Why not both?" you say, lips curving into a calculated half-smile as you slide into the driver's seat beside Gisele. The leather cradles your body like a second skin. "I'm thinking something with higher stakes than pink slips."
The BMW's engine ignites with a primal growl that vibrates through the chassis. Gisele's eyes narrow—she wasn't expecting this answer. Your interface flickers briefly:
[GISELE YASHAR: INTRIGUE LEVEL INCREASED]
[OPPORTUNITY: STRATEGIC ALLIANCE POSSIBLE]
[WARNING: SUBJECT DEMONSTRATES HEIGHTENED PERCEPTION]
"What kind of stakes?" she asks, one finger tracing the carbon fiber trim of your dashboard. The touch seems casual, but you recognize it as a calculated move—testing boundaries, establishing contact.
You pull away from Toretto's, tires gripping asphalt with perfect traction as you accelerate smoothly. "After I win tonight, I want Dom's crew for a job. Something that'll make the Trans' operation look like a convenience store robbery."
Gisele's laugh is sudden and genuine, a rare break in her composed facade. "You haven't even raced yet and you're already planning the victory celebration." Her amusement fades to professional assessment. "What's the job?"
"Union Depository," you say, watching her reaction carefully. The facility doesn't have the same reputation here as in Los Santos, but it's still the biggest score in the city.
She stiffens almost imperceptibly. "That's federal. Maximum security." A pause as she studies your profile. "Nobody's ever hit it successfully."
"Nobody had the right team," you counter, downshifting as you take a corner with precision that makes her press slightly into the door. "Nobody had the right intel. Nobody had me."
The Black Market Interface pulses at the edge of your vision:
[TACTICAL OPPORTUNITY: DEMONSTRATE CAPABILITY]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: CONTROLLED DRIVING EXHIBITION]
You find an empty stretch of road and without warning, execute a perfect Scandinavian flick, transitioning into a controlled drift that puts the BMW sideways before straightening with surgical precision. The g-forces press Gisele against the door, then the seat, her composed exterior cracking as her hand instinctively grabs the center console.
"Jesus," she breathes, and you detect the faintest tremor in her voice—not fear, but excitement.
"That was thirty percent of what this car can do," you say calmly. "Tonight, Dom sees sixty. The full hundred is reserved for the job."
Her dark eyes study you with renewed intensity. "And what do I get for bringing this proposal to Dom?"
The question marks the transition from messenger to negotiator—she's already positioning herself as intermediary, the gatekeeper to Toretto's world.
"Point position on the team. Twenty percent of the take." You pause deliberately. "And something else you want but haven't asked for yet."
Her eyebrow arches. "Confident."
"Accurate," you correct, pulling the BMW into a secluded viewpoint overlooking the city. The sunset paints Los Angeles in amber and shadow, skyscrapers gleaming like gold bars—an appropriate backdrop for discussing what would be the biggest heist in history.
You cut the engine, turning slightly to face her. "What's Dom's current situation? How badly does he need a score?"
Gisele considers you for a long moment, weighing loyalty against opportunity. "The Race Wars incident cost him. Cops have been circling. The garage barely breaks even." She doesn't mention Brian, but her eyes flick toward you with subtle suspicion. "You knew that already, didn't you?"
Instead of answering directly, you activate your GTA menu with a subtle mental command. A holographic interface—visible only to you—displays options. You select a sequence, and immediately a notification pings on Gisele's phone. She checks it, expression shifting from suspicion to shock.
"What did you just do?" she demands, showing you her screen: a banking notification for a $50,000 transfer to her account.
"Earnest money," you say. "Consider it a down payment on our partnership."
The Black Market Interface flashes:
[FUNDS TRANSFERRED: $50,000]
[ASSET ACQUISITION: PROGRESS 15%]
[GISELE YASHAR: LOYALTY SHIFT INITIATING]
Her expression hardens. "I can't be bought."
"I'm not buying you. I'm backing you." You gesture toward the city below. "Tonight, I race Dom. When I win, I offer him the job of a lifetime, with you as my second-in-command. When he asks why you, I'll tell him you saw the potential before anyone else did."
The calculated precision of your plan clearly impacts her. Professional respect flickers across her features before her mask of cool detachment returns.
"And what about Brian?" she asks, testing your knowledge.
"O'Conner?" You allow yourself a knowing smile. "Let's just say his involvement in the race tonight will be... revealing."
Night has fallen fully by the time you return to Echo Park. The street racing scene thrums with energy—modified cars, scantily clad race bunnies, the smell of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel thick in the air. Your arrival creates a ripple effect. Heads turn as the BMW's distinctive engine note cuts through the night.
Dom stands at the center of it all, a gravitational force around which everything else orbits. Beside him, Brian's undercover presence feels suddenly precarious as your headlights sweep across his face.
Gisele exits first, crossing to Dom with fluid confidence. Their conversation is brief but intense, punctuated by Dom's glances toward your BMW. When she returns, there's a new respect in her eyes.
"It's set. You against Dom. Quarter mile." She leans in through your window, close enough that her scent—gunpowder, leather, and something distinctly feminine—fills your senses. "If you win, he'll hear your proposal. If you lose..." She shrugs. "Well, you won't lose, will you?"
The interface pulses:
[RACE PARAMETERS: QUARTER MILE STRAIGHT]
[DOM TORETTO: DRIVING SKILL - EXCEPTIONAL]
[VICTORY PROBABILITY: 78% WITH OPTIMAL PERFORMANCE]
[BRIAN O'CONNER: SURVEILLANCE ACTIVE]
As you pull to the starting line, Dom's iconic Dodge Charger rumbles beside you, its supercharger protruding from the hood like a mechanical predator. Through the window, his eyes meet yours—assessment, challenge, and the faintest hint of curiosity.
Letty steps between the cars, arms raised, the traditional flag girl. The crowd presses in, smartphone cameras glinting like stars in the darkness.
Your hands grip the wheel, BMW's engine responding to your touch like a living extension of your will. The wish-granted mastery hums in your muscles, each nerve ending perfectly attuned to the machine.
Letty's arms drop.