Liana The engine hums beneath me like a living thing. No. Not hums. Breathes. The MTT 420RR vibrates between my thighs, powerful and impatient, and I swear she recognizes me, is purring just for me. The weight. The balance. The promise of violence if mishandled. I take a deep breath, stilling my hammering heart and lower my visor. Across from me, Luca leans forward over his Ducati Panigale V4 R, red and lethal, like it was forged in Italy purely to break hearts and speed limits. Adriano sits astride the BMW M 1000 RR, all black aggression and German precision. He doesn’t look thrilled, but I know he is ready. His form is tense, muscles bunching. He looks like he’s preparing for war. “Last chance to back out,” Luca calls over the engines. I don’t even turn, just rev once in response. Adriano shakes his head slowly. “Stay behind me,” he says sternly, like I’ll actually listen. I grin inside my helmet. We line up at the empty stretch of highway just outside the in
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