Chapter 22
Travis
“Did you find anything out?” I ask, staring into my laptop screen.
I’ve landed back home after my Miami race, and it’s close to three in the morning. But I plan to stay up to meet Alyssia at the train stop in the morning. Aside from getting this information from my uncle, there’s nothing I want more than to see her face.
Yesterday’s win was great, but within hours I started to realize there was something missing.
More like someone. I wanted Alyssia there, but it was too late to call her given the time difference.
“I’m doing well. Thanks for asking,” Uncle Brutus grumbles.
“Sorry. Did you get anything?”
That call from yesterday stuck with me longer than I would’ve wanted it to. Throughout the day, I racked my brain, trying to figure out who was behind it. The truth is, there’re too many people to narrow it down.
I wouldn’t put it past any one of the other teams to use someone to get the upper hand or to try to throw me off of my game. But there’s the possibility of someone from my team being a part of this as well. I don’t allow myself to entertain that idea for long.
I’ve been a part of Amato Racing for years now. I’ve grown close to many of our staff from the engineering staff to my teammate, Skyland. We all work our asses off to win fairly. This has to be from someone outside of my team.
“We traced the number to a burner phone,” Uncle Brutus states.
“That won’t get us anywhere.” Sighing, I run a hand through my hair.
“Not yet,” he counters. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours. My team is still working on it.”
“How long until you can know more?”
His deep, reverberating chuckle passes through my laptop’s speakers, sparking my anger.
“Look, Trav,” he begins, using the nickname only members of my family are allowed to use.
“I won’t be foolish enough to tell you to maintain your patience, but remember we just got this additional piece of the puzzle,” he tells me in reference to the note I received after my first race of the season.
“Who do you think is behind this?” I ask.
“It’s still early. I’m going to have my top guy look into Amato Racing first. Often, the people closest to you are the ones who can do the most harm.”
A chill runs down my spine, anger igniting in my belly. The thought of one of my own team members being behind these potential threats has me seeing red. I spend too many hours with my team to get our car and myself in peak performance to win.
“It’s not someone from my team,” I say.
“We’ll see,” he retorts. “In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open.”
“What do you suggest for next week’s race?”
“This call is on you, but I would say, call the motherfucker’s bluff. It’s early in the season and I’m taking a guess, but I think this guy might be trying to rattle you.”
“What about Ferreira?” I ask.
Max might’ve denied anything to do with that note to my face, but I trust that cocky motherfucker less than a pair of ice-cold tires.
“Do you really believe he would stoop this low?”
I scoff at my uncle’s question. “I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“We did a perfunctory look into his affairs,” Uncle Brutus tells me. “and everything seems on the up and up.” He tuts. “He doesn’t hang or do business with the most savory people.”
“See?” I point out. “Exactly. I fucking knew it.”
“No, I meant for his career. He could do better with his inner circle, but aside from loving being in the spotlight and a little too much partying, I doubt any of them have the balls to try to blackmail or get you to throw a race.”
“Check him out anyway,” I tell him.
He gives me a doubtful look. “Are you worried about this or something else?”
“Such as?”
His look turns serious. “You know what. You’re going to be a father soon. Are you afraid whoever is behind that call and note could somehow pose a threat to your baby and Alyssia?”
A muscle in my jaw ticks.
“I’ve considered it,” I admit.
“You might want to think about getting some discreet security for her. Not that anything has transpired or that I’ve found anything,” he adds quickly when my expression changes.
“Just a thought. We don’t know who’s behind these calls yet.
But considering they have enough access to call you directly and leave messages at your workplace … just a thought.”
I tighten my hands into fists, my knuckles turning white from the force. The thought of someone even thinking of touching Alyssia sends me into a slight frenzy.
“Also happy to learn she doesn’t have an issue with your career,” Uncle Brutus says, bringing me out of my murky thoughts.
“I think she’s concerned about the time I spend on the road,” I say, thinking back on how skittish she gets whenever I bring up my career. “But I’ve got that covered.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s not enough?” My question comes out with a sarcastic tint to it.
I get the impression my uncle knows more about Alyssia than I do. And I don’t like it.
“Yeah, sure,” he replies. “I would’ve thought that with what happened to her and her parents she might’ve had more hesitation about your career.”
Uncle Brutus says this in an off-hand way. But my back goes ramrod straight.
“It’s great that she—”
“What happened?” My tone is rigid, a sharpness interjecting itself into my voice.
Alyssia told me her parents passed away, but based on the reluctance with which she shared this news with me, I decided not to press for more information at that time. Now I feel like a fucking idiot for not asking more questions.
“You didn’t know,” he says, voice turning grim. “Her parents were killed in a terrible car accident.”
“Shit,” I push out the words while running a hand through my hair. For some reason, that night in Las Vegas comes back to mind. Me in bed with Alyssia, running my hand over the rose tattoo on her shoulder.
I felt the uneven skin beneath the ink. Her immediate response to change the subject when I asked her about the tattoo should’ve clued me in that it was something deeper.
“Was she in the car, too?” I ask but I already know the answer.
My uncle doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The grim expression that passes over his features tells me what I need to know.
“It was during an illegal drag race that their car was hit.”
“How did you know?” I don’t know the words to even form my next question.
“When we had to do the background check for her visa we found some articles on the accident.”
“Send them to me.”
He hesitates.
“Uncle Brutus, send them to me. Please.”
He holds up his hands and nods. “Done. Listen, I’ll get on looking into who that call is from and get back to you with everything as soon as possible. You should get some rest,” he says, but I’m only half listening.
Minutes after we disconnect the call links to the articles sit in my inbox.
I click on the first link and flinch at the image.
Since I was six years old, I’ve spent almost every day of my life thinking about, watching, or at a motor racetrack. I’m no stranger to watching pieces of plastic, glass, and metal shatter and fly apart as they’re flung into the air from crashes at incredible speeds.
I’ve been in more accidents than I can count. It’s part of the job.
Not once have I ever lost sight of the fact that there’s a real person in the driver’s seat. A real human being whose body is easily broken and mangled.
Even with all of this experience as I take in the pictures of the destroyed dark grey sedan, it looks worse than anything I’ve seen on a racetrack.
The thought of anyone being in that car surviving is unfathomable.
A ringing in my ears starts as I read the details of what happened that horrible night.
The bastards who caused such horror weren’t teenagers participating in an illegal race, either. The perpetrators were off-duty police officers.
That’s not the worst of it, though.
Reading about lives taken is what guts me. Alyssia’s mother was killed instantly, her father trapped in the car and had to be cut out, but he died on the way to the hospital.
And Alyssia.
A deep ache, unlike anything I’ve felt before comes over me.
The couple’s fourteen-year-old daughter was trapped in the debris for two hours before she was finally cut out and rushed to the hospital. She remains in critical condition.
I grab my phone, checking the time. It’s too early to contact her, but I need to see her.