Chapter 34
Seeing red
Violet
I drag myself out of the chair, wiping tears with the back of my hand. Grief won't help William now. I need answers. Need to understand what happened. Johnson paces between workstations, tablet in hand, face carved from stone as he barks orders to the technical team.
"Johnson," I call, my voice steadier than I expect. "A word."
He breaks away immediately, crossing to me with quick strides. His face is pale beneath his usual composure.
"The FIA inspection yesterday," I say without preamble. "What exactly did they check on William's car?"
Johnson blinks, momentarily thrown by the question. "The... inspection? Why would you—"
"What did they check?" I repeat, each word precise and sharp.
He straightens, professional instincts kicking in. "Standard procedure. They examined the rear wing configurations and the plank for compliance. Everything was perfect, as always. We have the report if you need—"
"Nothing to do with electronics? Power unit? Steering systems?"
"No." His frown deepens. "Nothing in those areas. The focus was entirely aerodynamic. Why?"
My mind races, connections forming like lightning strikes.
The timing. The random inspection. William in P2, closing in on the championship points that would put Colton Racing well ahead of Vortex for the first time in a decade.
Dominic's escalating threats after our lawsuit.
Maybe I'm paranoid, but this screams foul play to me.
"It's not normal," I say, more to myself than Johnson. "All electronics failing simultaneously? That doesn't just happen."
Johnson's eyes widen slightly. "You think someone tampered with the car? After inspection?"
"During inspection. I think Dominic Harrington would stop at nothing to destroy us." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. "We humiliated him with that recording. Cost him sponsor relationships. Filed a lawsuit that's gaining traction. And now William's outperforming his precious Farrant."
"Sabotage hasn't happened in F1 since—" Johnson says carefully.
"The last time someone felt cornered and desperate," I finish. "Like Dominic does now."
The cold weight in my chest hardens into something crystalline and sharp. I've spent months playing defense against Dominic's attacks—the leaked photos, the media manipulation, the constant undermining. I've attacked a bit by leaking our conversation and then… This crosses every line.
I turn abruptly, heading for the exit.
"Violet!" Belforte's voice cuts through the garage as he intercepts me. "Where are you going?"
"To find answers."
He catches my arm. "You're not thinking clearly. None of us are. Let's wait for information from the medical team, from the stewards—"
I shake him off, my focus narrowing to a pinpoint. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Violet—"
But I'm already moving, pushing through the garage exit into the paddock. My legs carry me forward with single-minded purpose, past concerned faces and whispered conversations. The world around me seems muted, distant, as if I'm moving through water. Only one thought remains clear: Dominic.
I spot him before he sees me. He's standing outside the Vortex motorhome, surrounded by his usual entourage of yes-men and technical staff.
A tablet is propped in his hands, and he's watching—replaying—William's crash with the broadcast sound loud enough for everyone to hear.
Laughing. Actually fucking laughing as he gestures to the screen, pointing out something to the men around him.
Something inside me snaps.
I'm running before I realize it, shouldering past startled team personnel and journalists. Belforte's shout follows me, but it's too late. My vision narrows to Dominic's smug face, his casual amusement at William's suffering.
He turns at the commotion, eyes widening in recognition.
His mouth opens—a cutting remark ready, no doubt—but my body barrels into his before he can speak.
The impact knocks the tablet from his hands, sending us both crashing backward.
His back hits the glass door of the motorhome with a sickening crack.
The glass shatters, raining shards around us as we tumble inside.
Pain registers distantly—glass cutting my arms, Dominic's elbow connecting with my ribs as he tries to shove me off him—but it's irrelevant.
I'm on him instantly, every lesson from years of krav maga flowing through my muscles.
My knee pins his chest. My fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood sprays from his split lip.
"You fucking psychopath!" I scream, punctuating each word with another blow. "You could have killed him! Is that what you wanted? To kill him?"
Dominic struggles beneath me, but rage has made me stronger than I knew possible. His attempts to throw me off only fuel my fury. My knuckles connect again, splitting open on contact.
Incredibly, he laughs—a wet, gurgling sound through blood-stained teeth. "Prove it," he taunts. "Prove anything, little girl."
I hit him again. Again. And again. My vision blurs with tears and rage. "You're sick. You're fucking sick."
"Your driver's a hack," he spits, blood spattering my face. "And you're a whore who—"
My hand closes around his throat, cutting off his words.
Behind me, chaos erupts—people shouting, security rushing forward.
I don't care. I’ve held it in for over a year.
I’m way past my limit. In this moment, nothing exists except my hatred for the man beneath me, and the knowledge that he hurt William.
That he could have hurt EJ. That he's laughing about it as if killing someone is normal.
Strong arms encircle my waist, lifting me bodily away from Dominic. I thrash wildly, clawing to get back to him.
"Enough." Belforte's voice is firm in my ear as he physically restrains me. "He’s not worth it, Violet."
Dominic struggles to his feet, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He straightens his jacket with exaggerated dignity, his eyes gleaming with something that looks disturbingly like satisfaction.
"Thank you, Belforte," he says, voice nasal and distorted. "Control your rabid bitch before she—"
Belforte shifts, still holding me firmly with one arm while his foot lashes out, catching Dominic square in the stomach while shielding his move to those outside the broken door. The older man doubles over, wheezing.
"Vaffanculo, stronzo," Belforte growls, the Italian flowing naturally. "That's the only warning you get."
He turns, hoisting me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. I don't fight him now, the rage draining as quickly as it came. Through my silent tears, I see the gathered crowd outside—team personnel, journalists, fans, all with phones raised. Recording everything.
"This will be a headache," Belforte mutters as he carries me away from the shattered glass and stunned onlookers.
I don't respond. Can't. The adrenaline crash hits hard, leaving me limp and trembling over Belforte's shoulder.
My knuckles throb, blood dripping from split skin. But this pain is nothing compared to the sinking feeling in my stomach, and the hollow ache in my chest.
William is still out there. Injured. Possibly...
I can't finish the thought. Can't bear to.
And what have I done? Created a spectacle. Given Dominic exactly what he wanted—proof that I'm unstable, unprofessional, unfit to lead at the moment. The lawsuit, the recording, all our careful maneuvering—jeopardized in one moment of blind rage.
The paddock blurs around me as Belforte continues to carry me away from Vortex Racing's motorhome.
My body hangs limp over his shoulder, strength gone, rage spent.
Blood from my knuckles drips onto the back of his jacket—small, perfect circles of crimson soaking into the fabric.
Each step he takes jostles my ribs, reminding me of the glass that cut into my skin during the fight.
I should feel something—shame, regret, worry—but there's only numbness now.
William's face floats in my mind, his smile from this morning, his kiss.
The thought that I might never see that smile again makes fresh tears burn behind my eyelids.
"Silas! Violet!"
Blake's voice cuts through my fog. Footsteps approach rapidly, and suddenly, Blake is there, walking alongside Belforte's long strides. His face appears in my limited field of vision, eyes widening as he takes in my state.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "Put her down, Silas. Let me see her."
Belforte grunts but doesn't stop moving. "Not here. Too many eyes."
"What happened?" Blake's voice tightens. "Is that blood? Violet, are you hurt?"
I want to answer, but my throat feels closed, words trapped beneath grief and rage. Belforte answers for me.
"Dominic got a beating," he says, voice matter-of-fact. "We're probably going to be fined. And Violet... She'll likely face disciplinary action from the FIA."
"She did what?" Blake's pace falters for a second before he catches up. His gaze drops to my hands, dangling over Belforte's back. "Your knuckles..."
"They're fine," I manage, voice hoarse.
Blake hisses through his teeth. "This is... Christ, this is a mess."
"He was laughing at William's crash," I whisper. The words sound hollow, inadequate to explain the rage that consumed me. "Replaying it. Laughing."
Blake falls silent for a moment, processing. When he speaks again, his voice has changed—softer, gentler. "William's at the hospital. They've taken him to Princess Grace."
My head snaps up, nearly colliding with Belforte's back. "Is he—"
"He's unconscious," Blake continues quickly. "Concussion and a broken hand. Nothing life-threatening according to the medical staff."
The rush of relief is so intense, it's almost painful. My body sags further over Belforte's shoulder, tears flowing freely now. "He's alive," I whisper. "He's alive."