Page 42 of Racing for Redemption
“A complete nightmare?” I supply.
“I was going to say ‘challenging to manage,’ but yes, a nightmare works, too.” Blake glances at his watch. “If we’re lucky—really lucky—we might find a replacement for him before he destroys the team from within.”
I shake my head. “You know that’s not possible.”
“Is it not? Because I’ve run the numbers, Violet. Either Nicholas will blow up William’s patience with his ego, creating a media disaster we can’t afford, or he’ll drag our performance down while William carries the team on his back.”
“We don’t have the money, Blake.” The words taste bitter. I’ve repeated them so often lately, they’ve become my mantra. “We don’t have the money. We can’t afford to replace him.”
Blake sighs. “I know. His father’s sponsorship—”
“—is the only reason we’re still on the grid at all.” I finish his sentence, the reality heavy between us. “Without Gritt Tires backing us, we’d be done. Finished. Colton Racing would be nothing but a footnote in F1 history.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. My former employer now holds our fate in its grip. I’d climbed the ranks at Gritt to Vice President before returning to save my father’s team. Now, I need them more than they ever needed me.
“Replacing Nicholas would be the wrong move right now,” I continue, keeping my voice level, even though I want to scream. “The board would fire me before the ink dried on his termination papers.”
“And the scrutiny online—” Blake starts.
“—would be relentless.” I’ve seen enough social media comments questioning my competence. More would follow if I made such a drastic move. “We’re already a joke in the paddock. Have been for over a decade.”
The mocking still stings, even after all these years. Colton Racing, once respected, now the team everyone dismisses before the season even begins. The team where careers go to die. Except, I refuse to let that be our story any longer.
Blake suddenly stops walking, his hand on my arm. “Maybe we could shift Nicholas to a different role.Technical ambassador or something. Give him a fancy title that keeps his father happy, but gets him out of the car.”
I shake my head. “His contract specifies a race seat. We’d be in breach, and the penalties would bankrupt us.” I dig my fingernails into my palms. “All we can do is manage them. Hope William’s professionalism outweighs his instinct to throttle Nicholas.” What I witnessed was enough to understand that they were not getting along.
“William seems adaptable. His file said he’s worked with difficult teammates before.”
“Yes, but Nicholas is a special brand of difficult.” I run a hand through my curls. “Did you know he told our engineers that the car felt ‘too responsive’ during the sim test?Too responsive. As if that’s a problem.”
Blake chuckles. “Maybe he’s more comfortable with a shopping cart. Explains his lap times last season.”
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. There’s nothing like Blake reminding me to find humor in the absurdity, even when everything seems to be falling apart.
We reach the conference room door, and I pause. Through the frosted glass, I can make out the vague outline of the video conference setup. Somewhere on the other end of that call will be Silas Belforte—potential savior, or just another dead end in our desperate search for sponsorship.
“What do we know about this Belforte character?” I ask, straightening my violet silk blouse.
Blake consults his tablet. “Construction magnate. Belforte Construction specializes in ultra-luxury hotels and resorts, mainly in the Middle East. Very successful. Very rich.” He hesitates. “And very connected to the Sbagliare family.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The mafia?”
“The very same. Though, all reports suggest his business is legitimate. Clean money, at least on paper.”
Tension coils in my stomach. We’re desperate for funding, but a sponsor with mafia ties could create problems we can’t afford. Then again, Formula 1 has never been overly concerned with the moral character of its money sources.
“If his money’s clean, and his interest is genuine…” I leave the thought unfinished.
Blake nods, understanding. “We’re not in a position to be picky.”
“No,” I agree, the weight of Colton Racing’s future pressing down on my shoulders. “We’re really not.”
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. Team Principal Violet Colton—composed and in control. It’s the mask I wear, the armor that protects me from the doubts that plague me when I feel alone.
“Ready?” Blake asks.
“Always.” I push open the door, stepping into a meeting that might determine whether my father’s legacy survives another season, or crumbles under my watch.
