Maid To The Three Mafia Kings
Behind it, a second car roared into view, cutting through the sparse traffic.
Aidan twisted, catching sight of both vehicles closing in. Muzzle flashes lit the dark—bullets pinged against the rear of their car, denting the metal.
“Shit,” he hissed, tightening his grip on his gun.
Carlton pressed the gas harder, the speedometer climbing. “Hold on.”
The chase was on.
He swerved right, tires screeching as he dodged another burst of bullets. The pursuing cars stayed tight on their tail, engines snarling like hounds on a scent. A pickup in the opposite lane honked, veering away.
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