The Huracán’s driver was a woman, maybe thirty, with a messy bun and a paint-stained hoodie. She stretched like a cat and yawned.
The driver of the Aventador stepped out. He was in his late sixties, dressed in worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt. Silver hair, crinkled eyes. He looked less like a supercar owner and more like a retired rancher. 2 lamborghini
Leo blinked. “So… you two know each other?” The Huracán’s driver was a woman, maybe thirty,