The alley behind Tony's Chop Shop still stank of burnt rubber and grease when Ivan lit his cigarette, eyes scanning the street with that restless twitch he always had when something didn't sit right with him. Felix leaned back against the chain-link fence, arms folded, helmet dangling from one hand. Same alley, same routine—but something was different. Ever since the warehouse job two nights ago, people had started whispering their names. Not loud, not brave, but enough for the streets to carry it.
They hadn't asked for attention, not yet. But it was coming.
Felix kicked a pebble across the concrete. "You feel it?"
Ivan exhaled smoke like he was releasing a grudge. "Yeah. Feels like something's circling us."
"Not the cops."
"No. Too patient to be pigs." Ivan squinted toward the dark end of the alley. "This is organized. Quiet. Rich."
Their bikes—sleek, matte black machines with chromed-out engines—rested nearby, spotless despite the chaos around them. Felix kept them tuned like instruments, Ivan rode them like warhorses.
Tonight they were just supposed to chill, maybe visit Reggie's dive bar, meet the crew. But nothing about Miami in '78 ever stayed simple. Not for long.
As they reached Reggie's, a beat-up jukebox bled blues in the corner. Felix scanned the place—Jude was there, fixing a knife wound on his own arm like it was a papercut, and Kilo nursed a busted lip. Reggie wiped glasses, deadpan as ever.
"Looks like a fuckin' war camp," Ivan muttered.
"Someone messed with Reggie's boys?" Felix asked, stepping up to Jude.
Jude nodded. "New guys. Called themselves the Red Hounds. Tried to tax our end of Little River. Sent two boys to make a point."
Ivan pulled a chair, dragging it like a blade across tile. "What point?"
Jude smirked. "They didn't leave with their teeth."
Felix looked at Ivan. "We could make a visit."
Ivan grinned. "Let's bring a gift."
---
They hit the Red Hounds' front by midnight. It wasn't subtle. Felix handled the lock on the back gate like it was child's play. Ivan kicked open the door with a scream of metal on wood, pistol raised. Chaos unfolded fast—two guys jumped up, reaching for something. Wrong move.
Ivan shot one in the leg before he could blink. Felix tackled the other, fist pounding until the man's breath came in wet gasps.
"You think you can touch our people?" Ivan spat. "You got no fuckin' idea who you're messin' with."
Blood on the floor. Sirens in the distance.
They were gone before the red and blues got close.
---
By 4 a.m., the crew was back at Reggie's. Laughter, pain, blood, all blurred into that familiar hum of survival. Jude raised a beer to Ivan.
"Word is, they're calling you 'The Fiend' now."
Ivan looked at Felix. "What about him?"
Jude smirked. "The Fortress. The way he took down that guy—didn't flinch, didn't rush. Just solid."
Felix raised an eyebrow. "That what they're saying now?"
"Names stick, bro."
Ivan leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Then let's make sure they fuckin' remember 'em."
---
Across the room, a man watched from the shadows. Expensive shoes, cheap whiskey. Name was Luciano DeSantis. Mid-tier boss with high-tier ambitions. He'd heard the whispers. Tonight, he saw the thunder firsthand.
He waited until Felix and Ivan were alone by the jukebox, picking tracks like old times.
"You two ain't from around here," Luciano said, stepping up.
Ivan didn't flinch. "Neither are you."
Luciano grinned. "What do they call you? Fortress? Fiend?"
Felix's eyes narrowed. "Depends who's asking."
Luciano held out his hand. "Someone who might have use for two storm-chasers like you."
Ivan shook it first. "We're not friends."
Luciano tilted his head.
Ivan grinned. "We're cousins."
Luciano laughed. "That's good. I got a proposition. But first... tell me—how'd you get those names?"
Felix looked at Ivan, who nodded slowly. The smoke curled between them like memory.
"Guess it's time for a story."