Page 111 of Racing for Redemption
“Someone had to,” Blake says, shrugging. “He needed to understand that his actions had consequences beyond his own career.”
The knot in my stomach tightens. “I should have been the one—”
“To fire him on the spot?” Blake raises an eyebrow. “Because that’s what would have happened, and we both know it. You were too angry.”
He’s right. I had been livid when I heard the news that William had punched Dominic after the race. That kind of publicity damages everything we’re trying to build. But still, I’m the Team Principal. It was my responsibility. But deep down? Thank god that guy was finally punched in the face.
“What did you say to him?” I ask, resuming our walk toward the motorhome.
“That he needed to channel that fire into his driving, not into punching people who’ve been antagonizing drivers and teams since before he was born.” Blake’s voice softens. “He listened, Violet. He understood.”
I nod, grateful despite my stinging pride. “Thank you.”
We approach the Colton Racing motorhome, its glass and steel structure gleaming in the sunlight. I absently brush my fingers against the watch beneath my sleeve before I catch myself.Focus, Violet.
Inside, the air conditioning hits like a wall of relief. Nicholas sits alone at a table, eyes glued to his phone, watching something with earbuds in. At the other end of the room, three men huddle around design printouts spread across a table. Two engineers and—
William.
My breath catches. Two months feel like years and seconds simultaneously. His curls are shorter on the sides—a fresh fade—and he’s tanned, the golden hue making his hazel eyes more pronounced as they flick up to meet mine. His beard is neatly trimmed, framing a mouth I’ve spent too many nights remembering.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice crisp and professional as I address the room. No one would guess my pulse is sprinting like we’ve just won a championship. “Glad to see everyone’s already hard at work.”
Tom, William’s engineer, straightens. “Ms. Colton, welcome back. We were just discussing potential improvements for the European leg.”
“Excellent,” I say, moving past them to the espresso machine. I sense William’s gaze tracking me, and it takes everything in me to maintain the casual indifference of a boss, not a woman who knows how his hands feel against my skin. “Any breakthroughs?”
“We’re adjusting the front wing for Imola’s technical sections,” Johnson chimes in. “And testing a new floor design that should give us better downforce through Monaco’s corners.”
I nod, preparing my espresso and selecting a pastry from the platter. “Keep me updated on the simulations. I’ll be upstairs if anyone needs me.”
I don’t look at William again. Can’t trust myself to maintain the professional mask if I do. Instead, I exit with my breakfast and ascend the stairs to my office, the silence a relief after the charged air below.
My office is simple as usual—clean, minimal, and with the best view of the paddock. I settle at my desk, boot up my laptop, and try to focus on the backlog of emails rather than the lingering afterimage of William’s face. Two months of traveling the globe, meeting with potential sponsors, fighting for the future of Colton Racing—and all it takes is one glance to send me back to that night in Melbourne.
My phone buzzes. Unknown Italian number.
“Violet Colton,” I answer.
“Violet!” The voice is deep, confident, with the musical lilt of an Italian accent. “This is Silas Belforte, in case you didn't save my number. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Weren't we supposed to meet in Monza? Why this call?“Not at all, Silas. What do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I’ve acquired some VIP passes for the weekend and find myself in the paddock. Perhaps we could meet in person? I’m much more convinced by a handshake than an email or a video call.”
Direct. I like that. “I’d be happy to meet. The drivers will be heading to practice soon. Why don’t you come by our motorhome around 10? I can show you our operation.”
“Perfect! I look forward to it, Violet.”
I hang up, a tiny seed of hope sprouting in my chest. If he's pushing to meet with me earlier than we agreed, he's interested. Genuinely so. After two months of rejections, maybe—just maybe—our luck is changing by the hands of the most improbable figure ever.
At precisely 10, Blake knocks on my office door. “Belforte’s here,” he says, voice low. “And he’s exactly what you’d expect from a man with his reputation.”
I put on my jacket and follow Blake downstairs. The motorhome is nearly empty now, with the drivers and most engineers having left for practice. Standing by the entrance is a man who commands attention without trying.
Silas Belforte wears a three-piece suit that probably costs more than some cars. Tall, imposingly built, with salt-and-pepper hair, and the most startling blue eyes I’ve ever seen—which, in person, are more striking and intimidating than ever. He radiates danger and authority in equal measure. This is a man accustomed to power.
“Violet!” he exclaims, extending a hand. His smile transforms his face completely, softening the hard edges into something almost boyish. “What a pleasure to meet you in person.” He continues to throw me off big time. This doesn't match the aura.
