Chapter 13
No longer playing by gentleman's rules
Violet
I grip the steering wheel like I'm trying to strangle it, rain slashing across my windshield in angry ribbons.
The city blurs into smears of gray and red, brake lights smudging through the downpour.
My mind isn't on the road. It's locked on the smug-as-a-hyena face Dominic's probably wearing, on EJ's terrified message, on the Christmas morning with William that's been shattered into a thousand unretrievable pieces.
The windshield wipers beat a military tattoo—offensive, defensive, offensive, defensive.
Strategy. I need a strategy. And for that, I need Silas.
I punch his number into the car's Bluetooth system, the Porsche responding with its usual German precision. Three rings, then his voice fills the cabin—smooth Italian accent wrapped around perfect English.
"Buon Natale, Violet! Merry Christmas! I was just thinking about you. How's—"
"Dominic is trying to poach EJ." The words burst from me, cutting through pleasantries. "He's activated the exit clause. Offering fifteen million."
The line goes silent for two seconds. When Belforte speaks again, his voice has hardened to concrete. "Are you fucking kidding me? That figlio di puttana—on Christmas Day? When everyone's with their family? Is nothing sacred anymore?"
"Exactly." I swerve around a taxi, earning an angry honk. "I'm on my way to Vortex headquarters now."
"Alone? To confront him? No, no, no. This is exactly what he wants, cara. To get you rattled, make you look desperate."
"I'm not desperate," I snap, then immediately regret my tone. Belforte isn't the enemy. "I'm sorry. I'm just—"
"Furious. As you should be." His voice softens.
"Listen, I'm still in London. I had to stop to do some things and changed my plans last minute.
I can have my jet ready in an hour to fly us to Chicago.
The kid needs reassurance from his Team Principal and majority investor that this isn't his fault. "
"You'd do that?"
"For Colton Racing? Absolutely. For you? Without question." The smile in his voice is clear. "Besides, I've been craving deep dish pizza."
Despite everything, I laugh. Belforte and I just click effortlessly—that ability to find humor in darkness, to remain clearheaded when chaos reigns is a welcomed novelty in my life.
Our week in Italy cemented more than just a financial partnership.
We discovered a shared wavelength, a similar approach to problems—analyze, strategize, execute.
Plus, he actually listens when I speak, unlike most of the men I deal with in F1.
He reminds me a lot of Blake, but… Well, scarier-looking, and a bit younger.
"Let me handle Dominic first," I say, taking the exit toward Vortex's headquarters. "Then we'll coordinate on EJ. The poor kid must be terrified. His message sounded like he thought he'd done something wrong."
"Classic manipulation technique." Belforte's tone is clinical now, assessing. "Harrington's people would have approached it like he's being offered a golden opportunity, but with just enough suggestion that he might be letting Colton Racing down. Makes the kid feel guilty, confused."
"Exactly what I thought." The rain eases slightly as I navigate through narrower streets, industrial buildings looming gray and anonymous on either side. "We need to counteract that narrative immediately. Make it clear this is Dominic's play, not EJ's choice."
"I'm already drafting a press release from Belforte Construction expressing full confidence in Colton Racing's driver lineup and condemning poaching tactics." Keyboard clicks sound in the background. His proactivity makes me smile. "We'll turn this into a PR disaster for Vortex."
I merge onto the private access road leading to Vortex's facility, a sleek glass-and-steel structure that seems to scream "we have more money than you" from every angle.
"You're a godsend, Silas."
"I was hardly sent by God, but I’ll take it." He pauses, then adds more seriously, "When you see Harrington, don't kill him."
I blink, foot easing off the accelerator. "That's... a concerning piece of advice."
"Force of habit." He laughs bashfully, but there's an edge to it. "Old family business reflexes die hard. The Sbagliares don't appreciate it when I act like I'm in legitimate business now, so these things just… slip into my speech as I balance that life with this new one of mine."
We both laugh, though mine has a slightly hysterical edge.
Sometimes, it slips my mind that our team’s majority investor used to be an active consigliere in one of Italy's most notorious crime families.
Used to be. That's the important part. He still holds the title, but from what I gathered during my brief stay in Italy, he’s not engaging with them due to personal reasons.
"I'll try to restrain myself," I promise. "Though I can't guarantee I won't verbally eviscerate him."
"That I'd pay to watch. Call me as soon as you're done. The jet will be waiting. I’ll send you the location." Then the line goes silent for a second. "Oh, and Violet? If you feel in danger, call me."
I end the call as I pull into Vortex's parking complex. The vast space is nearly empty on Christmas morning—just a few vehicles, including Dominic's ostentatious Bentley parked in his reserved spot nearest the entrance. Typical.
What isn't typical is the complete absence of press. No vans with recording gear, no photographers huddled under umbrellas, no reporters desperate for a quote. For a story this explosive—Vortex poaching a rising star from a competitor on Christmas Day—there should be a media frenzy.
Unless they weren't tipped off.
Unless this wasn't about maximum publicity.
Unless this was specifically about getting me here, alone, on Christmas morning.
It strikes me then—the trap closing around me, the pieces clicking into place. This isn't just business. It's personal. And Dominic planned it down to the last detail. That manipulative piece of shit.
I straighten my blazer, check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My curls have frizzed slightly in the damp air, and there's a hardness in my eyes I rarely allow others to see. Good. Let Dominic see exactly who he's dealing with.
Whatever game he's playing, he's about to learn I don't lose easily.
The entrance to Vortex Racing gleams with antiseptic perfection—all polished steel, blue-tinted glass, and glossy gold surfaces.
Trophy cases line the reception area, lit from within like religious relics.
The place reeks of money, success and cheap tactics.
I hate everything about it. My heels click against the marble floor with military precision as I approach the reception desk, where a woman in a tailored grey suit watches my arrival with zero surprise in her eyes.
"Violet Colton," I announce, as if she doesn't know exactly who I am. "I'm here to see Dominic Harrington."
She offers a practiced smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course, Ms. Colton. Mr. Harrington is expecting you. Fifth floor, end of the hall." She gestures toward the elevator bank. "He asked not to be disturbed, but mentioned you were the exception."
My fingers curl into my palm, nails biting flesh. Of course he was expecting me. Probably had the time of my arrival calculated down to the minute.
"How convenient," I say, voice steady despite the volcano building inside me. "Working during the holiday season. Dedicated."
"Mr. Harrington believes excellence doesn't take holidays," she replies with the cadence of someone reciting a company mantra. It’s more like he’s an asshole who likes to exploit people.
I nod once, then stride toward the elevator without another word.
My reflection fragments across the mirrored walls inside—multiplying me into an army of Violet Coltons, all wearing the same expression of controlled fury waiting to be unleashed.
I adjust my blazer, straighten my shoulders.
Dominic wants to see me rattled. He won't get the satisfaction.
The elevator ascends silently; another reminder of Vortex's wealth. Our elevator at Colton Racing groans like it's considering retirement. We still have to replace it. But that's the difference between our operations. Theirs is sleek, soulless perfection. Ours is heart, history, and hunger.
The fifth floor opens onto a corridor lined with glass-walled meeting rooms and offices—most empty on Christmas morning, but a few occupied by staff who glance up as I pass.
Their expressions range from surprised to knowing.
News travels fast in F1. They all understand why I'm here.
What remains to be seen is whether I'll leave victorious or vanquished.
With each step, my thoughts drift back to William—his farmhouse growing cold in my absence, the Christmas morning we were supposed to share now irretrievably lost. The present I carefully selected still in my duffle bag.
His face when I left, trying to hide disappointment behind supportive determination.
Dominic didn't just attack my team today. He attacked something personal, something private. Something I've guarded carefully. Something exclusively mine.
My fingers itch with the need to dismantle something. Preferably Dominic Harrington's smug certainty that he can play games with my life, my team, my drivers. With EJ—barely more than a child, talent blazing bright as a comet, now caught in a power struggle he doesn't deserve.
Twenty meters to Dominic's office. Fifteen. Ten.
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth.
Channel the rage into precision. Into strategy.
My father taught me this—emotion is fuel, not direction.
Use it to power your decisions, not make them for you.
I am Frederick Colton's daughter. I am the principal of a team that once ruled F1 and will again. I am not someone to be toyed with.
I’m Violet Colton, and he just meddled with the wrong fucking person.