Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Heinrich’s already deep in data analysis when Nico enters the engineering room. Wyn sits at the table, expression closed off. Graham’s criticism shows in every line of his posture.
“Let’s talk about how some of us got lucky with track evolution.” Wyn’s voice is a knife. “Or how team loyalty seems optional these days.”
Heinrich’s eyes narrow at the interruption. “If we look at the telemetry—”
“The telemetry shows exactly what my father said. If I’d taken that line through 13 like he wanted, I’d be on the front row.”
Nico crosses his arms. “No. You’d have DNF’d. That line wouldn’t work with your setup.”
“What would you know about my setup?” Wyn sneers. “You’re too busy watching Hayter’s arse.”
That’s met with pin-drop silence and an undercurrent of disapproval. It takes all of Nico’s self-restraint not to reach across the table and break the nose Petra only bloodied.
Heinrich raps the table with his knuckles. “I know your setup because I designed it, Wyn, and Nico’s right. That line would’ve put you into the wall.” He pulls up comparative data. “Look at your rear grip through—”
“It was fine.” Wyn’s parroting Graham’s opinions. “If I was more aggressive in sector 2—”
“You’d have crashed.” Nico’s not interested in coddling egos today. “Like in practice. Like at Monza. Like every time you drive the way he wants instead of the way you know is right.”
“The way I know is right?” Wyn’s laugh turns ugly. “That’s rich, coming from someone who can’t speak up for his teammate because his tongue’s shoved up Petra Hayter’s asshole.”
One of the engineers mutters, “Holy shit, man.”
“For fok’s sake, Wyn,” Heinrich snaps.
Part of Nico is stunned that he’s so transparent. A larger part is balling his fist under the table. Yeah, Graham’s a dick, but Wyn doesn’t have to lean into his father’s crap. He’s an adult. He can make adult choices. “This isn’t about Hayter.”
Wyn’s not done. “Isn’t it? Everything’s about her lately. The stewards’ investigation, the community service, the way you pulled your line in sector 3.”
“I took the clean line,” Nico says between his teeth. “It was fastest.”
“Right. Because that’s what matters now? Clean racing? What happened to winning?”
“I don’t need to drive like an asshole to win.” Nico meets his teammate’s eyes. This isn’t how or where he wanted to have this conversation, but here they are and he won’t back down. “You know your dad’s wrong.”
Wyn’s chair scrapes back so violently it nearly tips. “Don’t pretend you know what I know. Don’t pretend you understand shit.”
“I know pressure, Wyn.” Nico keeps his voice steady. “This reckless driving… It’s not you.”
“This is exactly me.” But something flickers in Wyn’s expression. “This is what it takes to win.”
“Is it?” Heinrich’s quiet voice makes them both turn. “Look at the times. Data doesn’t lie. Your fastest lap came when you weren’t fighting the car. When you were driving like yourself, not like—”
“Like what?” Graham’s voice from the doorway makes them all turn. “Like a champion?” He enters like he owns the room, which given WolfBett’s complicated ownership structure, isn’t entirely untrue. Junior trails him. Apparently, he’s found his cojones now that Sebastian’s gone.
“I’m reviewing the telemetry with my drivers,” Heinrich says, emphasis on the possessive. “Discussing setup adjustments for the sprint.”
“Ah yes. Setup adjustments. Like the ones that put my son in fifth while his teammate excelled. Again.”
“The setups are optimized for each driving style.” Heinrich’s forcing patience past his teeth. “The data explains the results.”
“I’ve seen the data.” Graham stops behind Wyn’s chair. “I’ve seen how some drivers choose conservative approaches...” His hands land on Wyn’s shoulders. “While others remember what racing is really about.”
Nico is tired of this man’s bullshit. “What’s that? Enlighten me.”
Junior snickers. “Getting results. Not just making nice with the competition.”
Nico sits back in his chair. “So we just wreck people now? Cool strategy.”
Heinrich’s hand on his arm is the only thing keeping Nico from curb-stomping Betterton’s face. Heinrich turns to Graham. “Interesting perspective. Given neither you nor Junior have ever raced an F1 car.”
“Experience comes in many forms, Heinrich. As does loyalty.” Graham’s smile turns sharp. “Something everyone in this room might want to remember.”
The threat hangs there, daring Nico to walk out. Heinrich’s grip tightens. Clearly, he knows his champion is standing on a knife’s edge and considering sticking it into someone.
“Now about those setup adjustments.” Graham nods like everyone’s agreed with him. “I have some suggestions.”
Heinrich’s expression says he’d rather eat shit than take setup advice from Graham Pritchard, but years of F1 politics have taught him when to pick his battles. “The sprint format limits our adjustment windows. Any significant changes now could compromise performance.”
“Compromise?” Graham’s laugh is humorless. “Like my son’s compromised grid position?” His eyes fix on Nico. “Or like compromised team loyalty?”
Nico meets his gaze. “My loyalty is to this sport and safe racing for everyone on the grid, including my teammate.”
“Touching.” Junior’s standing in the doorway. “Very noble. Very Belmonte.”
Nico seriously considers picking up where Sebastian left off. “Did you look up Wyatt Ogilvy yet?”
An amazing array of emotions crosses Junior’s face.
“The data’s clear,” Heinrich interrupts, pulling up comparative telemetry. “Aggressive lines through these corners will result in failure.”
“I disagree.” Graham grips Wyn’s shoulders harder. “They’ll result in exactly what we need. My son understands that, don’t you?”
Wyn’s expression flickers, as if he’ll disagree, then his will crumples under his father’s expectations. “Right.”
“Good.” Graham straightens. “Then we’re agreed. A more aggressive approach, especially in sector 2. Show everyone what real racing looks like.”
Heinrich looks ready to explode. “That’s not how this team operates.”
“That’s exactly how this team operates going forward.” Graham’s tone brooks no argument. “Unless anyone objects?”
The question carries weight beyond setup choices. Nico thinks of Wyn’s crashes, Petra’s car spinning in Singapore, everything this sport should be. He folds his hands in front of him. “Yes. I object.”
Somehow the room gets even quieter. Junior crosses his arms and leans in the doorway, eager for conflict, but Graham’s smile widens.
“You object.” Obviously, he’s eating this shit up. “How principled. Carlos must be so proud.”
“This isn’t about my father. It’s about not pushing setups beyond their limits just to prove something.”
“To prove what, exactly?” Graham looms over Wyn, both controlling and possessive. “That some drivers have what it takes to be champions? That some understand what this sport requires?”
The man’s got some cojones considering Nico’s a four-time world champion and Wyn isn’t. “To prove that some fathers care more about points than their sons’ lives.”
The words hang there, sharp and ugly. Wyn’s intake of breath is just audible.
“Careful, Belmonte.” Graham’s voice turns silky. “Questioning another driver’s setup choice is one thing. Questioning family loyalty is entirely different.”
“It’s exactly what needs questioning here.” Heinrich’s quiet support makes heads turn. “These adjustments you’re suggesting? They’re not just aggressive. They’re dangerous.”
“Perhaps.” Graham shrugs elegantly. “But then, danger is part of racing, isn’t it? Unless some of us have forgotten what it means to be a real driver.”
Nico’s rage is burning through his careful control. “A real driver knows the difference between pushing limits and being an idiot.”
Junior laughs. “Who’s the idiot here?”
Nico’s had enough of that piece of shit. He hurls his headset at Junior, hitting the wall beside his head, a deliberate miss. “You don’t have an opinion here, cono, so get the fuck out.”
Everyone jumps in their seats, even Wyn, because Nico’s the calm one. The diligent driver who gets the job done and doesn’t rock the boat.
“Enough.” Heinrich’s sharp command seizes the room. “This is my engineering department. My responsibility. And I’m telling you, Graham, these setup changes are not happening.”
“Are you sure about that?” Prick-chard’s smile turns cruel. “Positions can be precarious in F1. Especially with next year’s contracts still under negotiation.”
The threat lands exactly as intended. Heinrich’s been with the team for fifteen years, through multiple ownership changes and technical directives. His job security shouldn’t depend on Graham Pritchard’s influence.
But no one’s sure.
“You know what’s interesting?” Nico cuts through the tension.
“How quickly some people forget their own history.” He meets Graham’s hard gaze.
“Like how the Bettertons supported Carlos Belmonte’s stand against unsafe regulations.
How Karl and Damien recognized that sometimes principles matter more than winning. ”
Junior shifts. He’s still in the doorway, though not technically inside the engineering room.
Graham’s smile falters. “Ancient history. The sport’s evolved.”
“Has it?” Heinrich pulls up another data screen. “Because these numbers tell the same story Carlos, Damien, and Karl worked to change. Lives are never worth more than points.”
“Times change,” Graham insists. “Champions adapt.”
Nico sits back. “Speaking as the only champion in this room, I’m saying you’re full of shit, Graham Pritchard. Champions never risk lives for the win.”
He may have just ended his career, but if F1’s going down this hole, he doesn’t care to sink with it.
Silence ticks between them. Wyn hasn’t spoken, but he’s shifted forward and escaped his father’s grasp.
“Well.” Graham adjusts his French cuffs. “This has been illuminating. We’ll continue this discussion later. Come, Wyn.”
But Wyn doesn’t move immediately. For just a moment, he meets Nico’s eyes and something has changed behind his gaze.
Heinrich returns Graham’s steady gaze. “The setup stays as is for both cars.”
Graham’s expression suggests this isn’t over, but he merely nods. “We’ll see what the sprint race brings, shall we? Sometimes adjustments happen naturally.”
The threat in his voice is clear. But as he leaves, Junior trailing like stink on shit, Wyn stands and plants his hands on the table. He meets Nico’s gaze. “That line you took in sector 3. The clean one? It was faster, wasn’t it.”
“Yes.”
His teammate straightens, and he stands a little taller. “That’s what I thought.”
After they’re gone, Heinrich lets out a long breath. “You realize this isn’t over, Nico.”
“I do.” Nico retrieves the pieces of his broken headset from the floor. “But I doubt the Bettertons and Wolfbergs will appreciate Graham endangering their forty-million dollar investment because of his ego.”
“And Junior?”
“Es un maldito cabrón.”
That gets a round of chuckles from the engineers and strategists. No one disagrees.