The Prototype

52. Nino's Street Racing Event

TEMPEST

The bright, unforgiving lights of the walk-in closet spotlighted me, stripping away any illusions of modesty or restraint. In their glare, I stood exposed—every deliberate curve, every edge, every audacious choice tonight laid bare in unapologetic defiance. My reflection in the full-length mirror stared back at me with a boldness that dared anyone to question it.

This wasn't the curated version of me that Marcellus demanded for his events. It wasn't the muted elegance Gabby and Gia favored in their subtle bid to appease him. No, this was raw. This was unfiltered. This was me—a rebellion wrapped in leather and unapologetic intention.

Nino's grand opening was far from Marcellus's orchestrated theatrics of power, like his ridiculous horse race tournaments. Thank God for that. The atmosphere tonight didn't call for pretense, and the lack of a dress code was all the permission I needed to make a statement. A silent fuck you to the expectations that constantly sought to cage me. I wrapped that freedom around me, letting it cling closer than the black leather pleated skirt hugging my hips.

Soft yet structured, the leather was a contradiction, much like myself. Each pleat shimmered under the lights as though alive, catching every movement, accentuating the way my hips curved and dipped. The hem stopped just above mid-thigh, its precise cut skimming the tops of my legs—bold enough to demand attention but calculated enough to remain just shy of provocative. Confidence radiated from every angle of the design, bold, unrelenting, unapologetic.

Pairing it with a vintage black NASCAR graphic tee—a find so unique it practically demanded to be seen. The bold print slashed across my chest like a battle flag, its vibrant reds and yellows defying the otherwise monochromatic ensemble. I tugged the knot tighter at my waist, cinching it to perfection, ensuring the dip of my figure was on full display. The edges of the tee hung unevenly, an intentional imperfection that mirrored the chaos I embraced.

Marcellus would've hated it, which only made me love it more.

I smoothed my hands over the buttery leather, my fingers lingering on its textured softness. The material whispered of rebellion—subtle, yet undeniable. The pleats moved as I did, flowing and shifting like a silent defiance against stillness. Anchoring the look were my boots—tall, chunky, and commanding in their presence. The towering heels added inches to my frame, a deliberate choice to ensure my dominance wasn't just felt but seen. Every step would echo with power, each stride a proclamation that I would not shrink or be diminished.

I stepped back, twisting slightly to catch my profile in the mirror. My gaze lingered on the unapologetic curve of my hips, the boldness of my legs, and the sliver of skin peeking where the knotted tee met the skirt's high waist. Every inch of it spoke of raw, unrefined power—a challenge to anyone who dared to question me.

Leaning in closer, I tilted my chin, inspecting my makeup with the same calculated precision I applied to everything tonight. My lids shimmered with a soft, metallic hue that caught the light every time I blinked, a deceptive softness that only served to highlight the sharp wings of my liner. They cut across my eyes like daggers, unapologetically bold. My mascara wasn't subtle either—it elongated my lashes until they almost kissed my brows, creating a gaze that dared anyone to meet it. Dangerous. Daring.

My lips were painted in a deep, velvety nude, a shade that teetered between sophistication and rebellion. The highlighter gracing my cheekbones caught the lights perfectly, a glow that wasn't just from makeup but from the simmering heat beneath my skin. My complexion radiated confidence—a deliberate warmth that came from knowing I owned this moment.

My eyes drifted upward to my hair. Loose waves cascading over my shoulders, softening the sharpness of my look without dulling it. Half of it pulled back and secured with a gold clip that gleamed against the dark strands like a crown—simple, yet powerful. Two strands framed my face, falling in perfect symmetry to balance the razor-sharp angles of my aesthetic. I ran my fingers through the waves, tousling them slightly, creating a touch of deliberate imperfection.