Chapter 34 #2
"The doctors are cautiously optimistic," Blake adds. "It looked much worse than it was. The monocoque did its job, even if it separated from the rest of the car."
"A concussion can be dangerous," Belforte interjects, never one to sugarcoat. "And if it's bad enough, when he wakes up, he'll be pissing blood."
Blake winces visibly. "Yes, well... The positive is that it looked more dramatic than it actually was." His expression shifts, curiosity overtaking concern. "But Violet, why would you go after Dominic like that? What were you thinking?"
Belforte finally stops walking, gently lowering me to my feet in a quieter area of the paddock, away from prying eyes. My legs wobble but hold. I lean against the wall of a temporary structure, head spinning slightly.
"That motherfucker must have paid someone from the FIA to tamper with William's car," I say, the words tumbling out through sobs.
"I fucking know it. How else could this happen?
All electronics failing simultaneously? Right after a random inspection?
And then he stands there laughing about it?
That's too many coincidences rolled into one common denominator. "
Blake's expression shifts from shock to doubt to concern. "Violet, that's a serious accusation. Tampering with a car—that's not just unsporting, it's criminal."
"I wouldn’t put that past him. It lines up too perfectly," I insist, wiping at my face with the back of my wrist, smearing blood across my cheek. "Especially after we sued him with that recording. He's cornered. Desperate. This is his revenge."
"Do you have any proof?" Blake asks gently.
"Not yet." My voice hardens. "But I will find it."
Belforte sighs heavily, rubbing his beard. "Violet, you're like a wild cat protecting those you love. I understand that—respect it, even. But this..." He gestures vaguely toward Vortex Racing's motorhome in the distance. "This may have been too far."
"I don't care." The numbness is fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing anger. "He hurt William. He could have killed him. He could have done this to EJ, too."
"If what you're saying is true," Blake says, emphasizing the "if," "then there are proper channels. Investigations. Evidence. Not... public assault in front of half the paddock."
The reality of what I've done begins to sink in. The cameras. The witnesses. The inevitable headlines. The potential damage to Colton Racing's reputation, to our lawsuit against Dominic, and to my own career.
"There will be consequences," Belforte says, echoing my thoughts. His voice is gentle but firm.
"I know." The words taste bitter.
"Was it worth it?" Blake asks quietly.
I think of Dominic's smug face transformed by shock, then pain. The satisfying crunch of his nose under my fist. The blood on his pristine white shirt. "Yes," I say without hesitation. "I'd do it again."
Belforte's lips quirk in a half-smile, gone so quickly I almost miss it. "That's my girl," he murmurs, too low for Blake to hear.
Blake sighs, running a hand through his hair. "We need to get ahead of this. I'll call our PR team, have them prepare a statement. Maybe we can frame it as... I don't know, emotional distress after witnessing a traumatic accident involving our driver."
"Don't bother," I say, fatigue settling into my bones. "I'm not apologizing for this. Not to the media, not to the FIA, and certainly not to Dominic."
"Violet—"
"No." My voice is steady now, determined. "This is not a matter of being emotional about one point. He's been terrorizing us for months. Leaking photos. Manipulating the media. And now this? There's a line, Blake. He’s not tiptoeing, he fucking crossed it and has been taunting us since."
Belforte steps forward, gently examining my bloodied knuckles. "These need cleaning," he says, deliberately changing the subject. "And you need to sit down before you fall down."
He's right. The adrenaline has completely drained from my system, leaving me shaky and weak. I ran like a maniac wearing high heels. The cuts on my arms and hands throb in time with my heartbeat. My head pounds with the beginning of what promises to be a spectacular migraine.
"I messed up," I admit quietly.
"No," Belforte says, surprising me. "You showed that bastard that actions have consequences. That's valuable." He pauses. "Expensive, potentially career-damaging, but valuable."
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me, quickly transforming into a sob. "What am I going to do?"
"First," Blake says pragmatically, "we get your hands cleaned up. Then we face whatever comes next. Together."
The FIA's conference room resembles a courtroom—sterile and judgmental.
I sit straight-backed in an uncomfortable chair, facing three stewards whose expressions give nothing away.
My knuckles throb beneath hastily applied bandages, blood already seeping through the white gauze.
Across the table sits Dominic, his face a masterpiece of calculated victimhood—split lip prominently displayed, handkerchief occasionally dabbing at the crusted blood around his nose.
He's playing his role perfectly. Poor, innocent Team Principal, viciously attacked by an unstable woman.
The irony would be laughable if the stakes weren't so high. The only thing missing is the wheelchair, and he’ll have the "rich criminal is not guilty" starter kit ready.
"Ms. Colton, do you deny physically assaulting Mr. Harrington?" The chief steward's tone is clipped, formal.
"I do not." My voice is steady despite the fury still simmering beneath my skin.
"And do you have an explanation for this behavior, which violates numerous FIA codes of conduct regarding sportsmanship and appropriate paddock behavior?"
Dominic's eyes meet mine across the table, a smirk playing at the edges of his damaged lips. He thinks he's won. Maybe he has.
"I believe Mr. Harrington tampered with William Foster's car, resulting in the crash that nearly killed my driver." The accusation hangs in the air, bold and dangerous.
The stewards exchange glances.
"I saw him laughing while replaying footage of a crash that could have been fatal," I continue, cutting through the objection. "After months of harassment, threats, and undermining tactics against our team, this was a step too far."
"Do you have evidence of this tampering?" the female steward asks, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp.
"Not yet," I admit. "But the timing—"
"Then these are merely allegations," the chief steward interrupts. "Serious ones that would require their own investigation, but allegations nonetheless. They do not justify physical violence."
Dominic shifts, wincing theatrically. "If I may," he says, voice carefully modulated to sound pained.
"I understand Ms. Colton is distressed about her driver's accident.
We all are. Safety is paramount in our sport.
But her behavior was not only unprofessional—it was dangerous.
She attacked me without warning, through a glass door.
" He touches his face gingerly. "I could have been seriously injured. "
The hypocrisy nearly chokes me. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles screaming in protest.
"We cannot condone violence in any form," the chief steward says, looking directly at me. "Regardless of provocation or emotional distress."
I already know what's coming. Can see it in their expressions, in the way they've arranged their papers, in Dominic's barely contained satisfaction.
Blake and Belforte wait outside, their expressions telling me they already know the verdict. Blake reaches for my arm; a gesture of solidarity that nearly breaks the composure I'm desperately maintaining.
The door opens behind me. Dominic passes close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne, mingled with antiseptic from his treated wounds. He pauses, gaze sliding to mine.
"Such a shame about your driver," he says, voice dripping with false sympathy. "And now you can't even support him trackside. How... unfortunate."
Belforte steps forward, blocking Dominic's path.
He leans in close, speaking rapid Italian that I can't follow completely.
But the tone needs no translation—it's a pure, elegant threat, delivered with the casual confidence of a man who knows exactly how to back it up.
Dominic's face pales slightly beneath his bruises.
Without waiting for a response, Belforte turns, taking my arm firmly. "We're leaving," he says, guiding me away.
"What was the verdict?" Blake asks as he slides next to me.
"I'm suspended from paddock attendance for six races, effective immediately. Colton Racing will be fined two hundred thousand euros. We can’t appeal any of it," I say as I avoid his gaze.
Blake sighs and clicks his tongue in frustration. "I can understand the suspension, but the fine… That’s… excessive."
"That fucking asshole did something to William's car," I say once we're out of earshot. "But how can I prove it? They've probably destroyed any evidence by now."
"You can't accuse someone of sabotage without proof," Blake says, his voice gentle but firm. "Especially not now, when you've already been sanctioned."
"So he gets away with it?" I demand, stopping in my tracks. "He potentially tries to kill my driver and walks away clean while I'm banned from the paddock?"
"For now," Belforte says, his voice surprisingly calm. "But patience is a virtue, Violet. And revenge is a dish best served cold. Believe me, that guy will get his comeuppance."
I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. "I'm staying in Monaco," I decide. "I need to see William when he wakes up."
"I'll cancel your flight tickets," Blake says immediately. "No sense wasting the money."
"No." I shake my head. "Give them to EJ and Maya. Let them fly back to the UK in comfort—they deserve it." I glance at my watch. "The race will resume soon. They should focus on that first."
Blake nods, already pulling out his phone. "I'll let Maya know. She'll appreciate the upgrade." He steps away to make the call to change ticket details with the airline, leaving me alone with Belforte.
"Come," he says simply. "Let's get you somewhere quiet."
He guides me through back routes to avoid the media circus that's undoubtedly formed, bringing me to Colton Racing's motorhome and up to my private office.
The familiar space mirrors a sanctuary after the chaos of the last hours.
Belforte sits me on the small sofa facing my desk, then locates the First-Aid kit.
"This isn't right," I say as he kneels before me, gently taking the soaking bandages off and cleaning my split knuckles. "How could someone sabotage us like this? Is this the 70s again, when teams would tamper with each other's cars?"
Belforte works methodically, his massive, calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he applies antiseptic. "When someone is cornered, they do unpredictable, desperate things," he says. "This feels like obsession and panic, if it is indeed Dominic behind it."
"It's not if," I insist. "It's definitely him."
He looks up, eyes serious. "Then we find proof. But carefully. Methodically. Not with fists."
"Says the man who kicked him in the stomach," I point out.
A smile flickers across his face. "That was... an emotional response. I'm not proud of it." His expression suggests otherwise.
"Violet, you should go back to the hotel," Belforte says firmly. "Take a shower. Rest. Then go to the hospital and be there when William wakes up." He wraps my knuckles in fresh bandages. "Let me handle the investigation."
"Your methods?" I ask cautiously. "With all due respect, Silas, but I don’t want anyone killed."
He laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the quiet room.
"Says the woman who nearly beat Dominic to death with her bare hands. You’re the one who’s dangerous.
" He finishes with my bandages, sitting back on his heels.
"I have connections. People who can look into things discreetly.
Leave it to me. Blake will request that an investigation be open. "
I nod, too exhausted to argue. "Thank you."
He stands, extending a hand to help me up. "We should get you a taxi. The race will restart soon, and the paddock will be crowded."
As we gather my things, a strange calm settles over me. Six races away from the paddock. Away from my team, my responsibilities. It should feel like punishment, like defeat. Instead, it feels like clarity. Time to focus on what matters most—William's recovery and exposing Dominic's crimes.
"He thinks he's won," I say as we head for the exit.
Belforte glances down at me, one eyebrow raised. "Has he?"
"No," I answer, determination hardening my voice. "He has no idea what's coming."