Chapter 15
MARCO
Pietro Manzo is an asshole.
He eyes me while slipping on his helmet over tightly slicked-back hair.
There’s an air about him that I don’t like.
It’s not the cockiness or arrogance—every driver here has that, including me.
No, it’s a look in his eye that I’ve seen before, and that I normally wouldn’t think twice about, but now it has me on edge. Because it involves Karina.
Pietro doesn’t just think he’s top shit.
He’s got the gleam of ready violence in his eyes that tells me he’s quick to blame anyone unlucky enough to get in his way if he’s in a fit of temper.
He’s not the type of man who can handle losing, and there are consequences if he does.
I’ve never seen him get violent on the track, but I’ve heard him yelling and I’ve seen the way his crew steps back to give him a wide berth when he comes into the pit.
Maybe they aren’t scared of him, per se, but they don’t want to set him off or give him any reason to turn on them.
If grown men are hesitant to get on this man’s bad side, what about Karina? She’s supposed to be married to this douche. I swear, if he ever puts his hands on her, I’ll…
Christ, not what I need to be focusing on right before the race starts.
I give him one more glance. His hands are big, capable. Strong. I’m not sure what he did before he got into racing, but he looks like a physical guy, one who’s used his hands with purpose. Might have been one of Bruno’s hitmen for all I know. That would explain a lot.
Those hands have probably already touched her smooth, soft skin. Fuck. She’s still innocent. That much I know. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t touched her or made her touch him. And when he finally takes her to bed, he won’t be gentle about it. I’ve no doubt about that.
The thought has me biting back a combination of jealousy and rage.
I almost wish Karina hadn’t told me about her engagement. Although it was obvious Pietro had some kind of claim on her. The way he kept her close to his side at the party my family threw. How he dragged her around like pretty arm candy to show off and ignore.
But he can’t have her. Karina is mine.
Except the reality is, she’s not.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t make the wanting stop.
I can’t just turn it off like a switch or push my desire for her out of my mind.
Not that I haven’t tried. The problem is, ever since I met Karina, I’ve had zero interest in other women.
Normally, I’d be pumping my frustrations out in Jessica’s bed, but now?
Just thinking about her makes my skin crawl.
My heart knows the truth of the situation, though: Karina Rossi doesn’t belong to Pietro, engagement be damned.
I said she and I would figure it out, and we will.
In fact, I’ve already had something percolating in my mind that, suddenly, doesn’t seem so impossible.
But with the race about to start, I promise myself to think about it later. I need to focus right now.
Looking into the stands, I half expect to find her looking down at me.
But it’s my brother’s wife Frankie instead, one hand on her belly, the other shielding her eyes.
She waves at me and then turns to Dante, who helps her sit and hands her a bottle of water.
Then Dante slices a finger at me in greeting as I put on my helmet.
With one last scowl at Manzo, I turn to my crew and give them the usual pre-race spiel.
I’d been feeling good about this race, but now all I can think about is Pietro.
I can’t get the image of him taking Karina to bed out of my mind.
He’ll destroy her. She’s too kind and soft and innocent to know how to deal with a man like Pietro when he’s unleashed.
“Strap’s loose.”
It’s Armani. I do a double take as he points to my helmet. Adjusting the chin strap, I give him a quizzical look. “And you’re in the pit because…?”
He shrugs. “Can’t I wish you good luck?”
“You usually text me.”
He’s not even looking at me. Scanning the crowd, he makes a slow sweep before meeting my eyes. “Yeah, well. Good luck. Just say thanks and get in your damn expensive car.”
Ah. He’s not here for me. He’s looking for someone, or something.
Maybe a lot of someones. Considering the dogs who finance some of these racers, I’m not surprised.
Armani is well aware that the mob has their hands deep in some of these pits.
Still, why did he come down here right before the race?
Is he worried the Brunos might have sent one of their guys to fuck with my car again?
The last time they pulled that shit, it almost killed me.
“You get a tip? Something I should know about?” I ask, lowering my voice.
He shakes his head. “Nah. There’s nothing new to report. You know the saying, ‘keep your enemies close.’ If I can get this many Bruno underlings in one place, I might as well keep an eye out, you know?”
He nods toward Pietro’s pit. My gut bottoms out.
I’ll be damned. It’s Sergio Bruno himself, Karina’s uncle.
He’s surrounded by a literal circle of brawny men in black jackets and sunglasses.
It might be comical if it wasn’t a bit intimidating, considering what I just did with his niece under the stands.
“That’s a group you definitely want to keep your eye on. Good call,” I say.
“Get in the car.”
I mock-salute him and don’t bother reminding him it’s not time to get in the car yet. Hands in his pockets, he saunters off, but not before one of the Bruno bodyguards locks onto us. He assesses us hard before finally looking away.
It’s just about go time. I put on my gloves.
I answer my crew’s questions. I check over my car.
All while keeping one eye on Manzo and growing more unsettled.
He needs his ass handed to him in a big way, and today, I’m going to be the one to do it.
It’s tempting to search the crowd again to find Karina, but I know right where she’ll be.
Sitting above Pietro’s pit like a good little fiancée.
Fuck that. Her fiancé is about to go down.
My car rumbles beneath me. My chest is comfortably tight against the restraints, my foot steady on the pedal as the flag comes down.
I feel the vibrations of the other cars, though the sounds of high-RPM engines are a muddled drone beneath my headphones and ear protection.
I don’t need to hear anything. I navigate by the feel of my tires on the road, how the track rises and dips to meet me, how she curves to the left and widens to the right.
I feel every buzz and hum and purr of my machine.
This is my happy place. My zen. My freedom.
The motion of my foot on the pedal and brake comes without much thought.
It’s pure instinct. Every part of racing is a split-second decision, made with each blink, each breath, each shift of my car.
I feel the engine. I know what she can give, how far I can push her.
And I feel the road, already telling me that this is my race.
These are my straights and my curves and I’m going to fucking own them.
Soon, we’re in the third lap and I’m in my zone, hyper focused as I formulate a plan to beat the ever-changing swarm of competitors.
The cars are packed tightly together, and I struggle to move up from my place in fourth.
Pietro is two cars behind me—no, three, as he falls back.
I hope he gets a mouthful of my exhaust. The car to my left swerves, and my breath stills as I prepare for impact.
At the last second, he regains control, and the swarm plays leapfrog.
Gunning in after the corner, I skip into my right lane and move into third place…
then second. It’s too soon to expect to hold this position, but I’m going to do everything I can to make sure I’m ready to fight if I get bumped.
A flash of yellow to my left pulls my attention.
Sparing a glance before I pick up speed, I see it’s Manzo neck-in-neck with me.
He grins. I see it in the flash of time before I look back to the track and something barrels into my right front end.
It’s Pietro, pushing his car into mine, trying to edge me out.
The angle of our cars is enough to prevent one or both of us from spinning out of control, but we’re locked in our positions, at an impasse.
This was no accident. It was lightning fast and intentional, and just as quickly as he clipped me, he pulls off.
If he’d impacted me a little harder, I would have spun out of my lane, and he knows it. That was a warning.
Fucker.
Allowing myself one moment of anger, I regain my focus and waver between third and fifth as the laps continue.
I resist the urge to look into the crowd as I pit and guzzle water while the crew buttons up my car.
Pietro speeds out of the pits before I do, but only by seconds.
I’m on his ass in no time, quickly meeting him again, side by side.
Another car wedges in between us and Pietro falls back. Not me. It’s time to let ‘er loose.
Normally, I’d brake for the corner ahead, but not this time.
Not fully. I’m going to ride it out and cross into the lane I want so I can grab the first-place position and get some air between me and the driver behind.
It’s a risky move, but I’ve done it before.
I’m going to test it now before I have to make it really count, when the last lap flag is dropped and I have to bust out of this swarm.
My engine revs. I hear it through my muffs this time.
The vibrations rattle my heart. Everything goes still as I let off the gas just enough to navigate the corner while putting everything I have into controlling the car.
My arms burn as I steady the wheel, sweat dripping into my eyes.
The car skids to the side but I fight to keep her under control—I almost don’t, and then I’m into the straightaway, and I shoot ahead.
Excitement thrums through me, a smiling cracking my lips. “Hell yeah!”
I’m just about to gain speed when I’m suddenly sandwiched between two cars. Manzo on my left and the green Mobil One car on my right. Mobil left a cushion between us, but Pietro comes in hot, pushing into me with gusto this time.
“Fuck!”
My car spins into a half turn and knocks into Mobil One.
He screeches to the right like he’s been shot out of a sling, smacking into the rail and bouncing off into another spin.
The flash of his rear end slashes before my eyes as I struggle with the wheel and force the car back into the lane.
My back tires catch the asphalt with a violent jerk that tosses me against the seat restraints.
Manzo is in first now, with several car lengths between us. I don’t care about controlling my anger this time. He wants to play dirty?
Game. On.
The next few laps blaze by with Manzo and I playing tag.
He takes a corner wide, slices me with a side glance, and nearly bumps into my rear, but then I speed ahead, gaining ground and taking the next turn too fast before I set myself up for it.
Nearly losing control of my car, I straighten out into the straightaway just as the flag comes down.
Last lap.
The swarm becomes a frenzy, the roar like a maniacal beast chasing me. I’m in fourth at the approach of the next turn, then third, then second on the straightaway. Pietro sides me as I pull into first. Another corner ahead…my gut clenches, my heart thrums…wait for it…
Here he is. Pietro lines up to me, his car roaring, but I come out of the curve and aim my front end straight at his side panel. My front end shakes as I fight for control, giving the impression that I’m losing the war with my car. But I’m not.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
Pietro, however, doesn’t know that. I can’t see his eyes as he turns to look out the windshield, my car a breath from his, threatening to ram him into the fence.
At the last possible second, I turn the wheel and right my car.
Manzo doesn’t get the memo that I was playing him and cranks off to the left.
His car spins out of control, whipping backwards on the track as cars whizz past him.
A laugh bubbles in my throat but I don’t let it loose.
The winning line is just ahead, so I gun it, revving up the RPMs to a level that my crew will curse me out for later.
The car trembles, but she gives me all she’s got.
The checkered flag drops down as I fly across the finish.
Adrenaline floods my veins. I’m soaring so fucking high as I burst out of my car. My feet are barely on the ground when Pietro comes at me, pushing his way through the forming crowd with murder on his face. Saving him the trouble of extra steps, I meet him halfway and grin as he gets in my face.
“Bellanti!” His voice booms but it only makes me cockier. He’s a sore loser.
“Hey, man, nice race,” I say with a condescending smirk. He can kiss my ass.
“That was dirty!” he roars.
A retort dies on my lips. He’s pissed, and he’s not likely to cool down by the time he gets to Karina.
Some of my satisfaction fades as I realize she could be in danger from his mood.
All thanks to me. Fuck! Rather than egg him on, I do nothing but hold his gaze.
But my unwillingness to take the bait only seems to make him angrier.
“Fucking Bellanti piece of shit,” he growls, jabbing a finger into the center of my chest.
Aw, hell no. He did not just do that. It’s the universal sign, and I can’t ignore it.
My lids flutter as I consider how to retaliate without escalating this to the moon. He moves to jab me again but one of his men grabs him around the chest and pulls him away.
“Not worth it…save it…”
“What’s the matter, Bellanti? Afraid to fight back?” Pietro spits on the ground next to my feet as his team drags him back.
I clench my jaw, willing myself not to lunge at him.
I’d love nothing more than to knock this asshole into next week, to tell Pietro that not only did I win this race, but I won his woman, too, and that her orgasm was my good-luck charm—but I know from what Karina told me earlier that she would suffer if I did. And I don’t want Karina to pay.
The important thing, I tell myself, is that I beat him.
And that the taste of Karina is still on my lips.