Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Crowds are queued up outside the Monza circuit’s security gate as Sarah, Delaney, and I navigate to the Paddock Club’s staff entrance. Delaney swipes us in just as someone recognizes me—so Sarah grabs my hand and yanks me through the doorway into the dark interior. There’s a flight of dimly lit stairs up to a side kitchen, and as we silently walk by the lit-up doorway, I hear chefs already grumbling about the clientele’s menu. Grouse served over parmesan risotto, chicken Milanese, something with a pheasant; the scent of meat and wine is thick in the air. Only the best for these very important people.
Then we’re out on the dazzling sunlit balcony of the Paddock Club. The breeze dances with the musical buzz of refined chatter and anachronistic techno, and I scan the well-dressed crowd for our target. White blouses. Linen pants. So many watches.
There he is.
For a moment, I have to remind myself to keep standing as my anxiety rears its ugly head again. This is a downright crazy plan. Bonkers. Maybe not entirely legal.
Then I glance at my friends. Sarah on my right, Delaney on my left, and a switch flips inside me. I’m far from alone this morning. Whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out.
Together, the three of us walk over to Holmes Bianco.
He’s seated next to Bob at a slim white cocktail table on the far corner of the patio, dressed in his typical race-weekend Ignition polo and slacks—perfectly inconspicuous. When Holmes spots me, his gaze returns to his glass of whiskey, then snaps back up and widens.
I smile. “Hi, mind if we join you?”
Bob laughs incredulously to Holmes. “You know these little ladies?” When he stands to greet us, the sun hits the oversized eagle-shaped belt buckle cinching his tight button-down. He’s a soft man, corn-fed and smiley, probably in his late fifties.
Seeming to realize he better play Southern hospitality if he wants to stay in Bob’s good graces, Holmes stands to greet us, too. “Lilah, I didn’t think we’d see each other again,” he says tightly. “And in the Paddock Club. What a surprise.”
My pulse drums in my throat. “I was hoping I could take you up on your offer.”
Holmes cocks his head. “Which one?”
“Texas Hold’em.” I let my eyes fall, going for dejected youth . “This might be the last time I get to play you.”
Right on cue, Sarah squeezes in closer to my side and whispers to Holmes from behind a cupped hand, “Arthur and her had a big fight.”
“Oh! You.” Bob points at me, evidently none the wiser that I was at his wedding last night. To be fair, there were a lot of people. “You’re the girl dating my race-car driver, aren’t you? The little thing from Kentucky. I have to say, you’ve caused quite the commotion—and I’m sure you’ve gotten an earful, but I don’t care about all this human resources crap.” He laughs. “You all work for me?”
We nod.
Bob grins. “Well, aren’t I blessed? Come sit down.”
I sit next to Bob, Delaney taking his other side. Sarah flanks Holmes, just like we’d planned. “So, you know how to play poker?” Bob starts as he waves over a cocktail waitress and orders a round of early-morning champagne. The race is hours from now, though the Paddock Club is already hopping with the special guests allowed in before the rest of the ticket holders, actors and influencers and athletes.
I cross my arms, hoping I look shy. Controllable. “Sure do. My birth mom taught me. She was like you, Holmes. Always looking for another chance to win.”
The waitress sets five fizzling flutes on our table, then flits off, and once she’s gone I sigh out, “I haven’t played since I saw her. But I’d like to see if I can beat you, if you don’t mind.” I slip my hand into my jacket’s pocket and pull out the Bicycle deck I’d bought last night. “Brought my own. Funniest thing, too. I think these were the cards you had last time. And they’re common, for sure, but my birth mom worked at the factory that makes them.”
Holmes’s dark gaze sweeps down to the cards, then up to my face. My heart is pounding so loudly I barely hear the cars looping through the media’s hot laps. Although we have an excellent view of the track here in the Paddock Club, the television over Holmes’s shoulder is better. Subtitles run across the bottom of the screen, the announcers excitedly talking about the weather and track conditions and the best tires for a sunny day in Italy.
“I don’t have time for this. I have to be down at the pit wall,” Holmes scowls out, and it feels so good because I know . I was right to invade his space, walk onto his fancy balcony. He’s furious and curious, just like I knew he would be.
With a frown, I open the deck and set the cards on the low table. “Don’t you want to see if you can win against someone as smart as you?”
It’s a cocky thing to say. Arthur-approved. But damn, does it work. The older man’s face goes from cold intensity to wild surprise, and I have the pleasure of watching him get mad, really mad, before he hides it behind his I’m-so-intelligent smile.
“Oh my God, Lilah, you’re so funny.” Sarah giggles. “Poker is so confusing, I have no idea how to play. Can I be on your team, Uncle Holmes?”
“Yeah, Uncle Holmes. Didn’t you say you wanted to play me today anyway? It’s still my wedding weekend.” Bob takes a long swig of champagne.
Holmes doesn’t say anything for a long minute. “Fine. I’ll deal.”
Bob beams as Holmes snatches the deck and shuffles quickly. Then he’s setting down the cards, two in front of Bob, me, and himself. He pulls a scrap of paper from his inside coat pocket and passes it to Sarah. “We’ll write our bets here. As soon as it’s written down, it’s locked in.”
“You like doing that, don’t you?” I ask him. “Locking things down.”
The first game is a wash. Holmes wins. The men make small talk as I run the numbers in my head. I folded two rounds in, so I’m only down a couple of hundred dollars. The next game is where things start to pick up, the first win going right to Holmes’s head. He finishes his champagne and orders another round, despite nobody else close to being done with theirs.
I stare at my cards, thinking rapidly. Time to kick things up, or else Holmes might scamper away before I can catch him. I have two kings—diamonds and spades—so I may as well go for the jugular. “Hmm… I think I’ll raise to two hundred thousand. It’s no sixty million dollars, but it’s a start.”
Sarah almost snaps her golf pencil in half. “Two… hundred… thousand,” she repeats, scribbling, Bob’s happy laugh drowning out the crowd.
“I love it!” He smirks at Holmes. “Come on, old friend. You gonna let her get away with that?”
A flicker of nervousness crosses Holmes’s face. “Call.”
“Smart move.” My voice shakes, but I’m smiling from ear to ear. Because I know something that Holmes Bianco doesn’t. I know that we sent Max’s audio to Miriam, the FIA, and the Italian authorities this morning. I know that it never mattered who won these rounds of poker, or even out there on the track later, since I’ve only been winding Holmes up until I can get him to confess again, in higher definition. And I know, when I hear footsteps behind me, who’s appeared to play the final hand against his uncle.
“Hey!” Arthur swings onto the sofa beside me. He’s wearing normal jeans, a normal white T-shirt, and that smile I knew would be there, lighting up the whole world. “Anyone in the lead yet?”
It’s quiet. Holmes looks between all of us. Bob, Delaney, Sarah, Arthur, me. “What’s going on? Arthur—where’s your race suit?”
“Great question.” Arthur loops his arm around my middle. “Story starts a long time ago, though. Back when I was a kid named after someone great, who got knocked out by his own family. And back when you were named after one of the smartest men who never existed.” He tilts his head, his smile sharp. “Maybe that’s how I figured it out so fast. I mean, it’s ironic. You crash into me, make it look like a complete accident, and almost do me in? It’s Arthurian as hell.”
Arthur looks at me. “But who’d believe me over you? You’d taught me that I’m reckless, stupid, wild Arthur, and you’re the wonderful, pragmatic Holmes Bianco. So, I kept my thoughts a secret, and all the shit I had to deal with because of them… until her.” He squeezes me close, his nose skimming my cheek, tickling my skin. “She could’ve gone along with the same story everyone knew. She could’ve written me off, sold me for parts. But she didn’t. Because she’s the one thing you never could’ve expected, Uncle—she’s a good person. She never cared if I won or lost. She only wanted me to be happy.”
Bob turns to his old friend, shocked. “Is it true? Back then, here at Monza… did you really…?”
The mask Holmes has worn is gone. He’s a deep angry scarlet, and Sarah moves to squeeze in next to us on our sofa, cringing. “He’s lying. He doesn’t have any proof.” The man throws his cards face down on the table. “Arthur, think critically. It isn’t too late. Go downstairs. Get ready to drive. This is Monza—this is where it happened—and you can’t not drive today.”
“Why?” Arthur asks. “Just curious is all.”
“Because… you need to. I—I can still make you the best driver of your generation,” Holmes stammers. “You need this. If you would’ve been smart enough to learn the lessons I taught you, if you would’ve manned up and stared death in the face like a Bianco—”
“Actually, I think he’s super smart,” I interrupt. “And you still haven’t answered the question about why it’s so important for Arthur to go out there.”
“Shut up!” Holmes yells, and now the Paddock Club has fallen bizarrely silent as the millionaires and models watch the infamously calm Holmes Bianco scream at me. “So what if I did hit him? You’re what’s wrong with Formula 1. Things worked before your type joined. There was order, efficiency. You think you know what’s better for this sport than a man who’s lived it since he was born? You are nothing here. You don’t belong.”
“No, that’s not true. I don’t think I’m what’s wrong with F1.” I don’t know where I find this strength. This power. It doesn’t come from Arthur, or my friends. It’s deep inside of me, like it’s been waiting for this moment, when I could play against Holmes, against my birth mom, against myself, and see that I always win when I stop playing. “You should check out what my company recorded you saying. You remember Max Black, right? Well, he’s really into audio. He’d rigged microphones all around the Paddock Club before we’d met with you the other day. I didn’t even think to look until Arthur bought me the film rights.” It’d been right there beside our love story. Muffled, but there. “I guess it wasn’t that smart to hire a documentary company this summer, huh?”
Holmes explodes. “You conniving, gold-digging—”
Really, there are enough mimosa-gulping witnesses around to watch his meltdown, I don’t need to grab Delaney as security finally rushes over. I do anyway, Arthur shielding us as guards pin Holmes to the concrete floor.
“Did you get that?” I ask her breathlessly.
Delaney nods to the Panasonic camcorder stuffed in her bag. Old school. “Recorded everything.”
“Lilah!”
The bellowing startles us apart. Twisting, I find Holmes staring up at me from the ground, one guard’s boot squarely on his back. “The game. Show me the cards,” he hisses. Red, angry. Desperate not to lose. “Please.”
Slowly, I look at his crappy hand, left behind on the table. Then I think about my own. Might’ve been a stroke of luck—another cosmic joke—but between the cards on the table and my own hand, I have all four kings.
Today could’ve been different. Arthur could’ve spent the morning preparing for another grueling race, shutting away his emotions, climbing into the car, instead of hatching this plan with our friends. And in that other reality, I would’ve tried to understand, since I’m only just learning myself what it’s like to live without pain giving my life meaning.
Luckily, I don’t have to find out how that sadder story goes.
Sidling up to Arthur, I wrap my arm around his waist and smile up at him. “What do you think? Should we show him?”
Arthur looks down at me, humming, pure sunlight in his eyes. “Don’t think we have to. We already know who won here.”