Dominic #2
“The data?” I snap, stepping into his space. I’m still charged with adrenaline from the cockpit, my helmet swinging violently in my hand. “The data says I was gaining when I ignored you. You choked the lead. You let the other car into my slipstream because you were too busy playing it safe.”
I expect the usual quiet endurance. I expect him to wait for me to finish my tantrum so we can move on. Instead, Landon takes a step toward me. He doesn't raise his voice, but there’s a new, sharp steel in his gaze.
“The slipstream wasn't the problem, Dominic.” Landon didn't even look up from the monitor, his finger tapping a line on the screen. “This spike right here? That’s a four-degree jump in surface temps because you jumped the throttle on the exit. You cooked the rears because you lost your head.”
“I didn’t lose anything!” I stay in his space, giving him every chance to make this his mistake. “The strategy was weak. You let the gap shrink until I had no room to breathe. If I’d stayed aggressive from the start, we wouldn't be staring at a P4.”
Landon didn’t back up. He didn't blink as I loomed over him. He just looked at me with a steady, clinical expression that made the fire in my veins feel pathetic.
“You do this every time,” he said, his voice dropping below the whine of the pneumatic guns in the next bay.
“You had it today. For fifteen laps, you were hitting every mark. The car was balanced, the pace was there.” He shifted, forcing me to either hold my ground or reveal how much I was shaking.
“Then you decided the car wasn't enough. Or I wasn't enough.”
He gestured vaguely toward the track, his mouth set in a hard, final line.
“The strategy was a podium. You drove us into fourth.” He turned back to the screen, dismissing me before I could even draw breath to argue. “Don't blame my headset for a choice you made with your right foot.”
The air in the garage turned brittle. I was paralyzed—not by the words, but by the fact that he was already looking past me, as if I were a part that had finally malfunctioned beyond repair. Marco was there in a second, his hand a heavy anchor on my shoulder, physically wrenching me back.
“Dominic, cool it. Now,” Marco says, his voice a low warning. “The lenses are on you. Walk away.”
“Let them look!” I snarl, shoving Marco’s hand off. I can hear the rapid-fire click-click-click of the photographers capturing the meltdown. I don’t care. I want to hit something. I want to be as loud as the failure ringing in my ears.
I storm past them all, the air in the garage feeling too thin to breathe, and slam the door to the hospitality suite behind me.
I’m in the back of the room, tearing off base layers, when the door bangs open again.
“That was a masterclass in self-sabotage.”
My father. He’s draped in the prestige I’ve built for him, looking as unruffled as a person who didn't just watch his son lose a podium.
“Not now,” I say, my voice raspy.
“You had them,” he says, stepping farther into the room. “Landon had you on a string. You were driving like a champion. And then? You lost your head. Over what? A blow to your pride?”
I turn, my shirt half-off, my skin slick with sweat. “I didn't lose anything. The strategy was too conservative. Landon's suggestion put me in the line of fire.”
“Landon is the reason you’re even in that seat,” my father counters.
He steps closer, his eyes hard and clinical.
“Luka is out there right now, smiling for the cameras, charming the sponsors you just alienated. He’s fixing the mess you made.
He understands that this name is a brand, not a playground for your tantrums.”
“Then go talk to Luka,” I growl. “Since he’s the one with the 'actual charm.' Since he’s the son who does exactly what he’s told.”
“I like results. I funded this. I built this entire team around your talent. But Luka is the one who keeps it alive. He’s the face people actually want to see. You? You’re just the engine—and today, the engine stalled.”
“I became this because of you!” I’m shouting now, the frustration of a lifetime boiling over. “You spent my childhood treating me like an investment and Mom like a footnote. You didn't want a son; you wanted a trophy to polish so people would forget you’re a cheat and a liar.”
My father doesn’t flinch. He looks at me with a profound, clinical pity that makes me want to scream.
“You want to talk about responsibility? Fine,” he says quietly.
“I made you. Every lap you take, every dollar in your bank account—that’s me.
I’ve spent ten years—ever since I put you in that first kart—waiting for you to outgrow this volatility.
I funded the junior circuits. I bought the seats.
I built this entire team around your ‘talent.’ But all I see today is a liability that’s costing me money and reputation. ”
“Landon’s the problem!” I point toward the track. “He had me playing it safe! If I’d stayed aggressive, I would’ve won.”
“No,” my father says, his voice dropping. “You lost because you’re weak.”
He stays still, watching me with a kind of pity that feels carved out of him.
“You think you’re the star? You’re the overhead,” he says, controlled, like he knows exactly what it’ll do.
“You’re terrified that if you listen to anyone else, there won’t be enough of you left to matter.
But here’s the truth, Dominic: there is no ‘you’ without my bank account.
You’re a fast driver, but there are a thousand fast drivers.
Luka has the head for this. He has the temperament.
I should have put him in that seat years ago and saved myself the decade I wasted trying to force a champion out of second-rate talent.
Your brother understands how not to make us look like a problem. ”
The air leaves the room. That’s the line. The one we’ve been dancing around since I was eleven years old.
“Then go put him in it,” I say, my voice deathly quiet. “Go find your perfect son and stay with him. Because you’re done. Don't come back to my track. Don't come to the next race. I don't want you there. I don't need you.”
My father stares at me for a long beat. “You think you can do this without me? You’ll be a footnote in a season. Without the name and my backing, you’re just an angry kid who’s good at hitting marks.”
“Get out,” I breathe.
He turns for the door, his posture as rigid as the machine I just climbed out of. He doesn't look back.
The silence that follows is deafening. My hands are shaking—actually shaking.
It isn't the familiar, numbness that usually wraps around me like a second skin to survive a race. This is different. This is a raw, violent pulse that has nothing to do with apexes or engines or the prestige of the Valerio name. It’s the realization that I’ve finally cleared the room.
I realize I have no one left.
I grab a heavy glass from the table and hurl it against the wall, the shards spraying across the tile in a frantic, glittering mess that matches the state of my chest.
I yank the door open, ready to burn down whatever is left of the day, but I stop dead.
Carter is standing there.
She’s pressed lightly near the opposite wall, arms loose at her sides like she hasn’t decided what to do with them yet.
She’s wearing my family’s name across her clothes, and for a second, I hate the sight of it.
She looks like she just arrived, but the stillness in her posture tells me she heard every word.
“Dominic,” she says.
The way she says my name... it’s soft. It’s heavy. To my ears, it sounds like pity—like she’s looking at the fallout behind me and seeing a boy who just realized he’s completely alone.
“Don’t,” I snap, the word coming out like a snarl.
I don’t wait for her to apologize for listening, and I don’t wait to see if that soft look is actually sympathy. I can’t handle either. I storm past her, my shoulder brushing hers, leaving the smell of sweat and failure in the hallway behind me.