushed past him, a silent cheer as he pushed the bike to its limits.
His eyes narrowed as he saw Ricci's chrome monstrosity in his mirror, steadily gaining on him. The thrill of the chase washed over him.
Ricci was a skilled rider, but Vincente was better.
His bike weaved through the dirt track like a snake, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
Ricci followed closely, his teeth bared in a snarl beneath his helmet.
He knew that losing to Castellanos would be a blow to his ego, a loss of face that would echo through the underworld.
Determined to win, Ricci played dirty, cutting corners and pushing his bike to dangerous speeds.
His gang cheered him on, their eyes alight with fervor.
Yet, for every trick Ricci attempted, Vincente had a counter.
The race grew more intense as Ricci attempted to overtake Vincente with a daring move, swerving into his lane.
Vincente anticipated the move, his bike a mere inch from Ricci's as they raced side by side.
The crowd roared.
He resorted to underhanded tactics, trying to throw him off with a well-aimed elbow, but Vincente remained unflappable.
He countered with a swift jab of his own, sending Ricci's bike skidding towards the edge of the track.
The crowd gasped as Ricci's bike wobbled precariously, but he managed to regain control.
His face was a mask of rage as he glared at Vincente, who simply smirked beneath his visor.
As they approached the final stretch, Ricci played his last card.
He feigned a mechanical issue, slowing down and waving frantically at his men.
Ricci's bike shot forward again, and he attempted a risky pass on the inside of a tight turn.
Vincent's instincts took over, and with a calculated lean, he blocked the move, their tires screeching in protest.
The crowd roared as Ricci's bike skidded, throwing up a plume of dirt and gravel.
The girls on the sidelines shrieked, their eyes wide with fear and excitement.
Vincente's gaze remained steely as he took the lead.
Ricci's rage was palpable, but it was too late. The finish line loomed closer, a beacon of victory that Vincente had no intention of letting slip away.
With a final burst of speed, Vincente crossed the line first, the cheers of his Crows drowning out the rest of the world.
He threw his fist into the air in triumph. The crowd erupted into chaos, a sea of red and the Castellanos gang surged forward to congratulate their don.
He didn't stop immediately, instead choosing to ride in a victory lap, the bike's tires smoking and leaving a trail of scorched earth behind him.
His stunts grew bolder as he rode.
He popped a wheelie, the bike's front end rising like a cobra, the engine howling in defiance.
The crowd's roar grew louder as he rode on one wheel, his balance perfect, his control absolute.
When he finally came to a stop, his gang, the Castellanos, rushed towards him, their cheers deafening. "You did it, boss!" Chris shouted, while another threw a bottle of champagne into the air, which exploded against the night sky in a shower of gold.
Ricci's gang, the Ricci Riders, watched from a distance, their faces a picture of defeat and anger.
Don Ricci's jaw was clenched so tight that it seemed his teeth might shatter. He threw his helmet to the ground, the sound of it echoing through the night.
"Che cazzo!" he screamed, his face red with fury. His men gathered around him, trying to soothe his bruised ego. "This isn't over, Castellanos."
Vincent ignored Ricci's tantrum and focused on the prize that awaited him.
He pulled off his helmet, his hair sticking to his sweat-drenched forehead.
As he dismounted his bike, a gaggle of young, beautiful women in skimpy dresses and heels that seemed too delicate for the harsh terrain rushed over, their eyes wide with excitement and fascination.
They surrounded him, their hands reaching out to touch the leather of his racing suit, as if they could claim a piece of his victory for themselves.
But Vincente was in no mood for their fawning.
With a cold, dismissive glance, he stepped back, his body tense and coiled like a snake ready to strike. "Back off!!" he said, his voice a low, dangerous whuch scared them off.
The girls stumbled back, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and longing.
His men, the Castellanos gang, took this as their cue.
They stepped forward, each one claiming a girl with the casual ease of a man picking fruit from a tree.
The girls didn't resist, his men's eyes flickering to Vincente for approval before allowing them to enjoy.
Vincent made his way to the makeshift bar, his stride confident and commanding. His few men following behind.
He picked up a glass of deep, crimson liquid.
"To the king of the underworld," one of his men toasted, raising his own glass.