TWO SHADES | Max Verstappen
(Part 1)
Mafia Boss AU
Max Verstappen x OC
Description: Max Verstappen's illegal car empire is built on silence—bought, blackmailed, or buried six feet deep. The blood on his hands is invisible beneath the oil stains, but he feels it every time he closes his eyes—he sees their faces and wonders if they'd forgive the boy who swore he'd never be like his father. Max didn't choose this life; it was carved into him the day he watched his childhood burn, the day he learned that power comes not from trust but from control. And while his business thrives, every deal reminds him that the cost of survival was his soul—and the pieces of himself he can never put back together.
Isla's empire rose on the backs of those silenced, those ruined, and those whose names she could no longer bear to remember. And though her name gleamed in the light of success, Isla couldn't unsee the darkness she had sown behind her, every victory stained with the bitter taste of the lives she had scorched to get there.
Something happens to cause these two to cross paths. A missing car worth millions. A deadline that leaves no room for mistakes. And a death sentence hanging over Max's head if they fail.
Warnings‼: contains mild language, blood, gore and death, descriptions and mentions of violence, and injuries.
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The phone buzzed on the desk, rattling against the stained glass ashtray with an obnoxious hum. Max Verstappen leaned back in his chair, the Miami skyline glittering in the reflection of his office window. Neon pinks and electric blues danced along the glass as the city pulsed with life outside. The air smelled of old cigars and a faint hint of motor oil.
Max reached for the phone, his expression sour. It wasn't the call he wanted to take, but he knew better than to ignore it.
"What?" he barked into the receiver.
"It's here," came the voice on the other end—Gino, one of Max's more reliable guys. "The shipment came in late, but everything's unloaded."
Max's jaw tightened. "And?"
There was a long pause. "We're missing one."
"What do you mean, missing one?" Max stood up, his chair rolling back and hitting the wall. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side. "I don't pay you to 'misplace' cars, Gino. Which one?"
Gino's voice was hesitant now. "The, uh... the Skyline. The red R34."
Max swore under his breath, pacing the room. "The red one? The one for Salvatore?" He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. This wasn't just any car. The Nissan Skyline R34 GTR wasn't just a rare find—it was a personal request from one of the most powerful, dangerous men Max had ever dealt with.
"Look, boss," Gino stammered, "we're trying to figure out what happened. Might've been swiped at the dock, or—"
"Or you're incompetent," Max cut him off. "I don't care if you have to tear apart every warehouse in Miami. Find the car, Gino. You've got twenty-four hours."
He slammed the phone down without waiting for a reply. The Skyline was more than just a sale; it was leverage. A deal with Salvatore "Sal" DiMarco wasn't the kind of thing you let fall apart. The man was a kingpin of the underground racing scene, a collector of rarities, and a ruthless enforcer when it came to people who crossed him.
As if on cue, the phone rang again. Max's stomach twisted. He didn't need to check the caller ID to know who it was. He took a deep breath and picked up.
"Sal," Max said, forcing an air of confidence he didn't feel. "Good timing. I was just about to call you."
"Max," Salvatore's deep voice drawled, smooth but dripping with menace. "I hope you're calling to tell me my baby's ready."
Max hesitated for a fraction of a second. Sal picked up on it immediately.
"What's going on?" Sal demanded, his voice sharp now. "Don't mess with me, Verstappen."
"There's been... a delay," Max admitted, carefully choosing his words. "The shipment came in, but the Skyline isn't accounted for. My guys are on it—"
"You lost my car?" Sal's voice rose, thunderous now. "Do you have any idea what that car is worth to me?"
Max swallowed hard. "We'll get it back. I promise."
Sal laughed, but it was cold and humorless. "A promise? That's cute. Here's my promise: if I don't have that car in five days, I'll put a bullet in your head and send your pieces back to Maaseik."
The line went dead. Max stared at the phone, his chest heaving.
"Five days," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Perfect."
Max paced the room, his mind racing. The Skyline wasn't just gone—it had been taken. And in Miami, where everyone was playing some angle, it wasn't hard to guess who might've had the guts to pull off something this bold.
His instincts told him to start with one name: Isla.
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Max's sleek black BMW M5 tore through the Miami streets, the engine growling in sync with his mood. The humid night air whipped past the open windows as he gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Isla's place wasn't far—a dingy warehouse tucked into the outskirts of the city's industrial district—but Max drove like every second mattered.
By the time he screeched into the gravel lot outside, the roar of the car had already alerted everyone inside. He shoved the door open, slamming it behind him, and stalked toward the office door. He didn't bother knocking.
Inside, Isla sat behind her cluttered desk, feet up on a stack of invoices, lazily flipping through her phone. The dim office lighting cast shadows on her sharp features, her light blue eyes flashing with amusement as she looked up.
"Well, look who it is," she drawled, arching a brow. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Verstappen? You lose another car?"
Max slammed his hands on the desk, rattling the coffee mug and spare spark plugs scattered across it. "Cut the crap, Isla. Where's the Skyline?"
Her smirk didn't falter, but her feet hit the floor as she leaned forward. "Skyline? You think I stole your precious car?" She gestured to the chaos of papers around her. "You think I have time to add grand theft auto to my already thriving business?"
"I'm not in the mood for jokes," Max snapped, his voice low and threatening. "I know you've got connections. You're the first person I check when things go missing."
Isla sighed, pushing back in her chair. "Alright, alright. Let me see the shipping records. You have a bill of lading or something?"
"Obviously." Max tossed a crumpled paper onto her desk.
She smoothed it out, her brow furrowing as she scanned the details. "Okay, looks like it made it on the ship in Italy. But... hold on." She turned to her computer, typing quickly. "If it was here, I'd have a record of it clearing customs."
Max watched her silently, his anger bubbling under the surface. He hated this—being out of control, having to rely on someone else to clean up his mess.
"Ah," Isla said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "It made it on the ship, but there's no record of it coming off. Either it fell into the ocean—unlikely—or someone got to it before customs did."
"Someone like you?" Max growled.
She gave him an exasperated look. "Do I look like I'd waste time swiping a Skyline? Please, Max. That car's a magnet for heat, not to mention way too conspicuous for my tastes. Besides..." Her voice turned serious as she grabbed her phone. "Let me call Franco, the guy who handles the dock inventory. If anyone knows what happened, it's him."
Max didn't bother thanking her. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, as she dialed.
"Franco," Isla said when the line connected. "Yeah, it's me. Got a question about a shipment—red Nissan Skyline, Italy to Miami. Ring any bells?"
She listened, her expression growing darker by the second.
"So you're saying you checked the containers, and it's not there?" She paused, tapping her nails on the desk. "Yeah, fine. Thanks for nothing."
She hung up and glanced at Max. "It's gone. Either stolen at the dock or somewhere before that. But if you're thinking of heading back to Italy to sort this out, you're on your own. I'm not flying across the Atlantic for one of your screw-ups."
"You're coming with me, Isla. This is your guys' mess up, you need to fix it" Max said, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable.
"Over my dead body," she shot back, standing to meet his glare. "You can threaten me all you want. I'm not your babysitter."
A cold smile spread across Max's face. "I thought you might say that." He nodded toward the corner of the office, where Isla's prized Mazda RX-7 was parked just outside, its gleaming body visible through the grimy window. "Be a shame if something happened to that beauty. Or if, say, I told the cops exactly where to find your little operation."
Her jaw tightened. "You wouldn't."
"Try me," Max said. "Five days. That's how long I've got to get the Skyline back. If you don't help me figure this out, your RX-7 disappears, and you can explain to the Feds why your shipping records don't line up."
Isla glared at him, her fists clenched. The room felt suffocatingly tense, the weight of his threat hanging in the air.
"Fine," she spat, grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair. "But if this blows up in my face, Verstappen, I swear I'll make you regret it."
"Good," Max said, smirking as he opened the door. "Pack light. We're leaving tonight."
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The sleek private jet sat on the tarmac, its polished exterior gleaming under the floodlights. Max leaned against the side of a sleek black SUV, scrolling through his phone impatiently. He glanced at his watch for the third time in five minutes before looking up to see Isla sauntering toward him, dragging a massive suitcase in each hand, with two more trailing behind her on rollers.
Max raised an eyebrow, pushing off the car as she came closer. "What the heck is all that?"
Isla smirked, letting the suitcases clatter to a stop in front of him. "It's called packing. You should try it sometime."
"Four suitcases?" Max gestured incredulously. "We're going to Italy for five days, not moving there."
She shrugged, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "I like options. A girl's gotta be prepared."
"You look like you packed for an entire year," he muttered, hoisting one of the bags onto the jet's staircase. It was heavier than it looked. "What's in here? Bricks?"
"Shoes," she said matter-of-factly, brushing past him to climb into the jet. "And maybe a hairdryer. Or two."
Max sighed, muttering curses under his breath as he hauled the rest of the luggage aboard. By the time he stepped inside the jet's luxurious cabin, Isla had already claimed one of the plush leather seats, reclining with her feet up on the ottoman. She was scrolling through her phone, looking as relaxed as if she owned the place.
"Make yourself at home," Max said dryly, dropping into the seat across from her.
"Oh, I plan to." Isla smirked, kicking off her sneakers. She pulled a sleep mask from her bag and slipped it on, then produced a pair of matching pink pajamas from another. She vanished into the small bathroom and emerged minutes later, fully changed and carrying a fluffy blanket.
Max stared, incredulous. "You can't be serious."
"What?" she asked, draping the blanket over herself as she curled up in the seat. "It's a long flight. I'm getting some beauty sleep."
"Yeah, because running from the law really takes it out of you," he muttered, but she ignored him, pulling the mask over her eyes and settling in. Within minutes, she was out cold, her soft breathing the only sound besides the low hum of the jet engines.
Max leaned back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
But his irritation didn't stop his gaze from lingering on her. For the first time, he took a proper look at her features without the usual sharpness of her expression or the constant spark of defiance in her eyes. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face. Her fair skin looked smooth and untroubled in sleep, her lips slightly parted as she breathed evenly.
She looked like the quintessential "dumb blonde," but Max knew better. Isla wasn't dumb—far from it. She was sharp, cunning, and infuriatingly resourceful. At just 24, she was running her own illegal import business, dodging customs and staying just ahead of the law. She might act carefree, but her success wasn't a fluke.
"Too bad she's so dang annoying," Max muttered, shaking his head as he pulled out his tablet.
A few hours later, Isla stirred, pulling her mask off and yawning as she stretched. "Morning, sunshine," Max said, glancing up from his tablet. "Sleep well, princess?"
She shot him a withering look. "Like a baby. Thanks for asking." She reached for her bag, pulling out a travel-sized espresso machine.
Max blinked. "Is that... seriously? You brought a coffee maker?"
"Unlike you," she said, plugging it into a nearby outlet, "I enjoy decent coffee. Want one?"
"I'll pass," Max replied, watching her as she busied herself. "You know, you've got a lot of nerve treating this like a vacation."
She smirked as she sipped her espresso. "You dragged me into this mess, remember? The least you can do is let me enjoy the ride."
Max shook his head. "You're impossible."
"And you're insufferable," Isla shot back. "What a team we make."
They fell into an uneasy silence, neither one wanting to speak.
Max broke it first. "You're smart," he said grudgingly, leaning back in his seat. "I'll give you that. But you can't tell me you've made it this far without stepping on a few toes."
"Oh, I've stepped on plenty," Isla replied, her voice laced with amusement. "The trick is knowing which ones you can step on and which ones you can't."
"Care to enlighten me?"
She looked at him over the rim of her cup, her blue eyes sharp. "You're one to talk, Mr. Illegal Car King. Tell me, Max, what's your 'trick' for dealing with people like Sal DiMarco?"
Max's expression darkened. "I get results. That's all they care about."
"Well," she said with a smirk, "you better hope we get results in Italy. Or it'll be more than toes we're stepping on."
Max didn't respond, but the tension in his jaw said enough. The stakes were high, and despite their bickering, Isla knew they were both in deep.
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The flight had been long, but the discomfort between Max and Isla made it feel even longer. By the time they arrived in Rome, Isla was practically bouncing on her heels, ready to stretch her legs and explore. Max, however, looked as stoic and unbothered as ever, navigating the busy airport with his typical no-nonsense attitude.
Outside, a sleek black sedan waited for them. The driver nodded curtly as Max held the door open for Isla.
"Well, look at you," she quipped, sliding into the car. Her voice lowered. "A gentleman and a criminal. Who knew?" Max rolled his eyes and shut the door before getting in on the other side. "Save your jokes. We're on a schedule."
The drive into the city was filled with stunning views of ancient ruins and cobblestone streets, but Isla barely had time to take it all in before they pulled up in front of a grand hotel. Its marble facade gleamed under the afternoon sun, the golden lettering above the entrance spelling out its name: Hotel Palazzo Venezia.
Isla blinked, looking up at the opulent building. "Are you sure this is the right place? This looks more... five-star than my usual style."
Max smirked, already pulling her luggage out of the trunk. "I'm not cheap, Isla. Contrary to what you might think, I prefer to work in comfort."
"Comfort," she echoed, snorting as she grabbed one of her smaller bags. "This is luxury, Verstappen." But Isla wasn't complaining, she enjoyed the luxury style.
Inside, the hotel lobby was even more breathtaking-vaulted ceilings adorned with frescoes, glittering chandeliers, and a marble fountain bubbling in the center of the room. Isla looked around, trying to act unimpressed, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her.
At the check-in desk, Max handed over his card without hesitation. "Two rooms," he said to the receptionist, who smiled warmly and handed them their key cards.
Isla raised an eyebrow. "You're paying for my room, too? Didn't take you for the generous type."
Max didn't respond, his lips twitching as if suppressing a retort. Instead, he headed toward the elevator, leaving Isla to trail behind with her mountain of suitcases.
When they reached the elevator, Isla tried to cram all four of her suitcases inside, but the narrow space refused to cooperate.
Max sighed, stepping forward to help. "How do you even manage to travel with this much stuff?"
"I'm resourceful," Isla replied, grinning as he awkwardly maneuvered the largest suitcase into the elevator.
"You're ridiculous," he muttered, pressing the button for their floor.
"Aw, thanks, neighbor," Isla teased as the elevator began its ascent. "Or should I say, roommate?"
"Don't even think about it," Max shot back, giving her a warning glance.
When they reached their floor, Max handed Isla one of the key cards. She opened her door and stepped inside, her jaw dropping as she took in the room.
The suite was massive-high ceilings, velvet curtains, and a king-sized bed with crisp white linens. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the coffee table, and the balcony offered a stunning view of the skyline. The minibar was stocked with expensive-looking drinks and snacks, including a bottle of sparkling cider and one of apple juice.
"Holy cow," Isla muttered, kicking off her shoes and heading to the fridge. She grabbed the apple juice and poured it into a fancy crystal glass she found on the counter. "Might as well drink like royalty," she said to herself, taking a sip as she settled at the sleek mahogany desk.
She pulled out her laptop, booting it up with a quiet hum. The screen glowed as she opened her files, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she searched for anything that might explain the Skyline's disappearance.
Her phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. She glanced at the screen: Fernando Alonso.
She smirked as she answered. "Miss me already?"
"Always," Fernando's smooth voice said. How's Rome? Enjoying the sights?"
"Not exactly a vacation," Isla said, leaning back in her chair. "I'm here with Max, trying to track down a missing car. Long story short, someone swiped a Skyline from the shipment before it even left the dock."
Fernando let out a low whistle. "That's bold. You think it's connected to Sal DiMarco? Like someone who can't stand him?"
"Could be," Isla replied, sipping her apple juice. "But right now, I'm just trying to keep Max from having a meltdown. He's got this whole ticking clock situation with Sal threatening his life and all."
Fernando chuckled. "Sounds like fun. Let me know if you need anything. I've got contacts in Rome-might be able to dig something up."
"I might take you up on that," Isla said. "Thanks, Fernando."
"Anytime. And Isla?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't let Max drive you crazy. That's my job."
She laughed. "Too late for that."
They ended the call, and Isla stared at her screen for a moment before getting back to work. Whatever had happened to the Skyline, she knew one thing: this trip was only going to get more complicated
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Isla sat cross-legged on the plush bed in her hotel room, her laptop perched on her knees as she stared at the screen. The more she dug into the shipment records, the clearer it became that whoever had taken the Skyline was operating on inside knowledge. Frustrated, she grabbed her phone and scrolled to a contact saved only as "L".
She hesitated, chewing her lip, before hitting the call button.
It rang twice before a familiar voice answered. "Hey, kid. What's up?"
"Are you still in Italy?" Isla asked, keeping her tone casual.
"For now," came the reply, his voice calm. "Work's got me hopping all over, but yeah, I'm in Rome. Why?"
"Can you meet me?" she asked. "Dinner. Someplace nice."
There was a pause. "This isn't just dinner, is it?"
Isla smiled faintly. He knew her too well. "I just need to talk to you. That's all."
"Alright," he said. "Pick the place and send me the details."
By the time Isla hung up, her mind was already working on the details. She had packed for every contingency, including a dress that screamed "old money"-a sleek, ivory number with delicate gold accents. After slipping it on, she brushed out her blonde waves until they cascaded perfectly over her shoulders and added a pair of understated earrings for polish.
She grabbed her clutch and headed for the door, but the moment she stepped into the hallway, Max was there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his tone equal parts suspicion and irritation.
"To eat," she said breezily, walking past him.
"Not alone you're not," Max said, falling into step beside her.
Isla stopped and turned to face him, narrowing her eyes. "I don't need a babysitter, Max."
"Maybe not, but I don't trust you," he shot back. "You're sneaky, and sneaky people don't just 'go out to eat.'"
She huffed, throwing her hands up. "Fine. You want to tag along? Be my guest. But if you ruin my night, I'm making you pay for my therapy."
"Deal," he said with a smirk, already pulling out his phone to call for their car.
A/N - Hey loves! Hope you enjoyed part 1 of TWO SHADES, and if this story starts to get traction, I'll start working on part 2! Other than that, I hope you all have a simply lovely week! 🤍
