Twenty seconds later, Adamo crossed the finish line first and I came in after him. I let out a battle cry. Pulling up beside Adamo’s parked car beside a makeshift winner’s rostrum, I let down my window. Adamo was already getting out of his car. The sinking sun had turned the sky into a fiery blaze behind him. He pulled out a cigarette packet from his jeans. “Nice race, Falcone,” I shouted over the sound of the incoming race cars. His lips twitched around the cigarette and he strode toward me. Again I couldn’t stop admiring his sun-kissed, strong forearms and the outline of his six-pack through
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