Chapter 16
SOFIYA
The garage smells of burned rubber, brake dust, and the bitter espresso our mechanics mainline like holy water. Narciso’s fire-engine-red helmet sits on a workbench, visor up, reflecting pit-lane chaos: tyre trolleys rattling, VIP lanyards flashing and grid girls fluttering like tropical birds.
My baby brother bounces on the balls of his feet, race suit half-zipped to the waist and Nomex peeled to reveal a shirt stamped with our team’s snarling stallion. He’s vibrating as he always does before lights-out. But today his energy keeps ricocheting towards me.
‘Quit staring,’ I mutter, adjusting the comms earpiece Stefano insisted I wear ‘for emergencies only’. As if he could stop one if it walked up and jammed a butt plug up his ass.
Narciso smirks, his peroxide-dyed curls plastered to his forehead. ‘Tough. You look possessed. Figured I’d keep an eye on the demon in the family.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Fine means you haven’t threatened anyone in fifteen minutes. You barked at the tyre engineer, nearly took off the data guy’s head, and drank three espressos back-to-back – without sugar. That’s illegal in Italy, sis.’
I snap the Velcro on his glove tighter than necessary. ‘Then it’s a good thing we’re not in Italy, isn’t it? Focus on Turn One. Dust line’s worse than last year.’
He winces at the glove, then catches my wrist. ‘Sof, what’s going on? You’ve never given me race advice before. Fuck, I didn’t even know you liked racing.’
The nickname digs under my ribcage – only he and Maddie still use it. My throat feels raw. I slept maybe two hours, woke to an empty suite.
Rafa was gone, not even a note.
Only a coded text sent at dawn.
Take care of your engine today, bedda. Mine’s running hot and heavy.
Nothing since. No filthy promise to finish what we started.
And because I’m apparently insane, that absence slices deeper than it should. Nothing has changed – the man still intends to spill my family’s blood – but my stomach knots because he didn’t stay for breakfast?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Narciso’s grip tightens, dark eyes searching. ‘Did Pops say something? Is Nonno—’
‘Concentrate!’ I hiss. ‘You’re a couple of dozen points off the championship lead – drive like it. We can’t keep letting the fucking Salvatores win every fucking thing.’ There’s more acid in my tone than I intended.
He flinches, surprised.
We don’t snap at each other. Not ever.
Guilt prickles, but before I can soften, his engineer signals helmet-on. Narciso releases my wrist, slides the helmet down, and climbs into the cockpit.
His engine fires, a banshee shriek as he drives out, drowning whatever apology I was scrambling for.
I retreat behind the garage wall and watch the cars snake to the start boxes.
Renzo’s matte-green and black Salvatore Furia on pole, Narciso P3 behind Dante’s identical chassis.
Salvatore versus Mancinelli – every camera salivates, gagging for a repeat of the violence that’s always bubbling beneath our surface.
The next fifteen minutes whistle by in a technicolour of frantic preparation.
Then the grid clears.
The canyon of grandstands vibrates with anthem static.
Five red lights bloom.
My pulse syncs with their glow – one, two, three – Rafa’s hand on my jaw – four – his mouth between my thighs – five—
Lights out.
Twenty turbo-charged V6 hybrid engines detonate.
Renzo rockets clear. Dante covers inside and slides into his twin’s sweet slipstream. Narciso darts left, wheel to wheel with a Mercedes before Sainte-Dévote. I want to shout into the pit noise, but it’s pointless.
Laps blur, the inevitable carbon shards at Mirabeau, yellow flag in the tunnel and pit cycles rolling mid-field. I analyse sector deltas like it means something when I have very little clue, fake calm for the crew, but inside I’m a churn of caffeine and… aching.
Every crackle of team-radio static reminds me of Rafa’s laugh. Every downshift pop ricochets like the thump of his heart against mine last night when he helped me overcome my adrenaline fever.
How is it possible to miss someone programmed to destroy you?
Lap 72, Renzo still leads.
Narciso trails in third by just one second, his teammate by a whole seven seconds. But Dante’s brakes are fading. Narciso might finish second with luck, although I know Dante won’t give up first place without a fight. Monaco is the holy fucking grail for an F1 driver.
Second and seventh aren’t bad results if not.
It should thrill me. Instead I’m hollowed out, so distracted I nearly miss Renzo’s victory radio scream. He crosses the line; confetti cannons fire and Monaco roars.
Dante, the little shit, managed to nurse his tyres into second place.
The Salvatores have won again. Fuck.
The team erupts in forced cheer and resigned back slaps for not at least performing worse. I drag myself out into the pit lane, and no, I don’t search the crowd for Rafa.
Instead I clap, pasting on my own smile, but my chest aches like a bruise. Narciso parks in parc fermé, climbs out and tugs his helmet off.
He finds me instantly, delivers a tentative grin. I nod, apology tucked behind my teeth, and he seems to accept it.
While cameras flash, my phone buzzes. Unknown number – no, encrypted scramble I recognise now without thinking.
Wheels up in one hour. Be ready – R
Relief hits stupidly hard. I type back before sense intervenes:
Already am. Monaco’s fucking loud. I’ll shoot someone if I have to shout to be heard one more time.
Three dots appear.
Good girl. Keep your voice. I want your throat hoarse for me, not the crowd.
My pulse screeches in outrage and arousal as I pocket the phone, heart stuttering, and I lift my face to the spray of victory champagne. The fizz sticks to my lashes like sea-mist. Somewhere nearby, the Enforcer is plotting a systematic power shift, my possible demise.
And all I can think about is his mouth on my skin.
If that isn’t treason, I don’t know what is.
But as the trophy photographs commence and the anthem plays again, the thought that scares me most isn’t that Rafaelle might aim a rifle at my family tomorrow.
It’s that he might not – and I don’t know which fate would ruin me more.
Rafa
17:22 – Monaco Podium, Parc Fermé
Renzo punches the air, champagne geysering off the bottle.
Dante douses him from behind; the twins slip on the soaked rostrum and laugh like spoiled brats who’ve never cleaned blood from their boots.
Down on the third step, Narciso Mancinelli forces a tight smile for the cameras. First–second–third. On paper, a perfect advertisement for ‘racing unites feuding dynasties’.
It was a stroke of genius for Cesare to hand his seat to Dante after retiring.
Identical Twin Brother Formula One Racing Drivers.
That thirsty little tagline alone had brought in tens of millions in sponsorship.
Every major public-facing organisation wanted to exploit this possibly once-in-a-generation phenomenon.
Every woman with a pulse hyperventilated every time the twins posted their antics on social media.
Hell, the twins only needed to breathe to have cash thrown at them.
I allow myself a smirk and a nodding accolade in their direction and a wink for Bibi before I step out of view.
The moment I do, my phone hums – a rare Aegis code-string.
Asset 17B neutralisation confirmed. Operational result A-grade. New target file inbound. Stand by.
Formal praise from Washington’s deepest basement, and normally I’d feel the buzz of validation.
Instead, a splinter of irritation lodges beneath my ribs.
I’ve barely seen Sofiya all fucking day – just a flash of her sexy legs clad in her favourite tight pants, displaying that cock-hardening ass at the Mancinelli pit wall, the sway of that short ponytail vanishing into a sea of mechanics.
Radio silence on every text. She’s good at hiding. Too good.
Fuck, wasn’t that why she flew under my radar for years before her sniffing around in Naples and on the dark web a few years back brought her to my attention?
Another ping, this time Nightowl. No greeting, just a line of hacker poetry, and… surprisingly… coordinates. That’s a first.
Old vipers moult in ruined orchards.
I map the lat–long in my head. My pulse kicks for the first time since I walked away from Sofiya last night, even though I’d craved nothing more than to snatch her up by that trim waist, toss her onto the bed and finished what we started.
But I knew for damned sure Maddie had been whispering in her ear, same way Cesare had griped in mine. And the thought of being cock-blocked, again, plus the shadows under her eyes, had forced me into a rare retreat.
Yeah, I’m turning into Mr Fucking Sensitive.
I deserved one of those Louis Vuitton crafted medals the twins were waving about.
I forced myself to concentrate on the map.
Rural Sicily – three ridges over from where my drones lost Bonafacio’s heat signature six months ago. I’d call him stupid if the old fucker wasn’t slipperier than a lubed eel.
But Nightowl never sends junk intel.
And the timing’s perfect, too. A righteous hunt, a neat exit excuse.
I swipe champagne spray off my sleeve and catch Cesare’s eye on the paddock stairs. He’s shoulder-hugging Renzo, but one brow lifts. What now?
I gesture. Need a word. He grimaces, wipes fizz off his cuff and meets me behind the stage rigging.
‘Chinese funds en route,’ he says first. ‘With usual spa treatment, funds will be snug in their beds by next race.’ He stops. Eyes me. ‘You look like you swallowed a coked-up wasp – what’s crawled up your suit?’
‘Nightowl just pinged Nonno Mancinelli’s latest burrow.’
Cesare exhales. ‘Of course he did.’ He checks the crowd, lowers his voice. ‘You going solo?’
I pause, then come clean. ‘No.’
His glare flickers between astonishment and resignation. ‘Naturally. One Mancinelli for intel, one for leverage. Maddie will gut me if you leave without saying goodbye. And be prepared for a grilling.’
‘I’ll handle the goodbye.’