Chapter Seventeen – Shanghai Grand Prix
Aleksandr Volkov – Post Qualifying
The car was moved away to be supervised under parc fermé and I hadn’t seen any signs of tampering. But would I even recognise it when it happened? I hated the doubt, the mistrust. I had to focus on driving at my best, that was what I had control over and control was everything.
I stepped out into the heat and rubbed my face, sweat drying under the collar of my fireproofs. I’d missed the entire post-qualifying media circus. Ross would probably have something to say about that, but right now I cared more about my car.
The Academy race was starting soon. No point hovering now. I stripped out of my race suit and ducked into the showers behind the driver lounge. Quick rinse. Cold. Brutal. Effective.
Ten minutes later, clean and in black jeans and my team polo shirt, I followed the noise toward the upper balcony, where the hospitality suites overlooked the track.
The race was about to get underway. I stepped into the Obsidian suite, grabbed a drink from a passing server, more to keep my hands busy than anything else, and scanned the terrace.
The next balcony along belonged to one of the sponsors and was packed with media people. I couldn’t help it, I scanned faces for her. I didn’t really believe she’d be there, but it was a compulsion I couldn’t ignore.
My stomach plummeted when I caught sight of her leaning against the railing.
Behind her was her friend, Caroline. But next to her was the last person I could stand to see her with: Luca Moretti.
He was leaning way too close to her, bodies almost touching, whispering in her ear.
Her mouth curved into a smile I’d been aching to see again—only it wasn’t for me.
Red mist descended over my eyes.
Someone called my name but I ignored them.
I dumped my glass down on a table and stormed from the lounge.
Cold but curious eyes tracked my departure.
I descended the stairs two at a time and stopped at the bottom.
A strong urge to go back up, barge into the media lounge and pull them apart was warring with my desire to get far, far away.
“Fuck,” I hissed under my breath. A couple of passers-by looked warily at me.
I glared at them and thankfully my better nature prevailed.
I set off at a brisk walk up the paddock and retreated to my hotel room.
It was expected that I’d stick around, do some press, talk to sponsors, but I couldn’t face it.
I needed to cool off and shed this ridiculous jealousy. I had a race to win.
Race Day – Shanghai International Circuit (Wet Conditions)
By Sunday, the sky had opened.
The grid shimmered beneath a steady curtain of rain, the slick tarmac reflecting floodlights and chaos. Marshals darted between umbrellas. Engineers worked fast under canopies. Water beaded on visors and carbon fibre. Every breath tasted of ozone and nerves.
I stood beside my car, helmet tucked under one arm, rain misting my sleeves. The air was heavy, thick with tension and exhaust. This was no longer about clean lines and split-second precision—it was about survival, instinct, guts. I preferred it that way.
Then I saw him.
Moretti.
Pole position, standing just ahead of me, his race suit damp across the shoulders. The Hawthorn green and gold seemed to glow against the grey. He turned and caught sight of me, flashing that lazy, infuriating grin like we were about to play a friendly match in the park.
“Hope you packed your floaties,” he called, loud enough to cut through the rain.
I didn’t smile. “Hope you packed your humility.”
He strolled a little closer, boots splashing through shallow puddles. “Tense this afternoon, Volkov. Trouble sleeping?”
My pulse kicked harder. “No trouble.”
His smirk twitched. “Sure. But if you need help blowing off steam—”
I stepped in. Not close enough to make a scene, but close enough that he’d feel it. “Stay the hell out of my business. On and off the track.”
Luca’s eyes sharpened, just for a second. Then the grin returned. “Relax. We’re just racing. Unless you're worried about something.”
The call to helmets came through the speakers like a whip crack.
We both turned. I handed my helmet to Mac, who did a last wipe of the visor before passing it back. Rain still fell, steady and light. I climbed into the cockpit, water dripping from the edge of the halo.
I didn’t know if Moretti was trying to provoke me or if I was reading too much into his words. Either way, I was done listening.
It was a wet race.
A hard race.
And I was ready to fight.
The formation lap was cautious from all quarters, but my energy was dialled up higher than normal. I was itching to put my foot down and challenge Moretti for every point.
The lights went out and we surged forward into the rising storm.
Spray hit my visor instantly, thick and blinding.
The roar of engines reverberated through my body as we barrelled toward Turn One, a mass of machines cutting through water-slicked asphalt.
Grip was scarce. Instinct took over. I kept to the inside, braking late, narrowly avoiding a kiss of carbon fibre from Jax’s front wing.
By the end of lap three, the field had started to settle. I was running second, right behind Moretti, who was already weaving a little too much in the braking zones. Typical. He always danced on the edge of legality like it was a personal challenge.
“He’s scrubbing heat,” Mac warned in my ear. “Don’t get sucked into his rhythm. You’re faster in sector two. Take the long game.”
“Copy.”
But my patience was thin.
We swapped places twice by lap seven. Once when I nailed the exit of Turn Eight and caught him on the straight, and again when he boxed me out into Turn Eleven with that smug little swerve of his.
Lap nine. I was glued to his gearbox, close enough to see the flick of his helmet when he checked his mirrors. I stayed there. Made him feel it.
“Aleks, cool your head,” Mac said. “You’ve got time. Don’t cook your tyres.”
I gritted my teeth. My gloves were damp inside. The adrenaline was making me twitchy. My thoughts slipped. Elena, laughing on that balcony. Her head tipping toward his. The way he looked at her like he owned her.
Lap twelve. Sector one was clean, but I ran wide on the wet kerb in Turn Six. The car twitched and I had to fight it back.
“Too deep,” Mac barked. “That could’ve been it. Pull it back.”
“Understood,” I bit out.
But I didn’t pull back.
I pushed harder.
Lap thirteen. I overtook him again—briefly—in Turn Nine, but he got me back at the hairpin with a late lunge. Always late. Always just on the edge of dirty.
Lap fourteen. I was back on his tail. My vision narrowed to the red rain light blinking on the back of his car. I hated it. Hated him. Hated that I still didn’t know what the fuck was going on with our software. Hated that I couldn’t trust anyone. Not even myself.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Mac warned.
Too late.
Lap fifteen. We came screaming down the back straight into Turn Fourteen. No DRS in the wet, but I tucked into his slipstream, chasing every scrap of speed.
He braked late. I braked later.
There wasn’t enough room.
I lunged down the inside, desperate, reckless—
And collided with his rear tyre with my front wing.
The impact hit like a hammer.
His car snapped sideways with terrifying force. Mine jackknifed, tyres screaming. We slid together in a violent arc, carbon fibre flying, water spraying like a god damn tsunami. The wall came fast.
My head snapped forward, caught by the HANS device. A crunch. Screeching metal. Then silence.
Yellow flags. Shouts in my earpiece. Marshals running.
I blinked hard and saw Moretti’s car facing the wrong way in the runoff. Steam hissed from his engine bay. He was moving. Alive. No doubt swearing in Italian over the radio.
“Are you all right, Aleks?” Mac barked, probably for the fifth time. I blinked and shook my head to clear it.
“I’m fine.”
The crowd roared. Some boos. Some cheers. It didn’t matter.
Screens all around the circuit lit up with replays. Slow-motion shots from every angle.
There was no question.
I’d taken him out.
And everyone had seen it.
Marshals were already sprinting towards the two wrecked cars, carbon debris littering the runoff like confetti. Yellow flags waved furiously. I watched the safety car peel out on a nearby screen.
I unstrapped, adrenaline still screaming through my system, heart pounding so hard I could barely hear Mac in my ear. I climbed free, boots slipping slightly on wet tarmac. The car was mangled. Undrivable. But I’d walked away.
That was what mattered.
I staggered towards the gap in the barrier where I could leave the track, giving the marshals a quick thumbs-up. The air reeked of smoke, burning rubber and ozone. I didn’t care about the pain in my shoulder. I just wanted to get across the barrier, into clear space, and breathe.
Behind me, Moretti's car hissed angrily, its engine silent but its presence still loud. I didn’t look for him. I didn’t want to.
I was across the barrier and tugging my helmet off when the sound of boots crunching rapidly against gravel came at me from behind.
I turned just in time to catch the blur of movement.
Luca Moretti shoved me with both hands. I stumbled backwards, skidding a few feet in the rain.
“What the—” I caught myself and raised my hands instinctively.
He ripped off his helmet, water dripping from his curls, eyes blazing like someone had lit a match inside him.
“You absolute fucking liability,” he snarled. “What was that, huh? You trying to kill us both?”
“I was holding the line—”
“Bullshit!” he roared, closing the distance again. “You’re a fucking joke, Volkov. You don’t deserve the front row!”
“Back off.” I held a hand out, trying to defuse this before it spiralled. I didn’t want this. Not now. Not here.
But Luca wasn’t listening.
His fist flew—quick, savage, full of fury—and clocked me square across the jaw.
Pain exploded. My head snapped sideways and I staggered back, tasting blood.
The crowd behind the barrier screamed.
“Oi! That’s enough!” one of the marshals yelled, vaulting forward.
Another lunged between us, catching Luca around the waist as I planted my feet, fists clenched, everything in me screaming to retaliate.
But I didn’t.
Barely.
The red mist pulsed behind my eyes, my chest heaving. Every camera on the circuit would’ve caught that. Live.
He’d hit me. In front of the entire fucking world.
“Get him out of here,” someone shouted.
Another pair of marshals pulled Luca back as I took a shaky breath and wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my glove.
He was still yelling as they dragged him off—something about sabotage, something about respect—but I tuned him out.
I didn’t need to hear it.
The headlines were already writing themselves.