Chapter 37
OUT LAP: LAP AFTER LEAVING THE PITS
One second, we’re in the lobby with cameras flashing and voices rising, Leo barely holding himself together, and the next, we’re moving. I pull him into the private lift by sheer instinct.
I try to soothe Leo with a plan, but I’m not really certain what to do. Behind us, I hear my father on my phone.
“Dario. It’s Porter. Get back to the hotel. Now.”
I’m so grateful for his presence because I don’t have the capacity to manage anything except Leo.
The doors close, cutting off the noise, but it doesn’t fix what just happened. It doesn’t erase the words thrown like they didn’t matter. “You don’t seem to understand. Your brother is dead. Your sister-in-law and nephew, as well.”
Like it was nothing. Like Leo was nothing.
I tighten my grip on Leo’s hand as the lift climbs, but he doesn’t react. Doesn’t squeeze back or even look at me. He’s here, but he’s not present.
“Leo,” I say softly.
Nothing.
The doors open on our floor. I don’t hesitate. I pull him forward, down the hall, and into the suite, registering the tears falling down his face as we step inside.
“Dad?” I call over my shoulder, already pushing Leo toward our bedroom, “You’ll stay out here until Dario gets here?”
“Didn’t plan on leaving, Pumpkin,” he replies, his tone shifting immediately into something controlled.
The door to the bedroom closes behind us. Everything Leo’s been holding back shatters.
“Hey—” I start, but even as I’m guiding him toward the bed, his knees give out. He winds up sitting on the edge, devastated by confronting his past in the worst way possible. I sit beside him, just needing to be close enough to anchor him.
“Leo,” I say again, softer this time, my hand coming up to turn his face in my direction.
His eyes are red rimmed from his tears. “He’s—” His voice cuts off, rough and uneven. “Albert’s gone. His son…”
I just wait, knowing his agony is only beginning.
“He didn’t—” He swallows hard, jaw tightening. “He didn’t even say their names.”
My chest aches sharply because I caught that amid the other vitriol spewed by Alfred Hawthorne. It’s not just that his brother is gone; it’s that he’s already been dismissed. Diminished.
Just like Leo was.
“That’s on him, not you,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
He shakes his head, a sharp, almost disbelieving motion. “He implied Albert was killed by someone trying to emulate me. Why would he—what would make him say that?”
There’s no answer that makes sense or will turn back the clock to before we entered the hotel lobby. I shift closer, my hand sliding into his, threading our fingers together, forcing that connection. “Look at me,” I urge gently.
It takes a few seconds before his eyes find mine.
And God, it nearly breaks me. I’ve seen Leo determined. He’s poured himself into being regretful and demonstrating his love. But I’ve never seen him this raw, like an unprotected wound.
“Whatever happened,” I say quietly, “it wasn’t your fault.”
His expression tightens, something darker flickering behind the grief. “That’s not what my father would say.”
“I don’t care what he’d say,” I snap, sharper than intended. Then softer, “I care about what’s true.”
A tear clings to his lashes, but it doesn’t fall. His voice falters. “I didn’t even…I haven’t spoken with Albert since the night my father threw me out. And his son? My God, Chris. His little tyke would have been eleven? Twelve?”
That’s the quiet devastation driving Leo’s pain. It isn’t just loss or seeing his father; it’s the realization that there are times when you don’t have an opportunity to revisit your past.
I lift my hand to his face, my thumb brushing the apple of his cheek. “You were eighteen when you left, Leo. You survived despite the odds against you.”
His breath catches and he slowly leans into my touch. I continue, “But you chose who you became. You still get to choose who to let in.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “And I almost screwed that up too.”
There it is. His grief is tangling with latent guilt.
I shake my head immediately. “No.”
His brow furrows slightly, like he’s about to argue.
“You made a mistake and you corrected it. I love you, Leo,” I say firmly. “Don’t rewrite everything you’ve done. Don’t carry your father’s cruelty into this. Who he is doesn’t define you.”
His chest rises and falls unevenly, like he’s trying to regulate something that doesn’t want to be controlled. Then, he admits, “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel right now.”
“You don’t have to. You’re allowed to feel anything you want.”
I lean closer. “I’ve got you. No matter what.”
He just breathes. Inhale, exhale.
Then his hand tightens around mine, the other coming up to my back, pulling me closer like he needs to anchor himself to something that won’t disappear. “I truly can’t believe that’s how I found out.”
My chest tightens. “I know.”
His head dips slightly, his forehead resting against mine. I feel the moment his control slips. Not completely, not in a way that shatters him, but enough to know he’s not holding anything back. I feel it all—a wretched sadness, anger, and confusion about what comes next.
Outside the room, I hear my father’s voice, low and controlled as he speaks to Dario, the situation already moving, already becoming something bigger than just us.
But in here, Leo is the only thing that matters. Not the headlines, not the next race.
Just him.
Just this moment.
And making sure he’s aware that he’s not alone. I lean my head back so I can press a soft kiss to his temple before murmuring, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right by your side.”
This time, his exhale isn’t quite as sharp or broken. He’s hurting—as he should. But the deliberate shock his father caused by coming here is waning.
When his arms tighten around me in response, I know he believes me.
And that he’s shoring himself up for whatever comes next.