Motorcity Novels & Stories

he asked after a brief pause. Marcus tilted his head, a knowing grin playing at his lips. “I’m not sure you can handle the sight,” he teased. Moses chuckled. “I’ll go with you.” Marcus shrugged. “Alright, if that’s what you want.” Without another word, they both got into their respective cars. Moses followed closely behind Marcus as they drove out of the city, heading toward an isolated location. The streetlights became less frequent, the roads quieter, and soon, the cityscape was nothing but a distant glow behind them.

I stormed out of there, I want to get this mission over with. I strode into my garage, the bright fluorescent lights casting a dull glow. My eyes locked onto the sleek, black motorcycle parked in the center of the room. It was a rare, customized model, designed for power and agility, and only top mercenaries could get their hands on a motorcycle like this. But, as it is, only I have this prototype. A hell of a masterpiece.

Stephie snapped, and yet the mean man only ignored her further. Jacob didn't relent on his fast driving until he exited the expressway and now entered a much more upscale part of the city. Tall buildings adorned the skyline, which now sported a slight orange and pink tinge, as the sun began to sink in the horizon. This side of the city had less bus stops and more car charging stations. Tesla vehicles and electric fancy mobiles blessed the road. The foot traffic included one too many pairs of shaved legs, floating hair, sunglasses, and lots of electric scooters. The dining here was high end, and even the pets were carried in bags and strollers rather than touch the lowly sidewalk.

Detroit~ “Since you’re in town, why don’t you stop by the estate? Little Miss would be thrilled to see you.” Elias said as the car soared through the Capital city. The cutting-edge skyscrapers blurred past in streaks of light and steel, towering above them like watchful titans. Detroit didn’t answer immediately. He sat in the backseat, his broad frame sinking into the leather, one hand tapping lightly on his knee. His other hand, gloved, was clenched in a fist.

Mikhail Morozov drove through the stillness of Moscow, the engine of his black Mercedes growling low, predatory, as the car cut through the streets. The penthouse lights of the city fell away behind him, swallowed by the dark stretch of road leading to the Bratva’s Empire compound. The closer he came, the heavier the weight pressed in his chest, but it was not nerves. It was power, coiled and controlled, like a blade hidden under silk. His hands rested steady on the wheel. His eyes were sharp, calculating, unreadable.

Rafael reached for the truffle sauce. Sidney helped and passed it instead, “Mmm”, he dropped his utensils and took a serviette to wipe his mouth, “I'll try and set up a meeting for you both” Rafael smiled softly and broadly revealing those attractive dimples, “After my trip” “No problem” *** MCCOY ESTATE MANSION GR Motorworks HL Officially: GRM Automotives (Former “Moltara Motorworks Company”) Headquarters in Detroit, United States.

“Well... It started with a girl running through the rain five years ago.” —----------------------------------------- *** Five Years Earlier *** The engine of my motorcycle rumbled powerfully beneath me as I brought it to a stop at the red traffic light. Detroit was never truly quiet, but nights like this came close. Rain fell steadily from the dark sky above, covering the streets in a thin shimmering layer that reflected the neon lights of nearby bars and broken street signs. The entire city seemed to glow in distorted colors—red, blue, and sickly yellow spreading across the wet pavement like stains.

I’m already wet before I see the billboard, which is inconvenient because I’m in traffic on Morrison and Third with cold coffee in the cupholder and my thighs have no business pressing together in a Honda Civic at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday. But there he is. Sixty feet of jaw towering above the intersection. The scar through his eyebrow smoothed by whatever digital tool Nike’s production team uses to turn damage into aspiration. MADDOX stamped across the bottom in block letters like a warning label for a product that ruins lives.

"He said two unknown sedans were idling near the Halsey Street block this afternoon. Watching the construction crews clear the brick Debris." I didn't stop moving the oily rag down the bolt carrier group. "Did he get plates?" "New York registrations," Jay replied. "Commercial tags. Registered to a concrete supply company in Staten Island." Valenti. "Mr. Moretti," Jay said, taking a step closer to the workbench. His young face was set in a tight, stubborn line—the same stubbornness I’d seen in his eyes when he stood on the porch of the stone lodge three months ago holding a carbine he barely knew how to shoot. "Are we going back?"

** The next morning, the sun barely broke through the city fog when Kai tapped sharply on my door. An hour later, we were gliding into the subterranean VIP parking level of the Grand Galleria the most exclusive luxury shopping district in the city, closed off to the general public for private appointments. Instead of taking one of the heavy SUVs, Kai had driven us on a sleek, matte-black sport motorcycle, he preferred it to his cars, weaving through morning traffic with silent, lethal precision. I was still practically vibrating from the adrenaline of holding onto his waist as we tore down the highway.