The Miami sun was relentless, a golden furnace that turned pavement to lava and time to molasses. But Leonardo didn't mind. For the first time in years—first time in two lives, really—he could just breathe.
His penthouse overlooked the Biscayne Bay, and the mornings began with the sound of the ocean breaking against the seawall. Koko had temporarily relocated to an Atlantic-side compound to monitor the company's shipping logistics, while Alfred continued to act as the quiet ghost behind DeMarco Motors' steady rise in Europe and Japan.
Leonardo, meanwhile, played the role of a young billionaire on sabbatical.
He surfed.
He fished.
He rebuilt an old Corvette Stingray just for the hell of it.
He lived.
On the fifth morning, as the sun cracked over the horizon, Leonardo stood barefoot on his penthouse terrace, a glass of mango juice in hand. The door behind him slid open.
Koko stepped out, hair tied back, tablet in hand. "Your quiet life is a lie."
"Is it?" Leonardo asked, sipping. "Feels pretty convincing to me."
She handed over the tablet. "We intercepted a Customs sting operation blueprint. Someone's turning Miami into a nest of imports and laundered cash. Your friend Brian is involved. Indirectly."
Leonardo raised a brow. "And how exactly do we define 'involved'?"
"He's working with someone. Possibly law enforcement. The details are hazy, but the operation's based in the shipping yards."
Leonardo exhaled slowly. "No peace for the wicked."
Later that afternoon, Leonardo cruised through the Miami streets in his blacked-out Ford GT, weaving through pastel-colored districts until he reached an underground garage tucked behind an abandoned dance club.
The gate buzzed open. Inside, music pulsed low and steady, and a few familiar faces turned his way.
Brian was standing near a workbench, elbow-deep in engine grease, laughing with a tall, muscular man with a cowboy swagger.
Leonardo pulled in, parked, and stepped out.
Brian did a double take. "You again?"
Leonardo smiled. "I keep showing up in your favorite cities. Starting to think you've got a tracker on me."
Brian walked over, shaking his head in disbelief. "Leo, meet Roman Pearce."
Roman sized him up. "You race?"
"I breathe. Racing just happens to come with it."
Roman smirked. "Alright, I like him."
"He beat me back in LA. Skyline versus Eclipse," Brian added.
Roman let out a laugh. "You let him beat you."
Brian shot him a look. "I don't let anyone do anything."
Leonardo looked between them. "So, this is what retirement looks like? Hanging out in underground garages, tuning up dream machines?"
Brian leaned back. "More like vacation between disasters."
That night, they hit South Beach.
The trio pulled up in their rides: Brian in a Mitsubishi Lancer Evo VII, Roman in a gold-and-black Camaro SS, and Leonardo back in his Skyline, now sporting matte-blue detailing.
Clubs thumped with life. Women laughed under neon signs. The scent of sea salt and alcohol mixed in the humid air.
They hit a VIP rooftop overlooking the city. Drinks flowed; stories were told.
Roman kept firing off questions. "So, where you from, Leo? What's your deal? You don't look like no average tuner."
"Private school, rich family, tragic past, corporate empire," Leonardo replied smoothly. "But let's not bore ourselves. Talk about your insane fashion sense instead."
Brian choked on his drink. Roman barked a laugh. "Alright, alright, I'll take that. You're good."
It was easy.
Too easy.
Leonardo knew things didn't stay this light forever. But for now, he let himself enjoy it.
A few days later, Leonardo was invited to a coastal gathering hosted by one of the larger race syndicates—sun, speed, and machines that gleamed like polished gems.
The event was off-grid, built around an old airstrip hidden between overgrown mangroves. Hundreds of racers, enthusiasts, and fans gathered. Helicopters buzzed above, and local food trucks lined the side in a makeshift festival.
Leonardo brought out a sleeper—a 1972 Chevy Chevelle SS restored with modern internals. No flair, no NOS tanks visible. Just steel and torque.
He entered a four-man bracket race.
Round one was smooth.
Round two was tighter.
In the finals, he faced a regional kingpin known as Snake. Long hair, tattooed fingers, and a modded RX-7 that looked like it ate supercars for breakfast.
The countdown dropped.
Leonardo surged ahead from the start, gripping the wheel with one hand and calmly shifting with the other. Snake came in hot on the final turn, trying to cut inside.
Leonardo tapped the e-brake just enough to slide wide—and then straightened before Snake could recover.
He crossed the finish line with a full car length lead.
Brian and Roman erupted from the crowd.
Roman laughed. "Dude! You just smoked Miami's snake god!"
Leonardo shrugged. "He should've tuned his turbo with less ego."
Brian clapped him on the shoulder. "What are you really doing here, Leo?"
Leonardo just smiled.
As the sun set over the water, Leonardo sat on the hood of his Chevelle, sipping cold coconut water.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Koko.
Shipment to Rio finalized. You might want to look into some "car-related" activities happening down there.
Leonardo stared at the screen.
Rio.
He had time. But not much.
The wind carried the scent of oil and salt and speed.
For now, he let it all settle around him.
Tomorrow could wait.