Tony's Pov
It's not every day that I wake up to find my Ferrari missing from the garage. But when you have a nineteen-year-old street racer as your soulmate, these things happen. Natasha Romanoff stood beside me, and we both stared at the empty space where my car usually sat.
"Any idea where she's gone?" Natasha asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.
I sighed. "If I had to guess, I'd say she's somewhere racing. She has a thing for speed."
Natasha nodded, a smirk forming on her lips. "Well, let's go find her before she gets into too much trouble."
We took one of the other cars—I made sure it wasn't the one with the temperamental transmission—and headed toward the industrial district. It's the usual spot for early morning street racing, and Mila's never been one to pass up a good race.
It didn't take long to find the makeshift racetrack. The sound of revving engines and the cheers of a crowd filled the air as we parked discreetly a block away. Natasha and I walked toward the warehouse complex, blending into the shadows. The energy was palpable—the kind of buzz that only comes from high-speed excitement and a bit of recklessness.
"Look over there," Natasha said, pointing to the starting line. "That's your Ferrari."
Sure enough, there it was, gleaming in the early morning light, with Mila behind the wheel. She had that look of intense focus that comes with adrenaline and the thrill of competition. I couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and concern. She's a natural, but street racing can be unpredictable, and I've seen enough wrecks to know it can end badly.
The race started with a deafening roar. Mila's Ferrari shot forward, leading the pack through the winding course. She handled the car like a pro, drifting around corners, weaving between other racers, and taking risks that made my stomach clench. Natasha watched with me, her expression a mix of fascination and caution.
"She's good," Natasha said, her eyes following the cars as they zipped through the industrial maze.
"Yeah, but she's also reckless," I replied. "Let's keep an eye on her. I don't want to have to explain to Steve why our newest teammate wrapped my Ferrari around a lamppost."
As the race continued, it became clear that Mila was in a league of her own. She took the lead and never looked back, crossing the finish line with a burst of speed that left the others eating her dust. The crowd cheered, and I felt a surge of relief that she made it through without a scratch. But my relief was short-lived.
A guy from her past—a street racer named Derek—stormed over to her, his face twisted with jealousy. I knew this type; he couldn't handle being beaten by a girl, especially not one as young and confident as Mila. Natasha and I stayed hidden, watching as he shoved her hard. I clenched my fists, ready to jump in, but Mila handled it like a pro.
She retaliated with a swift kick, sending Derek sprawling backward. The crowd gasped, and I couldn't help but smile. She's got spirit, I'll give her that. Derek got up and swung a punch, but Mila dodged it easily and delivered a powerful elbow to his chest. The guy never stood a chance. She took him down with a few well-placed hits, leaving him lying on the ground, gasping for air.
Natasha chuckled beside me. "She's definitely one of us."
"Yeah, but I still prefer she doesn't get into street fights without backup," I replied, my tension easing. "Let's go talk to her before she breaks something else."
Mila noticed us as we stepped out of the shadows. Natasha gave her a nod of approval, but I wasn't quite as relaxed. "Nice moves," Natasha said, crossing her arms. "But you know we're supposed to avoid fights outside of official missions, right?"
I raised an eyebrow, trying to look stern, though I was impressed by her skills. "And you took my car without asking. I think that's worth at least a few hours in the training room."
Mila shrugged, brushing off her hands. "Hey, he started it. I just finished it." She glanced at me, her grin cheeky. "And I was going to ask you about the car, but you were asleep."
I shook my head, hiding my amusement. "Next time, just leave a note, okay? It's less dramatic."
Natasha gestured toward the Ferrari. "Let's get out of here before things escalate. Besides, I think you owe Tony an apology for taking his Ferrari without permission."
Mila rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. "Okay, okay. I get it. Let's go." She followed us back to the car, her energy still high despite the fight. I could tell she was enjoying herself, and I couldn't blame her. Racing, fighting—it's what she does best.
As I drove us back to the compound, I glanced at Mila in the rearview mirror. She was smiling, her eyes bright with excitement. Despite her tendency to cause chaos, I knew she was a valuable addition to the team. Her confidence and skill were refreshing, even if it meant keeping a closer eye on the garage keys.
"Let's get back," I said, my tone light. "And this time, no more street racing without backup, okay? I don't want to have to explain to the others why we need another Ferrari."
