18. Santo
“Santo, are you listening to me?” Nikos demanded, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the Spa-Francorchamps paddock.
The pre-race energy was palpable. The scent of high-octane fuel mingling with hot rubber and metal, mechanics’ tools clanging against carbon fiber, and the distant roar of engines warming up for earlier heats. The legendary Belgian circuit hummed with anticipation.
I adjusted my racing gloves, the custom-fitted leather squeaking against my palms. “Of course,” I answered irritably, eyes fixed on the telemetry data scrolling across the monitor. “I’ve heard every word you said.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like it,” Nikos shot back, his clipboard slapping against his thigh. “Seems like you’ve got your head up your ass these last couple of weeks.”
It was true. Tia’s return date to the U.S. loomed, and despite countless conversations, we’d reached no resolution about whether she would relocate to Greece.
As desperately as I longed to follow her to America, the ironclad contract I’d signed to secure her the architectural contract explicitly prohibited it. I now regretted that clause with every fiber of my being.
She wasn’t even gone yet, but I already felt the separation like a physical wound, deepening with each sunset we watched together, knowing we had one fewer ahead of us.
The thought of existing through phone calls and video chats felt like accepting breadcrumbs after feasting at a banquet.
How could digital approximations possibly replace the warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips?
The vibration of her laughter against my chest when I held her close?
The complex, intoxicating scent of her hair when I buried my face in it ?
I was a man watching his oxygen supply dwindle, counting down the remaining breaths, having discovered what it truly meant to breathe only after two and a half months in her presence.
Through the bustling crowd of mechanics and officials, I spotted Juan fucking Vasquez. My nemesis on and off the track, his crimson racing suit a splash of blood against the white of his team’s garage area.
He must have sensed my glare because he looked up, dark eyes finding mine across the crowded space. His lips curved into the same smirk plastered across motorsport magazines worldwide. He lifted his hand in a lazy, mocking wave.
My fingers curled into a fist and I flipped him the bird. I turned away, the carbon fiber floor vibrating beneath my racing boots as I stalked toward my car.
“Ten minutes, Santo!” my race engineer called after me.
I nodded curtly, but I’d barely taken five steps when Juan’s voice carried over the noise.
“Christakis! Heard you’ve got a new toy!” His accent made the taunt sound almost musical. “Is she as dirty as they say?”
I froze, every muscle coiling tight. Slowly, I turned back. “What did you just say? ”
“Everyone’s talking about the STD she gave you. When you’re done with your charity case, give her my number.” His smile was vicious. “I like them dirty, and she looks like she gives good—”
My fist was already moving toward his face when strong hands grabbed me from behind, pulling me back. Juan was similarly restrained, laughing as officials rushed between us.
“Tell Tia to call me when she stops faking!” he called out as he was dragged away.
I struggled against my team’s grip, blind with rage. “Let me go! I’ll fucking kill him!”
“Not worth it,” Nikos hissed in my ear as I struggled against his grip. “Beat him on the track where it matters.”
Juan straightened his suit, laughing. “See you out there, Christakis. Try to keep up.”
As they dragged me away, the race director approached, his expression thunderous. One more incident and I’d be disqualified before the race even began.
“Focus,” I muttered to myself, forcing deep breaths as I climbed into my car. The custom-molded seat embraced me like an old friend, the cockpit closing around me in a protective shell.
The moment the lights went green, it was clear Juan was gunning for me.
His car appeared in my mirrors constantly, probing for weaknesses, diving into corners with reckless aggression.
The Belgian forest blurred into green streaks as we thundered through Eau Rouge, my body compressing under the G-forces.
We were locked in a lethal ballet across the undulating circuit—aggressive overtaking through Les Combes, late braking into the Bus Stop chicane, endless attempts to push the boundaries of what was legal. I gave as good as I got, refusing to yield even a centimeter to that asshole.
As we screamed down the Kemmel Straight at over 330 km/h, I enjoyed the fantasy of seeing his car careen off the track and, if I was lucky, burst into flames. But I needed to beat him fair and square. For myself. For Tia watching from the stands.
Three hours later, after a grueling battle that left us both physically drained, the checkered flag waved. I’d managed to edge him out by mere tenths of a second, and the victory tasted sweeter than honey.
I skated to a stop, unbuckled my seatbelt and leaped from the car, immediately swarmed by everyone from my pit crew to my trainers to the media. The flash of cameras blinded me, and the voices threatened to drown me.
Juan stood a few meters away, glowering at me, furious at being bested. I didn’t give a shit about being the gracious winner or offering to shake hands .
Reporters peppered me with questions and my crew clapped me on the back, eager for the chance to dissect every stage of the race as we always did. But I simply did not have the time.
Winning should feel good. It should feel like everything, but not right now. Not until I saw her.
I began to shoulder my way through the crowd, searching for Tia, but Dimitrios found me before I could get very far, seizing me and dragging me into a bear hug.
“Congratulations, nephew. That was a race to behold!”
I hugged him back briefly, already trying to extricate myself when Konstantin appeared, his usually stoic face split by a smile I hadn’t seen since he’d been shot two years ago. He pulled me into a surprisingly powerful embrace.
“Masterful driving,” he said, his formal tone at odds with the warmth of his hug. “Your control through Eau Rouge was perfect.”
I nodded my thanks, but before I could break away, my father shouldered past both men and extended his hand formally, as though we were concluding a business meeting rather than celebrating my victory.
“Good job,” he said somberly, his expression relaxed .
I shook his hand, but my attention wasn’t on him. I craned my neck past his shoulder, scanning the VIP section for the only face I truly wanted to see. For Tia.
Instinctively, my father understood, and pulled me aside. “She and Kayla are in the ladies’ room,” my father told me, but before I could move, he added, “There’s something you should know.”
He regaled me with details of the entire scene that had taken place at the VIP lounge, starting with the general nastiness from Katalina and her friends and the way Tia had stood up to them.
I became angry, already plotting ways to have Katalina disappear from our lives forever. It was borderline harassment at this point, and I’d press the lawyers to go after her.
And then Demitrios told me of Tia’s encounter with the shithead who’d approached her with his nasty proposition. The man had apparently been sent by Katalina. I felt my blood begin to steam.
“Where is he now?” I demanded.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Konstantin said.
“When have I ever heeded that advice?” I asked him.
Then I spotted Katalina across the crowded lounge, her face twisted with malice. At the same moment I saw Tia. My Tia, working her way back through the crush of bodies, her figure almost gliding .
Beautiful and composed on the outside—a queen among commoners—but I saw stiffness around her eyes. She was hurt, wounded in some way, even though she was doing everything in her power not to let it show.
Without conscious thought, I pushed my way through the crowd, ignoring the startled exclamations and spilled champagne in my wake. I reached her just as she was about to disappear into another section of the VIP area.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Konstantin intercept Kayla. His hand touched her elbow, drawing her attention away from Tia and toward him.
The looks they exchanged spoke volumes. Something significant had changed in the last month. At any other moment, I would have been intrigued by this unexpected development, but right now, I could focus on nothing but Tia.
I grasped her shoulders, turning her to face me, then cupped her face in both hands. She looked surprised to see me.
“Santo! I thought you’d be with your team—”
I silenced her with a kiss, not giving a damn who saw or what they thought. Three days of longing, of physical separation, poured into that single moment of connection. I tasted champagne on her lips, felt her body yielding to mine.
“You won,” she whispered, when we finally broke apart .
“I had something worth winning for,” I replied, pulling her against me again, inhaling her scent. “I love you, aggelé mou.”
“I love you too, Chrys.”
Gradually, I became aware of the crowd forming around us. The members of the press corps that had followed me in from the racetrack were jostling for position, their cameras raised.
I heard the rapid-fire click of shutters, saw the blinding flashes reflecting off the glass and chrome fixtures of the lounge. All eyes were upon us, a hundred gazes burning into my back, and I knew those images would be transmitted around the world before the night was over.
I was happy about that and dropped to one knee. I kept my face tilted upward so my eyes never deviated from her face, making sure she could see me and nothing but me in this moment that would define our future.
Around us, gasps echoed and flashbulbs exploded, but I paid them no mind. This was something I needed to do, and nobody in the world was going to distract me from doing it.
Tia’s lips parted, and she began to shake her head. Her fingers came up to touch her lips and I knew she was overwhelmed.
A single tear escaped, tracking a glistening path down her cheek. But at least she didn’t run. That was a good sign .
There’d be people who thought this was too soon, that I was being hasty. My father would be furious. Racing sponsors would question my focus. But I was always audacious, on and off the track.
The difference was now, for the first time, I was absolutely certain about what I wanted. Right now, I didn’t give a damn about anything but the woman before me.
“I’ve raced all over the world, aggelé mou, but every finish line leads me back to you. You’re my victory, my championship, my everything.” My voice carried clearly through the sudden, breathless silence falling over the crowd. “Marry me.”
I slid the ring onto her finger, watching the diamonds sparkle. The world had narrowed to just her face, her eyes, and we were completely alone despite the crowded lounge surrounding us.
“Tia?” I whispered, hearing the uncertainty in my voice. “Angel, you haven’t answered me.”
She remained silent. A camera flashed nearby, its shutter sounding unnaturally loud in the expectant silence. I’d never felt this exposed. Not even standing on podiums before millions.
“Take your time,” I said, still balancing on one knee and holding her hand. “I’d wait forever for you.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. The longer she hesitated, the more doubt crept in .
Had I miscalculated? Moved too quickly?
When she finally inhaled, it felt like thunder to my ears.
“I love you, Chrys,” she said, and I felt hope move through me. She took another deep breath, and then added, her voice clear enough for all to hear, “Yes, I will marry you.”
Relief and joy exploded within me, and I stood to my feet, embracing her in my arms. I captured her lips, pouring every ounce of promise I had into that kiss.
“You mean it?” I whispered against her mouth when we finally broke apart, needing one final confirmation. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure,” she replied, throwing my own words back at me with that smile that always undid me completely. “I want forever with you, Chrysanthos Christakis.”