Page 6 of Ruthless Dream

CHAPTER 1

Adeline

SIX YEARS EARLIER

Izoom past a sedan, my 1974 Aston Martin picking up speed.

I thought it was ridiculous when my parents moved out of Manhattan, picking a spot close enough to the city but far away enough that my parents could have a bigger garden out back. But I’ve got to admit, the drives have been a lot better since moving.

And I love driving.

Not that anyone appreciates my skills or finesse.

No one is out on the road this early on a Saturday morning, the highway mostly empty. Except for one black SUV behind me.

Jack can’t see it, but I’m definitely smirking as I push down on the accelerator.

There’s a buzz that I almost miss, my phone on the passenger’s seat. The only thing about driving around in a vintage car is a lack of Bluetooth, not that I truly care. It’s more important to keep the integrity of the car. My Aston Martin is my baby. I will not pollute it with fancy tech.

“Adeline.” My dad’s voice comes down the line.

“Morning!” I chirp, driving with one hand on the wheel. I glance in the rearview mirror; the black SUV is still trailing after me.

“It would be a pity,” my father says, “if my youngest daughter got into a wreck on the highway on the same day she’s meant to move into her college dorm.”

My foot eases off the accelerator just a smidge.

Dad, even though he’s at home, somehow senses his advantage. “The Aston Martin should be respected.”

“The Aston Martin is respected!” It’s my pride and joy. Driving slow in it would be more disrespectful than anything.

I’m not into NASCAR or Formula One, but the mini SUV life just isn’t for me. Even when we lived in Manhattan, I would take every opportunity to drive. There’s something freeing about blasting the A/C with the windows down while singing along to the radio.

“The Aston Martin is going to break,” Dad warns.

I hate when he uses his serious voice. I swear he only uses it with me, Mom, and his associates. He says we’re the ones who test him the most. I’m not sure why he acts like my older sisters don’t test him either. It’s not fair to group me along with his wife, saying I’m the one who’s making his hair go gray.

“It’s not going to break, Dad.”

“Then stop driving a hundred miles down the highway.” Each word comes down like a hammer, every bit the high-ranking Bratva man that he is.

“But there’s not even any cops out.”

“Adeline.”

I ease off the accelerator and flip the black SUV off. It changes lanes, preparing to exit. Jack is such a fucking tattle tale.

“Jack’s not coming to NYU with me.” I put on my blinker, exiting. Shopping bags shift as the car sways, turning right.

Dad chuckles. “I’ll call Barry. I’m sure he’ll find some school spirit.”

“Dad!” I groan, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “I’m a good student. I’m not going to go wild.”

I’ve been there, done that during my high school days. I’m looking to embark on a mature, scholarly aesthetic that is becoming of any sophisticated university student.

“Nothing’s going to happen.” I turn into our neighborhood, the long, winding street curving. Homes are set back among greenery and gates, keeping the riffraff away from people’s properties. “I’ll be fine without any of the guards.”

Dad doesn’t concede, but he does do me one solid favor. “Because I don’t want to ruin the day, I won’t tell your mother about the speeding. Love you, darling. Let Ferdinand park the car; we’ve got everything rearranged.”