Page 43 of Racing for Redemption
The video screen flickers to life, and I’m face-to-face with Silas Belforte. His salt-and-pepper hair is meticulously styled, his suit so perfectly tailored, it might be painted on. But it’s his eyes that catch me—baby blue, startlingly bright against his tanned skin, and completely at odds with the dangerous aura he exudes. This is not the gaze of a construction magnate. This is the gaze of a predator assessing prey.
“Ms. Colton,” he says, and his voice surprises me—warm, with an Italian accent that wraps around each syllable like silk. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, even if only through this screen.”
I straighten my posture instinctively. “Mr. Belforte. Thank you for making time for us today.”
“Please.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Call me Silas. Mr. Belforte was my father, and he was…” A pause, followed by an unexpected grin that transforms his face. “Well, he was a miserable bastard, if I’m being honest.”
Blake coughs beside me, almost choking on his tea, clearly as taken aback as I am by this casual admission. I hide my surprise behind a professional smile.
“Then Silas it is. And you can call me Violet.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles—not what I expected from a man rumored to be theconsigliereof Italy’s most dangerous crime family. “Wonderful. I’ve always believed business is better conducted between friends than strangers.”
I study him carefully, trying to reconcile this charismatic man with the dangerous reputation that precedes him. We know what he is—or at least, what he’s connected to. The Sbagliare family doesn’t exactly hide their activities. Yet, here he is, talking about friendship as if we’re meeting for coffee to talk about the latest series on streaming instead of desperately seeking his money.
“I’m curious,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “What draws Belforte Construction to Formula 1? It’s not the most obvious fit for luxury resort development.”
Silas leans back in his chair, and I catch a glimpse of an elegant office behind him—cream walls, minimalist art, a view of what might be Lake Como through floor-to-ceiling windows.
“A fair question. The simple answer is that I’m a fan.” His expression softens with genuine enthusiasm. “I’ve followed Formula 1 since I was a boy, watching races at Monza with my grandfather. The speed, the precision, the engineering excellence—it’s breathtaking.”
He leans forward, those unnerving blue eyes focused entirely on me. “But more specifically, I’m a fan of Colton Racing. Your father built something special, Violet. I remember when your team first joined the grid in the late 80s. The innovation, the passion, the wins—it was inspiring.”
There’s a sudden pang in my chest at the mention of my father. “You have a good memory.”Or, you've been watching unlicensed documentaries on YouTube to prepare for this meeting.
“For things that matter, yes.” He taps his fingers against his desk—they’re adorned with two thick, gold rings. “I’ve been watching your efforts to rebuild. It’s… admirable.”
“Admirable, but not yet successful,” I admit, deciding honesty might serve better than pretense with this man. “We have potential, but we need investment to realize it.”
Blake shifts beside me, clearly uncomfortable with my directness, but Silas’ face breaks into a genuine smile.
“I appreciate straightforwardness, Violet. So, let me be equally direct; I’m interested in investing in Colton Racing, but I want to be clear about my expectations, and what I bring to the table.”
For the next thirty minutes, we discuss specifics—how much funding he’s considering, what visibility he expects for Belforte Construction, potential collaborations beyond a simple logo placement on the driver's suit. Throughout it all, I’m struck by how knowledgeable he is about Formula 1’s commercial aspects. This is no casual fan throwing money at a hobby. Silas Belforte understands the business intimately.
“My company is legitimate,” he says at one point, addressing the elephant in the room without my having to bring it up. “Every euro I’d invest in Colton Racing comes from Belforte Construction’s profits—hotels and resorts built legally, and operated transparently. I understand your potential concerns about my… family connections.”
I steadily hold his gaze. “I appreciate your candor.”
“The Sbagliare name opens doors, but it also creates assumptions. I’ve worked hard to build something separate from that legacy.” A shadow passes over his face. “I serve as a consultant to certain family interests, yes, but my primary focus for many years has been legitimate business.”
I wonder if he truly believes this distinction matters—if money can be partially clean, like laundry that’s gone through only half a wash cycle.
“Our sport has regulations regarding funding sources,” I say carefully.
He laughs, the sound unexpectedly genuine. “Violet, we both know Formula 1 has taken money from dictatorships, arms dealers, and companies destroying the planet. I’m practically a saint by comparison.”
I can’t help the small smile that escapes. He’s not wrong.
Blake interjects with questions about logistics and timelines, and I’m grateful for his practical focus. The conversation shifts to more concrete details—potential contract terms, exclusivity clauses, integration with our existing sponsors.
As we near the end of our allotted time, Silas leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I don’t make decisions like this without meeting in person. The Italian Grand Prix is a couple of months away. I own a villa near Monza. Perhaps we could continue our discussion there? Good food, better wine, and an opportunity to see if we’re a good fit for each other.”
The proposal sounds innocent enough, but I’m not naïve. Meeting a mafia-connected businessman at his private villa carries certain risks.
“That sounds reasonable,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Though, I typically prefer to conduct business at the track, or in public venues.”
His smile doesn’t falter, but something shifts in his eyes—a brief flash of something calculating before it’s replaced with warmth again. “Of course. But I find business discussions are more productive when people are comfortable. My chef makes a lasagna that will change your life.” He spreads his hands. “Bring whoever makes you feel secure. Your colleague here is welcome, of course.”
