28

Nico's point of View - Age 17

By the time I turned seventeen, everything inside me felt like smoke like something that had burned too long and turned cold.

Noelle barely spoke to me. when she did, it was all training related. My father only looked at her now.

His cold disappointment in me hadn't shifted since that night in the hospital.

it was like I didn't exist unless I failed.

I stared spending more time outside. I told them I was going for jogs or to the gym.

sometimes I even left during training hours and returned before dark like nothing happened and no one noticed. Not even Noelle. Maybe she did and Just didn't care.

That's when I met Marco. Not the one from school- this was a sharp dressed Italian man, Always standing by the alley near the old skate park, a cigarette always in hand and something too slick about his grin.

I wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, especially not shady ones. But I guess when your home feels like a prison, you stop caring about the rules.

"You got the hands for bikes," he said one day when I passed him.

I paused, raising a brow. "Do I look like I care about bikes?"

He laughed."No.Thats the best part. you look like you need an escape."

maybe I did. maybe that was exactly what I needed.

The next week. I went back to see him. He introduced me to the world of underground bike racing. Leather jackets, roaring engines, and crowds that didn't know your name but screamed it anyway when you won. it felt like freedom.

He gave me a bike to train with, A black and red beast that purred like it had secrets. I rode like I was trying to outrun everything. The grief, the silence, the weight of my father's eyes never looking at me with pride.

At first, I crashed alot. But I always got back on. That's how Marco knew I was serious. He taught me how to shift my weight, how to lean in tight corners, how to use the engine like it was part of my spine.

in less than a month, I was racing for real, every weekend, I disappeared. Noelle didn't ask. My father didn't notice. maybe they thought I was training late.

I wasn't.

I was flying down asphalt roads with fire in my chest. winning races. Earning cash. Nothing crazy just enough for parts, food and a secret hotel room I started renting sometimes just to sleep without the tension of that house.

The first time I won a major race, Marco handed me a roll of cash and lit another cigarette. "You're good, kid," he said.

"Could be better than the rest of them if you stop caring about dying."

I didn't care. Not then.

The crowd screamed my name that night. Not Nico, Not my father's shame but something they made up, something sharp and dangerous. "Ghost."

That's what they called me. Because I moved like one. Quiet. unseen. Fast.

And just like that, I stopped being Nico the forgotten son.

I became Ghost.

I started tattooing little pieces of myself onto my skin. My ribs, my shoulder, my forearm. All things I felt and didn't want to forget. Painful truths in black ink. My first was a Dagger, twisted around a thron. For my mother. The one person who ever saw me.

Racing became my everything. I skipped more training. sometimes I didn't even show up for family dinners. Not that they cared. My father had Noelle. They were building their Little Mafia heir machine. And me? I was just a ghost on a bike.

sometimes I'd see Noelle walking in or out of the mansion and wonder if she even knew how far I was slipping away.

maybe she did.

But she never said a word.