The rhythm of Miami had started to settle in Leonardo's bones like a warm hum. Mornings were quiet: the sea breeze, a steaming mug of black coffee, and slow jazz pouring from vintage speakers. Afternoons were for tuning, racing, or occasionally disappearing into one of the anonymous garages where his personal projects lived in suspended animation. Evenings were a blur of laughter, beaches, and night races.
But nothing that good lasts forever.
Not for him.
Not for someone who carried the weight of another world in his memory, a system in his soul, and an empire under his skin.
It started on a Thursday.
Leonardo and Roman were mid-argument about suspension tuning outside the beachside café they had adopted as neutral ground. Brian sat back in amusement, flipping through the racing pages of the Miami Herald.
Roman jabbed a finger at Leonardo's chest. "You're not listening, man. You stiffen the rear, you lose grip in the corner. I don't care what galaxy you came from—physics is physics."
Leonardo sipped his coffee and replied, deadpan, "I tuned a car to break 260 on a salt flat using recycled aircraft composite and goat milk. Don't talk to me about physics."
Brian burst out laughing. "He's not wrong, Roman."
Roman threw his hands up. "This is some Twilight Zone level stuff."
Their friendly bickering was interrupted by the low chime of Leonardo's encrypted phone—a device Koko had designed personally. Only three people in the world had the key to trigger it. When he saw the alert, he went still.
He read the screen.
Alfred: Rio contact confirmed. Shipment compromised. South America window closing. Agent involved. Possibly someone you know.
Leonardo's mind clicked into overdrive.
He stood.
Brian looked up. "Something wrong?"
Leonardo forced a smile. "No. But I might need to head south sooner than I planned."
The next day, he spent hours in one of his private garages, one located inside a decommissioned naval dockyard he'd purchased under an alias. Inside sat six cars, all blacked-out, modified and disguised. But his focus was on a 1995 Toyota Supra Mark IV.
It was a twin to Brian's old ride—customized, updated with subtle enhancements to reflect modern durability while retaining its 2001 authenticity. He spent the better part of the day upgrading the frame and reviewing data from Koko.
Koko appeared in person by nightfall, dressed in breezy linens, though her cold demeanor hadn't changed. She tossed a dossier onto the hood of the Supra.
"Meet Santiago Morales. Ex-federal, turned mercenary. He's running escort protection for a shipment of turbocharged arms-grade vehicles bound for Rio."
Leonardo flipped through the photos. "And the buyer?"
"Unknown. But one of our shell companies was about to be used as a middleman. Someone's trying to backdoor you."
He narrowed his eyes. "Then we cut off the door."
"You'll need to fly out by next week. But before that, you have a race tomorrow night. Big crowd. High stakes."
Leonardo leaned back against the workbench. "I need one more good night before I start burning bridges."
The race that night took place in the heart of downtown Miami. Four cars. Closed-off streets. Hundreds of onlookers. Leonardo drove a matte-gray Mazda RX-7—lightweight, quiet, and dangerous.
Brian and Roman watched from the sidelines, arms crossed.
The competition was stiff: Snake wanted a rematch, a Cuban driver with a Porsche 911 Turbo wanted to prove a point, and the last challenger was an ex-military drift king imported from Puerto Rico.
The race launched with screeching tires and a wall of cheering.
Leonardo's RX-7 weaved through the pack with graceful precision. Snake tried to box him in with the Porsche, but Leonardo executed a double-drift maneuver that sent the crowd into hysteria.
On the final turn, he downshifted hard and flicked the tail end, forcing Snake to oversteer. The Porsche hesitated.
Leonardo passed through clean, crossing the finish with two seconds to spare.
Roman whistled. "Damn. That man's got magic tires."
Brian nodded. "He doesn't drive cars. He dances with them."
After the race, they sat on the hood of Roman's Camaro, eating tacos from a roadside stand. The night air was thick with salt and satisfaction.
Brian turned to Leonardo. "You really leaving?"
"Soon. I have unfinished business."
"You always do."
Leonardo looked out over the skyline. "There's a storm coming. Not here. South."
Roman raised an eyebrow. "We talking weather or war?"
"Maybe both."
Brian studied him for a moment. "You ever think about settling down? Getting out?"
Leonardo gave a small, rueful smile. "All the time. But the world won't let me. Not yet."
Over the following week, Leonardo began tying off his threads in Miami. He upgraded the security around his properties, instructed Koko to limit visible activity from Aegis Tactical, and transferred DeMarco Motors' North American operations to Alfred for the foreseeable future.
His final day in the city was quiet. No racing. No fanfare. Just one last breakfast with Brian and Roman at their favorite diner.
Brian handed him a slip of paper. "Address of a friend in Rio. Doesn't ask questions, just fixes engines. Tell him I sent you."
Leonardo pocketed it. "Thanks."
Roman clapped him on the back. "If you get in trouble down there, just holler. I got friends who love trouble."
Leonardo stood, pushing his chair in. "That's the problem. I am trouble."
That evening, at a private airstrip, Leonardo boarded a Gulfstream bound for Rio de Janeiro.
Koko stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Ready to burn things down again?"
"No," he said, pausing on the first step. "I'm ready to build something new. And I'm not letting anyone take it from me."
Koko saluted him half-seriously. "See you in Brazil."
The hatch sealed. The jet engines roared.
The East Coast faded into twilight behind him.
Ahead, the next arc waited.