Chapter 13 #3
"Your car barely functions," I continue, gaining momentum.
"Farrant's been complaining to every journalist who'll listen about understeer issues, but somehow, he still wins due to sheer talent.
Kikuchi hasn't had a podium in eight races, and now you're trying to replace him.
First with William, now with EJ. Instead of addressing those core problems, you're orchestrating elaborate schemes to poach my eighteen-year-old driver who just graduated from F3. When he’s visiting his family.
On Christmas day." I shake my head with deliberate pity.
"Desperate tactics from a desperate man. "
"Careful, Violet." His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You're overplaying a very weak hand."
"Am I?" I cock my head, studying him like a curious specimen.
"EJ won't leave Colton. You know why? Because we offer what you can't—development, mentorship, patience, a genuine chance to grow without the suffocating pressure of immediate performance.
Vortex destroys young drivers. The paddock knows it. EJ knows it. Everyone knows it."
Dominic laughs, the sound hollow and forced. "Quite the speech. Practice it on the way over, did you? Perhaps Foster helped you rehearse between—"
"Our simulator data shows a three-second improvement over last season," I interrupt, refusing to let him drag the conversation back to personal territory.
"New aerodynamic package, upgraded power unit.
Belforte's investment has transformed our development capabilities.
" The lie slides from my lips with surprising ease—the improvements are closer to one-and-a-half seconds, but Dominic doesn't need to know that.
"How's Vortex's development coming along?
Still struggling with porpoising? Such a basic engineering challenge. "
His nostrils flare slightly—confirmation I've hit another nerve. "Your little technological fairy tales don't impress me."
"They're not meant to impress you. They're meant to beat you." I move toward the door, my point made. "Next time you want to waste my time, at least have the courtesy of doing it on a workday or on track."
"Running back to your farmhouse rendezvous?" His voice drips with contempt. "Or perhaps to your mafia benefactor? Tell me, does Belforte know you're sleeping with your driver, or is he too busy laundering money through your failing team?"
I turn, one hand on the doorknob. "You're pathetic, Dominic. Truly pathetic. Resorting to playground taunts because you can't compete on merit." I shake my head. "I'm done playing nice with you. Absolutely done."
"Ooh, I'm terrified." He mimes shaking with fear, then drops the act with a sneer. "What exactly do you think you can do to me? You have no power. No influence. No respect in the paddock. Just a fading name, and a decrepit team being kept on life support by questionable financing."
"You'll find out exactly what I can do." I yank the door open with enough force to make the hinges protest. "Merry Christmas, Dominic. Enjoy it. It's the last peaceful day you'll have for a very long time."
I stride through the doorway, then slam the door behind me with a crash that reverberates down the empty corridor. My heels strike the floor like hammer blows as I march toward the elevator, back straight, chin high, fury powering every step.
His voice follows me, pitched to carry just far enough. "Your mafia friend won't save you, Violet. Quite the contrary."
I freeze, the words hitting me like ice water. Slowly, I turn back toward his office. Dominic stands in the doorway now, leaning against the frame with calculated casualness, but his eyes are deadly serious.
"What did you say?" My voice barely carries across the distance between us.
"You heard me." His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"Belforte Construction. Such an interesting operation. Would be a shame if certain regulatory bodies took a closer look at their financials and found something they shouldn’t.
Or if journalists started asking questions about why an Italian construction magnate with documented family connections to organized crime is suddenly investing in a struggling British racing team. "
The threat hangs in the air—specific, targeted, and potentially devastating. Not just to Colton Racing, but to Belforte himself. To the partnership that's giving us a fighting chance. This guy is insane.
"You wouldn't dare," I say, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
Dominic merely smiles mockingly and retreats into his office, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounds more final than my angry slam.
I force myself to move, to breathe, to think. One step after another toward the elevator. Don't show weakness. Don't react. Not here, where he might still be watching.
Only inside the elevator, doors closed, mirrored walls reflecting my pale face back at me, do I allow the implications to sink in. Dominic isn't just targeting EJ or me or William. He's going after Belforte—our financial lifeline, our chance at resurrection.
He's going after Colton Racing.
Dominic wants war? Fine. I'll give him one he never saw coming.
No more Team Principal Colton, polite and professional.
No more playing by gentlemen's rules in a sport that abandoned gentlemanly conduct decades ago.
No more restraint.
It's time Dominic remembers what it’s like dealing with a Colton.