The Lamborghini's engine roar cut through the Las Vegas night like thunder bottled in steel and gold. The Strip stretched out before them, a river of lights, neon, and drunken shouts, but for Vergil, the world was just an open road.
He smiled.
His hands were firm on the steering wheel, his blue eyes reflecting the glare of the billboards as if each flash were a mirror to his own arrogance. The Aventador roared under his command, defying not only the traffic but also the laws of the city—and, perhaps, fate itself.
Beside him, Alexa leaned against the seat, her hair tousled by the wind escaping through the cracks. She bit her lower lip before asking, her voice deep, thick with concern, but also with a desire for confrontation:
"Don't you think this will cause problems, Vergil? That woman... Hela." She didn't seem like someone who would simply... forget what happened.
His blue eyes sparkled, and his smile widened.
