46. Leo
46
Leo
T he media room in my penthouse, usually reserved for analyzing market trends or, occasionally, watching some mind-numbing action flick to decompress, has become my personal torture chamber.
For the past hour, I’ve been rewatching the Chamonix crash footage.
Not the sanitized, network-edited version.
No.
I got the raw feed from Red Bull. That, combined with the feed from my helmet action cam, allows me to watch every goddamn horrifying, gut-wrenching second of it.
I view the Red Bull feed first.
There I am. A sleek, arrogant blur against the jagged teeth of the Alps.Luca threads through the Serpent’s Coil first. He’d pushed the line, dared me to follow.
And me?
I couldn’t just follow .
No .
I had to be better.
Faster.
I had to shave milliseconds off his time, take a tighter, more aggressive angle through that final S-bend, prove I was still the king of this goddamn mountain.
Carving impossible lines, pushing the fucking envelope, because that’s what Leo Maxwell does.
Or did .
Then the gust.
That fucking unpredictable mountain wind shear I should have anticipated, the one I misjudged because I was too focused on showing up Luca, on feeling the goddamn exhilaration of absolute mastery.
Then the sickening crunch of carbon fiber, Kevlar, and bone against unyielding granite.
Then the ricochet.
The spin.
The blur.
My body, hanging limp and lifeless from the parachute.
The landing, rolling like a sack of potatoes on the ground, my leg twisting back at an impossible angle, my chute wrapping around me, until I come to a final, excruciating stop.
The Red Bull camera zooms in.
I look like a dead man.
My face is pale.
Covered in blood.
My wingsuit and parachute are ripped to shreds around my body.
My tibia protrudes from my calf. A gory, broken stump.
I force myself to watch the helmet cam footage next. Then I watch it again. And again. Alternating between helmet cam, and Red Bull external cam.
Each time, a cold dread snakes through me, colder than any mountain wind. This isn’t about analyzing flight dynamics or pinpointing the exact moment of impact.
This is about confronting the reality. The brutal, undeniable reality of what I almost threw away.
The life I nearly lost not just to the mountain, but to my own fucking ego.
What I still might throw away if I don’t get my head out of my ass.
I close my eyes, but the images are seared onto my eyelids.
Not just the crash.
But Mia.
Her face.
Those trusting green eyes, so much like my own, looking up at me from her crib.
Her gummy grin when I fed her smashed banana.
And Sabrina. Her face when I told her I was doing Chamonix. The betrayal. Fear.
The devastating resignation as she walked out with Mia in her arms.
I imagine Mia growing up fatherless. Seeing her milestones not through my eyes, but through grainy videos of some daredevil asshole who chose the abyss over her.
Milestones I wouldn’t be there for.
Her first steps. Her first word. Her first day of school. Her first heartbreak.
I always thought it would be better to die young, a fucking legend, a shooting star.
Now… now I don’t want to die at all.
Not for a long, long time.
Because I actually have a reason to live.
My phone buzzes on the low table beside me.
Caller ID: Karen Maxwell.
My mother.
Perfect fucking timing.
I remember we agreed she could have monthly supervised visits here at the penthouse. She’s probably calling to schedule the next one, or maybe just to check in before her planned trip.
I almost ignore it. Almost let it go to voicemail. But something makes me pick it up.
Maybe it’s the image of Mia lingering in my head.
“Leonardo?” Her voice is hesitant.
“Mom,” I say tiredly.
“I… I was just calling about my visit next week. To see Mia. Is everything still on track? I’ve already booked my flight.”
Of course.
Fuck.
“Mom,” I start, then hesitate. “Mom. There’s been a change of plans. Sabrina… she and Mia aren’t here anymore.”
A sharp intake of breath on her end. “Not there? Leonardo, what happened? Is Mia all right? Is Sabrina?”
“They’re fine,” I say. “Physically fine. But Sabrina… she moved back to her own apartment. With Mia.”
“Moved out?” The confusion in her voice is palpable. “But… why? I thought things were… improving. You sounded so different when we last spoke.”
Yeah, I sounded different because Ifeltdifferent. Before I fucked it all up again.
“It’s complicated, Mom. We had a disagreement. About… about wingsuiting.”
“Oh, Leonardo.” The disappointment in her voice hurts, but it’s a familiar weight by now. “What are you going to do?”
“Honestly?” I tell her. “I don’t know.”
“You have to fix it,” Mom insists. There’s a strength there I haven’t heard in years, maybe ever. “You hear me? You don’t let this happen. You don’t let history repeat itself. Your father… his choices… they cost us everything. They cost you everything. You have a daughter, Leonardo. A beautiful little girl who deserves her father. And you have a woman who, from what you’ve told me, and what little I saw, clearly cares about you, despite everything. You don’t just let that go. You fight for it. You move mountains if you have to. You use your billions and buy the goddamn Brooklyn Bridge if that’s what it takes. But you fix this.”
Her words, a surprising torrent of maternal fire, stun me into silence for a moment. She’s actually moved me to tears. I’m just speechless. I’d written her off as weak, broken… but she’s a fucking general.
“Your father…” she continues, her voice suddenly laced with that old pain, “he never fought for us, Leonardo. He chose the bottle. He chose escape. And it robbed us all. It robbed me of a husband, of a partner. And it robbed you of a father. Of a chance to know him before… before he was lost to us.” Her voice cracks. “Don’t make the same mistakes. Don’t let whatever addiction you’re battling rob Mia of her father. Whether it’s adrenaline or fear or just plain stubborn pride... don’t rob yourself of her. Or of Sabrina. She’s a good girl. The best.”
I stare at the blank screen of the media room, the Chamonix footage still frozen on the moment of impact.
My mother’s words, so raw, so unexpected, resonate deep within me.
Fight for it. Fix this.
“I… I will, Mom,” I promise, my voice hoarse. “I’ll find a way. I promise.”
The call ends, but her words linger.
Her unexpected strength.
Her fierce, protective love for Mia, and for… me?
It’s a new dynamic.
A confusing one.
But maybe there’s hope there too.
But first… Sabrina and Mia.
I have to get them back.
Mom’s right. I’ll move fucking mountains if I have to.
With a sudden, decisive clarity, I pick up my phone again.
My fingers fly across the screen, drafting an email.
Short.
To the point.
No PR spin.
No bullshit.
To: Red Bull Chamonix Invitational Committee [email protected]
From: Leo Maxwell [email protected]
CC: Luca Briggs [email protected]
Subject: Withdrawal from Competition
Please accept this email as formal notification of my withdrawal from the upcoming Chamonix Wingsuit Invitational. Due to unforeseen personal commitments and a re-evaluation of priorities, I will not be competing. I wish all participants the best of luck.
Sincerely,
Leo Maxwell
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Before the old Leo, the reckless, adrenaline-fueled bastard, can claw his way back to the surface.
The ‘CC: Luca Briggs’ feels like twisting the knife, but fuck him. If he’s going to find out, he can find out this way.
A wave of something washes over me.
Not relief, not exactly.
Not yet.
But… lightness?
Like a massive fucking weight has been lifted from my chest.
The Chamonix comeback, the grand gesture, the ultimate PR move… it suddenly feels… irrelevant.
Meaningless.
Compared to Mia’s smile. Compared to the tentative hope in Sabrina’s eyes before I crushed it.
This is going to have repercussions for Maxwell & Briggs, of course. Sabrina has been playing up my involvement in Chamonix, at my insistence, so for me to back down now won’t look good.
Investors will be spooked.
My ‘brand’ as the fearless daredevil will take a fatal hit. The media will likely have a field day.
And Luca… good old Luca. Well, he’s going to fucking explode.
I erupt into a hearty belly laugh. I can see his face now when he reads the email. Apoplectic, his face red, his eyes bulging, that big vein throbbing on his forehead and threatening to burst.
But I don’t care. About Luca. About the investor backlash.
Because I’m... free. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever.
Free.
And I’m finally seeing the landscape without the distorting lens of adrenaline or ambition.
I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that the decision to withdrawal isn’t a failure. No matter what Luca might tell me, or the media might write.
It’s a victory.
The only one that actually matters.
My phone rings, almost on cue. The caller ID flashes: Luca Briggs.
Here we go.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself, and answer.
“What the fuck , Leo?” Luca’s voice is a low snarl of simmering fury. “You don’t even have the goddamn courtesy to tell me to my face? You pull out of Chamonix, our fucking title defense , and I find out because you CC me on an email like I’m some fucking intern?”
“It was a personal decision, Luca,” I say, my voice surprisingly calm.
“Personal decision?” he scoffs in contempt. “Since when do you make personal decisions that crater our fucking brand? That make us look like we’ve lost our nerve? This isn’t just about you, Leo! This is Maxwell & Briggs! This is our reputation!”
“My reputation, Luca,” I correct, “is no longer tied to jumping off cliffs. Things have changed.”
“Changed?” he spits the word. “You mean she changed you? That PR chick? The baby? You’re throwing away everything we built, everything you are, for… for that ?”
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
I hear only silence on the other end of the line. I can almost hear him processing.
“You’re a fucking fool, Leo,” he finally says, his voice venomous now. “You’ll regret this. You’ll be bored in six months. You’ll come crawling back to me, begging for the rush. And I won’t be there.”
I don’t bother to answer.
“Fine,” Luca snarls. “You do this, Leo, you actually go through with this… then we’re done. You and me. As partners. This firm… it needs someone with balls. Someone who isn’t afraid to take risks. If that’s not you anymore, then I don’t want you as my partner.”
There it is. The ultimatum. Heavy, final.
The end of an era.
The end of Maxwell & Briggs as we knew it.
I feel a familiar pang of loss, but not regret.
Not this time.
“If that’s the price, Luca,” I tell him, “then that’s the price.”
Another beat of silence.
Then the click of him hanging up.
I stare at my phone.
So there it is.
He’s gone.
Luca.
The last vestige of the old Leo.
The man I built an empire with.
The man who also nearly led me to my own destruction.
I’m not sure when he’ll announce the split. Will he do it direct, through our lawyers? Or through back channels, or via proxy?
I wonder if I should initiate the process myself.
No. No. I can’t bring myself to.
Maybe he’ll change his mind in the morning.
Maybe it’s not the end of an era.
But I know it is.
Did I make the right choice?
The question echoes in the quiet.
Investors will definitely panic. My reputation will be… redefined, to put it mildly.
But then I think of Mia. Her trusting green eyes. Sabrina’s hesitant smile.
And the answer is clear. Undeniable.
Yes. Yes, I did.
This time, I chose the landing.
This is it.
The real fucking leap.
Because I love them. Sabrina. Mia.
Now I just have to figure out how to tell her.