Chapter 26
Francesca
Engines snarl around me, a chorus of fury vibrating up through the chassis and into my bones. Fourteenth on the grid—row seven, middle slot. The air is thick and my nerves thrum. My hands flex on the wheel, gloves squeaking against leather, pulse skittering.
I close my eyes for one steadying breath through the helmet.
My parents’ voices echo in my memory—Be brave, piccolina, always be brave.
Carlos’s steady calm—You aim for it every time, one day it works.
And Ronan’s this morning, quiet but certain, weaving through all of it: Don’t over-rotate the rear out of the last corner. Trust yourself.
So many people who have my back and want me to succeed. I’m a lucky woman.
“Radio check,” Bex’s words crackles in my ear, grounding me.
“Check,” I reply, heart pounding.
“Give ’em hell, Accardi,” she says and then it goes quiet.
All the noise—engines, screaming fans, my own heartbeat—gone.
Then the lights blink on, one by one. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
Pause. Everything goes still, then—lights out.
Go!
Adrenaline streaks through me and engines scream as we launch.
The surge pins me into the seat, tires spinning for a half breath before they bite, and I shoot forward into the havoc.
A Bauer jolts across my nose and I snap left, thread between a Corsa and a Union Jack, every nerve tuned to survival.
So much of this is knowledge and hours of training, but right now I call on instinct to push me forward.
“Good start, good start,” Bex encourages. “Hold your line into Turn 1.”
I do, braking hard, my body lurching. I feather the pedal, dive inside and snatch a single position, which is a victory in and of itself. The car twitches but I straighten it and floor it out of the corner.
Two laps in and I’ve clawed up to P12. The pack is thick, every car ahead a driver in the seat that wants it as much as I do.
Sweat slicks down my spine and my throat is raw from the breezing in through the duct in my helmet.
The straw of my hydration system brushes against my lips and I catch it long enough for a sip.
The water’s lukewarm, but it cuts the sandpaper edge.
Lap seven—yellow flags ahead. The Freedom Dynamics car has spun out, rejoining the fray clumsily. I juke wide, heart in my throat, and manage to clear him safely.
“Careful… nice save,” Bex says.
“That was close.” I respond flatly. I’m locked in, and I’ve already forgotten it. I can only look forward.
The laps blur. Corners, straights, overtakes, all muscle memory. Adrenaline narrows the world. Bex continues to offer instruction and feedback, guiding me up two more positions to the tenth spot, which will earn us points.
Then lap eleven.
We charge down the back straight, cars strung together in a tight line, our DRS flaps open and tilted like wings.
The air shudders around me as the slipstream pulls us faster, each of us fighting for inches.
Carlos is directly ahead of me, locked onto the Matterhorn car in front of him, ready to pounce.
“Car left, car left!” Bex shouts, warning me someone’s pulling along my blind side. I twitch the wheel to cover, but I’m a fraction too late…
A rush of turbulent air smashes against me as another car edges close, shoving mine sideways.
The back end wriggles out from under me, and for a heartbeat I feel the car slipping away.
My stomach lurches, panic surging, but I wrench the wheel and wrestle it back under control.
The save costs me, though—by the time I’ve steadied it, the burst of speed I had is gone.
“Good recovery,” Bex commends, and I huff out a breath of relief.
But up ahead, everything starts to unravel. The Matterhorn in front of Carlos brakes too late going into the chicane and his rear tires lock. I watch his car snap sideways across the racing line and Carlos has to throw on his brakes to avoid colliding with him.
It all happens so fast and I’m about a tenth of a second away from running up on them.
I hit my own brakes hard, the shriek of tortured rubber piercing through my helmet. My car shudders violently as the nose drifts sideways, jolting across the flat runoff strip. I am no longer in control.
And then I see him. Carlos. Directly in my path.
He swerves to avoid the Matterhorn, instinctive brilliance in motion, the kind of lightning-fast move that can be the difference between avoidance and catastrophe.
But the track is too narrow, the space already gone and I just can’t avoid him.
My front wheel catches his side as he cuts across.
The impact jolts through me, violent and final, and Carlos’s car is launched into a dizzying spin.
I hear metal shrieking against asphalt as he whirls out of control.
Time slows. I see everything with clarity.
Carlos’s car lifts into the air, spinning like it’s caught up in a tornado but then gravity calls.
His nose pitches downward and I watch in horror as his chassis slams front end first into the exposed end of the Armco barrier.
The force is monstrous, the sound of the impact sickening.
The car crumples like an accordion on itself, the sound of metal tearing like paper.
The red flag indicator on my dash burns bright and an audible warning in my helmet rings. But I don’t need those to tell me what I already know… this is very bad.
I continues to skid, until hitting the barrier and coming to rest with my nose facing Carlos. My heart is hammering so hard I can’t breathe and tears burn my eyes as I see the mangled wreckage of his car, half-folded against the barrier.
Bits of debris litter the asphalt, tires sheared clean off and scattered like broken bones. The rear of Carlos’s car is gone, shredded into unrecognizable scraps.
But the survival cell is still there. The cockpit—his only shield—rests at a crooked angle against the barrier, scarred and stripped bare but whole. That’s what it’s designed to do… withstand major impacts.
Except inside, Carlos isn’t moving. His helmet lolls, body limp against the belts, and the sight twists something deep in me.
While the cell is virtually indestructible, I know the truth…
it doesn’t have to crumble to destroy him.
The force alone—the violence of a car stopping faster than the human body was ever meant to endure—can do what twisted metal can’t.
My breath saws out in short, shallow gasps, every muscle locked, waiting for any sign of life. A twitch, a hand, anything.
“Francesca, are you okay?!” Bex shouts.
“I—I’m fine.” The lie sticks in my throat.
Marshals are already sprinting onto the track, waving furiously. I unbuckle through shaking hands and manage to climb out. The world tilts and a wave of nausea hits. I pull off my helmet and toss it aside and rip off my balaclava. I need air.
The crowd has gone eerily silent and wafts of smoke curl off carbon fiber, acrid in my nose.
I need to help him.
I run for his car, surprisingly agile despite the weakness in my legs. A marshal tries to stop me, hands catching an arm, but I wrench free. Two more men are on me, catching me mid-stagger when I’m only a few feet from the car. I can’t see what’s going on… too many people surrounding him.
“Let me through!” I scream in frustration. “That’s my friend!”
But they’re stronger than I am, firm voices shouting at me to settle down. The med team swarms and I continue to squirm against my captors.
I catch glimpses as they pull Carlos free and lie him on the ground. He looks so still, limp as a rag doll. They start chest compressions on him and that renews my efforts to break away.
Then suddenly, those hands are gone, immediately replaced by arms that wrap around me from behind. Strong and solid, anchoring me.
“Francesca,” Ronan says, his mouth near my ear. “Calm down.”
He’s here. He stopped. He left his car… the race… and came for me.
My knees buckle, vision blurring with hot tears, the guilt crashing over me. I caused this. I did this to Carlos.
I twist in Ronan’s arms, stunned, meeting his eyes through the haze. His helmet is gone, balaclava around his neck. “I did this to Carlos,” I wail, the tears flowing freely down my cheeks.
“No, you didn’t,” he says fiercely and pulls me into him. “That’s the risk of this sport. We all take it.”
My head twists, eyes staring dully as they load Carlos onto a stretcher.
“I’ve got you,” Ronan murmurs, holding me tighter as I sink into despair. “It’s all right. You’re not alone.”
My body caves, shuddering sobs breaking free as I bury my face against him. Marshals shout, smoke billows past us, but in the middle of it—his arms, unmovable, keep me from falling apart.
Behind us, CPR continues. Compress. Breathe. Compress. Breathe. The awful rhythm of final chances.
And I know. We all know.
This isn’t how race days are supposed to end.