Chapter One
IN A LIFETIME of glamourous global adventures, Apollo Accardi had yet to experience an event more electric than the Italian Elite One Premio. It was even more enjoyable when he’d just won his family’s sacred home race in a record-breaking final lap…whilst driving for their most historic rival.
Satisfaction filled his lungs as he strode through the paddock in his iconic maroon Falco Roux racing suit and glared up at the crowd of fans waving a sea of Accardi Autosport white flags.
After almost eight years since his mysterious departure from the sport, his mid-season track return last summer had shocked the world.
What had started out as an impulsive favour to his friend Tristan Falco had somehow become a chance at redemption he’d never planned to take.
His team mate, Nina Roux, hadn’t been the stuck-up heiress he’d been told to expect; in fact she’d been an invaluable ally, even as she’d navigated an unexpected media storm and a personal relationship with Falco, the team owner.
Apollo had steered clear of the drama for the most part and had eagerly accepted the opportunity to extend his contract.
He’d taken his time, trained hard and spent last winter buried in strategy and analytics.
Now, he was already halfway through his second season with Falco Roux and they had a comfortable lead in the constructors’ championship.
And Apollo… Well, he was ready finally to put one particular demon to rest. Winning the elusive Elite One drivers’ championship was every driver’s goal, one that Apollo had already achieved once, eight years ago, for Accardi Autosport.
But this time it would be without his grandfather’s influence.
This time, it would be on his own terms.
After years of honing his skills as a businessman, Apollo usually knew when a storm was brewing and something didn’t feel quite right.
It hadn’t felt right all day, not since his grandfather had appeared in his private dressing room right before the race and asked if they could speak later—a conversation he’d been avoiding for months.
Perhaps that was the reason for the steady pulse of unease that continued to build within him as he took his seat front and centre in the press tent, shoulder to shoulder with Nina and another driver, who’d each placed second and third respectively.
Apollo nodded over to where Falco sat on the sidelines alongside their team principal, Alain Roux, Nina’s older brother.
The whole team had worked hard this weekend and he was looking forward to a night of celebrations ahead.
But as they all waited…and waited…he felt the tension in the room build. The murmur of voices gradually shifted from impatience to unease as the usually punctually held event was delayed by fifteen minutes, then half an hour, with no word as to what was wrong.
The post-race press conferences were pretty standard fare; journalists asked pre-cleared questions and drivers offered up answers that were in keeping with their team ethics and the public persona, usually crafted carefully by a collection of professional spinners and gurus.
Gurus such as Astrid Lewis, the most coveted publicity expert in the industry.
Apollo’s eyes scanned the room and found who he was looking for, her full, ruby-red lips pursed as she scanned a phone screen and adjusted the black-rimmed glasses on her pert nose.
As though she felt his gaze upon her skin, Falco Roux’s formidable PR manager looked up, their eyes meeting across the crowded tent that separated them.
His body had already been thrumming with post-race adrenaline, but quickly that shifted to a familiar simmering heat under his skin.
He raised one brow and then winked, and she narrowed her eyes warningly in return.
He smirked and tilted his head towards the exit, and she gave her head a firm shake—a signal for him to stay put.
Astrid ruled the entire Falco Roux racing team with an iron fist and, since Apollo’s brief attempt at flirtation shortly after he’d joined the team last year, she’d taken to sending her minions to keep his escape antics in check more often than not.
He was well known for hating the publicity side of being an Elite One driver, regularly sneaking away from interviews early.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy incurring her wrath.
Her tart British accent and no-nonsense demeanour had captivated him from the moment she’d walked into their first meeting and laid down the rules.
Perhaps it was because she treated him like every other driver, disregarding his family’s reputation and the significant wealth he’d amassed as a businessman in his own right since stepping away from racing for the family team.
But that was the usual extent of their interactions: she bossed him around from afar and he tried to ignore how enormously turned on it made him.
So he was quite surprised when Astrid stood from her seat and crossed the room, coming to a stop by his side at the long interview table.
‘Have I broken one of your rules, Ms Lewis?’ he teased, his smile dropping slightly when he took in the absence of colour on her usually pink cheeks. She laid one hand on the table and he felt his blood turn to ice, because the utterly unflappable Astrid Lewis was trembling.
‘Apollo… I need you to come with me.’ Astrid smoothed her other hand down over her black skirt, concern marring her brow. ‘I’ve been told the delay is due to an emergency. There’s an ambulance outside the Accardi motor home…it’s your grandfather.’
As he tried to make sense of her words—of why they should be told in such a hushed tone, as if she was sorry—phones began to ping across the room. The journalists in the throng followed one another in staring at their screens then immediately glanced up towards Apollo.
‘A heart attack? Enzo Accardi?’ A young woman in a crisp white Accardi team shirt breathed, then with a sob clapped a hand over her mouth. The exit of the tent opened and the faint flash of blue lights appeared, briefly casting a glow over everyone’s faces.
‘Is it true? They’re saying he didn’t make it,’ a reporter called out.
Apollo rose from his seat, his chair hitting the wall with a crash.
He was hardly aware of his own body before he began to push through the crowd towards the side entrance.
Warm summer air filled his lungs before he took off at a sprint as dread filled his gut.
It wasn’t him; it couldn’t be. His grandfather was indestructible.
The closer he got to the Accardi team’s headquarters, the blue lights grew stronger.
A single ambulance sat outside, the doors open wide.
Two paramedics sat on chairs nearby, looking utterly defeated.
As he neared them, one stood up, a look of pity on his face as he recognised Apollo.
He hardly registered the man speak, the words, ‘Sorry,’ and ‘He’s gone,’ vaguely seeping into his consciousness.
No. He felt his world slow down to a stop, a lifetime of memories taunting him: his grandfather taking him to the track for the first time to escape his parents’ loud screaming matches; his grandfather lifting him onto his shoulders after his first trophy win.
When it had felt as if no one else had had any time for him as a child, Nonno had been an ever-present force, criticising him, pushing him, infuriating him, loving him.
It was only later, when Apollo was an adult, that things had started going wrong between them.
‘Apollo.’
Vibrant green eyes etched with concern moved into his line of sight, pulling him out of his frozen stare.
He looked down and saw that she’d followed him, his prickly English rose with her seriousness and calm.
She was the opposite of him in every way and yet, when her hands covered his, the warmth of her touch calmed him.
‘I’m getting us out of here, okay? Don’t move.’
She formed a barrier with her small frame between the crowd and him, something that might have seemed humorous to him any other day.
Instead, he remained still, studying how she gestured with one hand to someone in the crowd and tapped furiously on her phone with the other.
Her eyes met his, strong and steady, and he clung to their green depths; to the perfect slant of her nose and the arched bow of her lips.
He clung to all that he knew to be steady and true…because, if Enzo Accardi truly was dead, then everything in his life was about to change.
Being a seasoned crisis PR management expert in the most competitive and dramatic league in motorsport, Astrid Lewis had seen her fair share of scandals on and off the track.
Her colleagues often joked that she could sway the entire world’s media with one stern look and, truthfully, she had never met a reputation or situation that she couldn’t fix.
But, as she stared at the video that had begun playing on her phone screen, she felt a whisper of self-doubt coil in her stomach.
Rain battered the windows of the hired car as she adjusted the designer spectacles on the bridge of her nose. ‘This is…not what I expected when you called in a Code Red, Tristan.’
Tristan Falco’s face seemed to become even more serious from where she’d minimised their video call in the corner of her screen. ‘Our star driver has just cancelled his contract in the middle of the season. I’d call that a high-priority emergency, Astrid.’
From what she could ascertain from the grainy footage, the clip had been captured some time during the aftermath of yesterday’s funeral, at which the entire Accardi family had been in attendance, including Apollo.
She cleared her throat, ignoring the now familiar frisson of butterflies in her stomach at the sight of their star driver, stony-faced as he pushed his way through a throng of paparazzi.