Black Flag (StormSprint #3)

Chapter 1

Fia

LIVIE ARMAS: Zoltán speaks five words of English. So far, I’ve heard ‘cunt,’ ‘dickhead,’ and ‘shit.’ But Nix promised there are two more.

LIVIE ARMAS: You’re going to need some headache tablets. From what I’ve gathered, he doesn’t answer a single question seriously.

LIVIE ARMAS: And thank you. I don’t think I’m going to be able to thank you enough.

Livie, Head of Publicity for StormSprint, was known to overthink everything.

A last-minute addition to the major league?

Who only spoke Hungarian? She was in overdrive.

Their regular translators didn’t speak Hungarian.

Their back-up had bailed yesterday, and Livie, three months pregnant and already juggling three StormSprint dramas, had bribed me with a free holiday to Portugal and unlimited race day tickets.

As well as a new placement.

Hungarian was one of the few things my biological father gave me—my mother tongue, even though I hadn’t lived there since I was six.

I sat in the production studio waiting room, back pressed against sleek black leather, scrolling through Livie’s frantic texts.

She could be a stranger, ask me to work for StormSprint, and I’d bite her hand off for the opportunity. My dad had worked for them up until four years ago. My sister and her boyfriend still did. I’d grown up in garages and pit lanes, half-raised by the petrol fumes and advertised energy drinks.

At twenty-two, at university with a multilingual master’s degree, I needed a placement.

The one I’d had in a hospital was—ironically—soul-destroying.

And boring. For all the hours I worked, there was little in-person talking.

I learned and spoke languages because I loved the sounds, the rhythms, the flow.

Not paperwork. So, when Livie asked about StormSprint, I didn’t mind if it meant I had to restart a placement from scratch and lose the hours I’d previously worked at the hospital.

Which meant my placement would take me into November.

I wanted to be in on the action.

And StormSprint? Motorbike racing? There wasn’t anywhere with more action. It was speed and sweat and adrenaline, and I didn’t care if that meant I wasn’t likely to have a job after. I was here for the entire year. Livie had promised to pay me until the end of the championship.

But first: results.

Zoltán Farkas.

The grandson of one of the most legendary racers. Ever.

We’d have a productive, evocative pre-season interview where he’d shine. The media would love it. Livie would worship it. StormSprint would beg me to stay permanently.

I believed that, right up until I started hearing the voices on the other side of the studio wall.

Racers. Crew. Camera flashes. The motorbike revs.

This never used to faze me. My sister had worked at StormSprint for the last six years. My stepfather, who for all intents and purposes was my Dad, had worked here for the entirety of my life.

But I’d always been here as the daughter or as the little sister.

With no responsibilities.

And no one to impress.

Now, though…

I turned up the volume of the podcast I’d put on, jamming my headphones further in my ears.

I was fluent in four languages and could get by on another two, but sometimes, I needed to ease myself back into the language of the moment.

I hadn’t spoken Hungarian in nearly a year.

My biological father, Imre, and I didn’t see eye to eye, so the language had slipped from most used to least.

I missed how the words tasted in my mouth.

The Hungarian podcast predicting championship standings was a good warm- up.

I didn’t need to hear more about Zoltán’s crash last year—I’d already read every article.

His career nearly ended at the MotoBike championship.

He’d been hospitalised for months. Now medically cleared and hungry for a new start, he’d joined StormSprint and team Veltar.

He’d worked with Imre briefly because he was a bike mechanic.

Hopefully, he didn’t know that was my biological father. Being adopted by my mum’s husband at eight meant I was Zsófia Bacque. Proudly.

Livie burst into the waiting room like she’d run the final kilometre of a marathon, clutching her iPad to her chest above her small bump. She blew a full blonde fringe out of her eyes and exhaled dramatically. “God, am I pleased to see you.”

I stood, shoving my headphones away and giving her a gentle hug, careful not to squish baby Armas. Three months pregnant, but with Nix as the dad? That baby was going to be massive. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll have him speaking some kind of sense.”

“The language barrier is… intense,” she said, already leading me toward the photo shoot space. “He’s either trolling me or he’s going for a world record in trying to rile up as many people as he can while not speaking their language.”

“Could be both.”

Her shoulders sagged, and her fringe went flying again with the exhale. “If he flirts, ignore him. If he gets too close, walk away. He’s not your problem. He’s mine.”

I could do that.

But I wanted her to have fewer problems.

Strobe lights and fog machines forced me to blink as we walked across the studio, camera crews darting between platforms where racers in branded leathers posed. Before telling me the schedule, she told me about the Airbnb we’d be sharing — the pool, the balcony, the restaurant down the road.

“Here’s your locker,” Livie said, pushing it open with a lazy pointer finger. “And that’s your racer.”

I turned—and nearly walked into him.

Zoltán was taller than I expected. Broader, too.

His black leathers clung to him like a second skin, the zip half-undone to show a glimpse of collarbone.

He was warm-toned, skin a smooth deep bronze, and his hair, dark and thick, curled slightly at the base of his neck.

His arms were crossed, tattooed and tense, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—tracked me from head to toe in one slow, unapologetic sweep.

And just like that, I forgot every word in every language I spoke.

I swallowed, straightening my back.

“Szervusz,” I said coolly. Hello.

His brows lifted.

I added, in Hungarian, “I’m your translator for the day.”

A slow grin curled across his lips. “You don’t sound Hungarian.”

“I’m out of practice.”

“Then hope English gooder,” he said, accent strong, ‘then’ sounding like ‘den’ and, oh sweet lord, the way he said Ee-nglish? Goner. I was a goner.

Livie frowned, eyes darting between us with caution.

I blinked. “You speak English?”

“Enough to get laid,” he said, back in his mother tongue, then winked. “Not enough for … press.”

I sighed. Livie wasn’t wrong.

“We’re starting with photos,” she said quickly, ushering us to one of the camera crews. I waved for him to go first, but his cocky smile took time to grow across his beautiful face before he followed her, glancing back over his shoulder.

I shook my head, trying to clear the scandalous thoughts from forming. What English got him laid? I doubted he needed words when he looked like that.

The camera crew gestured for him to stand on the red cross and to smile. He grunted and stretched his neck.

The crack weakened my knees.

“I need you to stay with him, make sure he knows what’s being asked,” Livie said at my side. “Don’t let him disappear. And for the love of god, don’t let him take his shirt off unless someone asks him to.”

I nodded. “I’ve grown up with cocky racers my whole life, Liv. I can handle them.”

For a second, she looked relieved, but then Zoltán’s top lip curled as one of the makeup artists came forward with a brush aimed at his face. He raised his hands, almost swatting her away. “Hátrébb. Most.” Back off. Now.

And Livie’s breath caught, turning to me with a concerned wince, which was saying something, seeing as she was married to the most arrogant ex-racer in history.

I rushed forward with a polite smile. “Sorry, he doesn’t want any touch-ups. He’s happy with how he is; such a great job was done already.”

His jaw stiffened, and his glare was devilish. “Nem vagyok kisminkelve. Mégis minek néznek engem? Egy kibaszott bohóc? Egy játékbaba?” I’m not wearing makeup. What the hell do they think I am? A fucking clown? A doll?

Livie moved forward, her stare nearly as crazed. Eyes on him, she told me, “Tell him to watch his tone with you and the team, or he’ll be escorted out. I don’t care who his grandfather was.”

I didn’t need her protection.

“They just needed to reduce a bit of shine, that’s all,” I told him, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

“That’s not shine—it’s heat. And trust me, heat sells better than a face of chalky powder.”

It had been a lie on my behalf, but now that he mentioned it, the sheen across his face and neck screamed sex appeal. He was rugged.

Dreamy.

I stepped back.

He grunted again and stood in position, crossing his arms for one of the shots.

Livie bit her lip. “Are you sure—”

“Got it handled, I promise.”

She narrowed her eyes at Zoltán in a final warning before squeezing my shoulder and rushing off down the corridor.

The shoot began with a close-up of his helmet held under one arm, chin tilted like he ruled the damn world. Above the visor, larger than any sponsors, was a falcon-like bird. No — a turul.

My eyes softened when I realised. The Hungarian bird. Protection and heritage. Maybe he thought it would save him from another crash.

I pushed the thought of his pain away and translated the photographer’s instructions quickly—angle this way, turn now, look in that direction—and Zoltán followed them with ease.

He knew he was too attractive for his own good.

The shoot took longer than I’d imagined, and then he was on a high stool, the new Veltar bike behind him, illuminated with a black and purple shine.

Routine questions were asked to prompt the cockiness everyone was expecting from the grandson of Simon Farkas. With my help and slow enunciation, we managed to get a few lines in English for the ease of the production team.