Midnight Heat in the 305

T he air in the garage was thick—heavy with the scent of high-octane fuel and the lingering ghost of expensive tobacco. In the center of the concrete cathedral sat the Ferrari Testarossa, its white paint shimmering under the overhead fluorescents like a shark in shallow water.

Kashmira leaned against the driver’s side door, her silhouette cutting through the haze. She wore a structured, oversized blazer—sage green, the color of old money…