Chapter 16 #2
The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable.
For someone who looks like he could be cast as a Bond villain—particularly hard to get rid of—Belforte speaks with unexpected passion about racing.
Maybe Violet was right when she called him "an awesome guy to have around" in one of our most recent messages.
Still, there's an edge to him that makes me instinctively straighten my posture when he approaches after his short speech.
"William," he says, extending his hand. His grip is firm but not domineering—a businessman's handshake, not a power play. "Your drive in Imola last season was exceptional. Those overtakes, and the gamble with the soft tires? Masterful."
"Thank you, sir." I'm surprised he remembers that specific race—most casual viewers would have focused on the battle for the win, not my scrap for P10. "The car was good to me that day."
"The car is only as good as its driver," Belforte counters, those ice-blue eyes sharp with intelligence. "And please, call me Silas. 'Sir' makes me feel ancient."
Before I can respond, Violet calls for everyone's attention. "Now, what you've all been waiting for." She nods to Blake and Johnson, who move to a covered stand in the corner of the room. "The CR-40."
They pull away the black cloth, revealing a sleek 1:8 scale model of our new car.
My breath catches. It's beautiful—more aggressive than last year's model, with intricate aerodynamic solutions that make the previous version look primitive by comparison.
The livery remains predominantly black, but with striking red and white accents that flow along the sidepods and onto the rear wing.
Belforte Construction's logo features prominently, but doesn't overwhelm the classic Colton Racing identity.
"Holy shit," EJ whispers beside me, then flushes when he realizes people heard him.
Johnson steps forward, tablet in hand. "The aerodynamic concept is completely revised from last season.
We've focused on maximizing underfloor downforce while reducing overall drag by seven percent.
The power unit cooling solution is more efficient, allowing us to run tighter packaging around the rear, and we've completely redesigned the front suspension to improve mechanical grip in slower corners. "
He taps his tablet, and performance projections appear on the wall screen. "Based on our simulations and wind tunnel data, we're looking at a performance gain between 0.8 and 1.5 seconds per lap compared to last year's car."
A ripple of excitement passes through the room. In Formula 1, half a second is significant. 1.5 seconds is transformative. What is this magic?
"That puts us solidly in the midfield," Johnson continues. "With opportunities to fight for top 10 finishes consistently, assuming we execute properly."
I study the model as technical questions flow around me. This is a proper car. A car with potential. A car that won't just be fighting to stay out of last place.
"—William?" Violet's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Your assessment?"
All eyes turn to me; the star driver, the one with a season's experience in the team. "Looks fast as heck on paper now that we've addressed some of last season's problems," I say simply, then add with a smile, "feels like we're done making excuses, and ready to start making statements."
Approving nods around the room. Belforte's eyes crinkle at the corners, satisfaction evident in his expression. Violet's face remains professional, but I catch that tiny quirk of her lips that means she's pleased.
"That's exactly the mentality we need," she agrees. "No more being satisfied with minor victories. This season, we aim higher."
Violet moves gracefully around the conference table, the leather jacket shifting with each gesture. Her demeanor has changed; the excitement about the new car replaced by something harder, more vigilant.
"Before we disperse," she says, her voice dropping slightly, forcing everyone to lean in, "there's another matter we need to address.
" Her eyes meet mine briefly, something unspoken passing between us.
"As some of you know, we faced a significant challenge over the holiday break.
Dominic Harrington attempted to poach EJ using tactics that were.
.." She pauses, selecting her words carefully. "Less than ethical."
The room temperature seems to drop several degrees. Everyone saw the news. EJ shifts uncomfortably in his seat beside me.
"What you may not know," Violet continues, "is that this appears to be part of a larger strategy to destabilize Colton Racing. One that may extend beyond normal paddock rivalries."
Belforte steps forward, his presence suddenly more intimidating than before. "We have reason to believe Dominic is gathering intelligence on this team—on all of us—that goes beyond professional competition."
"What Silas means," Violet translates, hands resting on the back of a chair, "is that there's evidence suggesting Dominic knows details about our operations, our plans, and even our personal lives that he shouldn't have access to. I don’t know how much, but he does."
My stomach tightens. Personal lives. The image of Violet leaving my farmhouse on Christmas morning flashes in my mind. If Dominic knows about us...
Fuck… He does, doesn’t he? Now it all makes sense.
"We're not being paranoid," Violet continues, reading the room's reaction. "Dominic made statements to me directly that indicate he's either employing surveillance, or using paparazzi to be on top of us."
Murmurs spread around the table. Johnson's crimson eyebrows draw together in concern. Blake watches Violet with the steady gaze of someone who's already been briefed.
"I'm not telling you this to alarm you," Violet says, her voice strong and reassuring. "I'm telling you because more than being fast and working as a team on track, we need to be united off track. We're a team, but also a family of sorts. We need to have each other's backs."
Belforte nods. "What happened with EJ may be just the tip of the iceberg. Dominic has already begun insinuating things about my business to regulatory bodies and the press." His cold blue eyes scan the room. "He will likely target others next."
Others. Like a Team Principal having a relationship with her driver. I tighten my grip on the armrest of my chair. My hands are sweaty.
"So what are you saying?" Johnson asks, leaning forward. "That we're all being watched? That someone here is feeding information to Vortex?"
"We're saying it's a possibility we can't ignore," Violet answers. "Last season, I suspected Nicholas, and he turned out to be in cahoots with Dominic. This year, we have a more cohesive and sound team, so I hope we don’t have anyone leaking anything to the competitors." She adjusted her leather jacket. "And if we do… I’ll ensure they’ll regret that forever. We’re building a legacy, so if you’re working against us, you don’t belong here and can leave now. "
The implications sink in around the table. People shift in their seats, glancing at colleagues with new wariness. This is exactly what Dominic wants—doubt, uncertainty, paranoia.
"Remember that we're stronger united than divided," Violet finishes. Her eyes find mine again, something vulnerable flashing behind her professional mask. "Dominic thrives on creating internal conflict. We won't give him that satisfaction."