Chapter 24
We're going to fight back
Violet
I rub my temples as Blake disconnects the video call, the PR and legal teams' voices still echoing in my head. Outside the meeting room's floor-to-ceiling windows, Jeddah's neon skyline pulses against the night sky—all flash and dazzle. Inside, my mind races faster than any car on our grid.
The photos.
William mobbed at the airport.
Dominic's smug face floating in my thoughts.
I don't need to be a genius to connect these dots.
"That went well," Blake says, but his tone suggests the opposite.
He leans back in his leather chair, running a hand through his gray hair. His Colton Racing jacket looks almost black in the dim lighting, the team logo catching occasional glints from the city lights outside.
Belforte snorts from across our small round table. "That went as well as a funeral."
He swirls amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before taking a sip. His midnight-blue trousers and crisp white dress shirt with rolled sleeves somehow make him look both dangerously casual and impeccably put together. "Your PR team is good, but this situation calls for... different tactics."
"Different how?" I ask, though I already suspect what's coming.
Belforte leans forward, blue eyes gleaming.
"I know people who could pay Harrington a visit.
Nothing too dramatic." He gestures vaguely with his glass.
"Maybe his car breaks down in an inconvenient location.
Maybe his phone starts getting strange messages at 3 AM.
Maybe he finds fish wrapped in newspaper on his—"
"Silas," Blake interrupts, eyes wide. "We are not in The Godfather."
"Shame," Belforte says, not looking remotely apologetic. "I even have the perfect suit for it. I’m a big fan of the movies, you know?"
A laugh escapes me—sharp and unexpected. Both men turn to look at me.
"What?" Belforte asks, eyebrow raised.
"I appreciate the creativity," I say, smoothing the lapels of my linen suit, "but I think we should save the movie tactics for... well, movies."
"You have a better idea?" Belforte asks, leaning back in his chair. "Because last I checked, Dominic is still breathing clean air instead of choking on his own—"
"Yes," I cut in before he can finish that colorful thought. "I have a better idea."
Blake's eyes narrow with interest. "What are you thinking, Violet?"
I take a sip of water, gathering my thoughts. "We're going to talk to him."
"Talk?" Belforte repeats, like I've suggested we try communicating with Dominic via interpretive dance. "You tried talking at Vortex HQ, remember? He was as useful as a rock on the sidewalk. No—less useful. At least you can throw a rock at something."
I smile. "We're going to talk to him differently this time."
"How so?" Blake asks, clearly not following.
I cross my legs as a plan crystallizes. "Dominic loves games. He loves manipulation and pressure and watching people squirm. He gets off on it." I pause, letting my words sink in. "So we're going to play his game, but better."
Belforte's expression shifts from skepticism to curiosity. His lips curve into a slow smile. "Go on."
"He leaked those photos to create chaos. To destabilize William, to distract me, to throw the team off-balance before Jeddah." I count off the objectives on my fingers. "He wants us reacting, not acting."
"So what's the counter-play?" Belforte asks, elbows propped on the table, now fully engaged.
"We hit him where it hurts. Publicly. In front of the people whose opinions he actually cares about."
"The other Team Principals?" Blake guesses.
"No." I shake my head. "His sponsors."
Belforte's eyes widen slightly. Then he laughs—a rich, genuine sound. "Oh, I get it. And I like it." He raises his glass in a mock toast, excitement radiating from him. "Hit the bastard in his wallet."
Blake's forehead creases. "I'm not sure I follow."
"Dominic loves his reputation as F1's puppet master," I explain. "But his sponsors don't pay him millions to play dirty politics. They pay him to win races and present a certain image. Well, he’s not winning races this season, so…"
"So you'll... what? Tell his sponsors he leaked private photos?" Blake sounds doubtful. "That's a serious accusation without proof."
"I don't need to accuse him of anything," I reply. "He’s going to tell me about it while we have a very cordial conversation with him about 'unfortunate media misunderstandings.' And let’s say… the sponsors happen to hear it in some way…"
Belforte's smile turns predatory. "Last time I checked, sponsors have strict morality clauses in their sponsorship contracts."
"Exactly." I tap my fingers on the polished table. "And he will have representatives attending the race weekend."
The plan unfolds in my mind like a race strategy—each move anticipated, each counter accounted for. I need to nip this problem at the source before it grows from mere annoyance to career-ending. For me. For William. For everything we've built.
"That's only part of it," I add. "I'm also going to talk with Chairman Reeves about what happened."
Blake sits up straighter. "The board? Are you sure that's wise? They're probably going ballistic right now with these rumors."
"That's precisely why I need to address it head-on," I reply. "I'm going to be honest with Reeves and ask for the board's support."
Belforte whistles low. "Takes balls of steel to face that firing squad directly." He raises his glass again. "I'm impressed."
"Even if they don’t like me much, the board respects transparency," I say, though I'm not entirely convinced of this myself. "If I try to hide or downplay this, it only gives the rumors more power."
Blake fidgets with his cuff. "And if they ask about the nature of your relationship with William?"
The question hangs in the air. What is the nature of our relationship? Complex. Evolving. Beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
"Then I'll be honest without giving them details they don't need," I say carefully. "My personal life is my own, but I'll assure them that nothing compromises my professional judgment, or the team's operations."
Belforte nods approvingly. "The board can be a pain in the ass, but they're not stupid.
They've seen the results. The team's performing better than it has in years. Last time I talked with Amelia Chen, she was saying she liked what you were doing. She’s usually a pain to deal with during board meetings, mind you. "
"They're still a factor we need to consider," I remind him. "While you're our most important investor—"
"Most important!" Belforte preens, adjusting his collar with exaggerated pride. "Did you hear that, Blake? I'm the most important."
I roll my eyes, but I can't help smiling. For someone with his background, Belforte has an almost childlike need for affirmation sometimes.
"Yes, you're very important," I say dryly. "But the board still holds significant power. They can become a thorn in our side if they feel blindsided."
Belforte leans forward, suddenly serious. "You know, Violet, you should really consider buying the team for yourself." He says this casually, as if suggesting I pick up milk on the way home. "Cut out the middlemen."
I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my ears. "I'm not that rich, Silas."
"Yet," he adds with a wink. "Not that rich yet."
I don't respond, but his words touch a dream I've barely allowed myself to acknowledge.
To own Colton Racing outright. To rebuild what my father created into something wholly mine.
To make the team self-sufficient, successful, culturally strong, and one hundred percent privately owned.
By me. But that's a fantasy for another day, when we're not dealing with leaked photos and media frenzies.
"One step at a time," I murmur, more to myself than to them.
Blake checks his watch. "William and James should be arriving any minute. What do you want to tell them about our approach?"
"Everything," I say without hesitation. "William deserves to know the full plan. This affects him as much as it does me."
Belforte nods, then gestures toward me with his now-empty glass. "You know what I like about you, Violet? You don't flinch. Most people in this paddock talk big but crumble when the pressure comes. You get calmer, more focused."
"High praise from a man who used to break kneecaps for a living," Blake mutters.
"Hey!" Belforte looks genuinely offended. "We need to stop this rumor. I never broke kneecaps. That's so cliché." He pauses. "Other body parts, sure, but never kneecaps. The noise irks me."
Blake pales slightly, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
The dynamic between these two men—one a former enforcer turned Consiglieri for the Sbagliare family now on sabbatical, the other a lifelong professional always connected to motorsports who most likely never got a parking ticket—never fails to amuse me.
"While you both have very different approaches," I say diplomatically, "I value having you as my advisors. My Dad always said a good leader surrounds themselves with people who think differently."
"Frederick was a wise man," Blake says softly.
Would he be proud of how I'm handling this? I think he would. He never ran from a fight, and neither will I.
"So the plan," Belforte recaps, "is to confront Dominic publicly but politely, where his sponsors can be within earshot, making him squirm without actually accusing him of anything.
Then be transparent with the board to get ahead of the rumors.
" He nods approvingly. "Clean, effective, and no bodies to dispose of. I like it."
"Thank you for your restraint," I say dryly.
"For you, anything," he replies with a theatrical bow of his head. "Though my offer stands if you change your mind. I know a guy who knows a guy who—"
The door opens, cutting off whatever dubious connection Belforte was about to share.
William walks in with James close behind.
My heart does that stupid little jump it always does when I see him, but it immediately sinks when I register his expression.
He looks frustrated, worried, and exhausted. James doesn't look much better.
"Welcome to the war room," Belforte says, raising his empty glass. "We were just finalizing our battle plans."
William locks eyes with mine immediately, searching, questioning. In that moment, I wish everyone else would disappear, so I could just hold him, tell him we'll get through this. But that's not an option right now.
Instead, I straighten in my chair and gesture to the empty seats. "Perfect timing. We have a lot to discuss."
As William moves to sit beside me, I catch his hand briefly, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go. A small gesture, almost imperceptible, but his eyes soften slightly in response.
Message received. We're in this together. And we're going to fight back.