Page 157 of Knot So Fast
Surprisingly, Dimitri Volkov sits three seats down from me, his left leg elevated and wrapped in enough bandages to mummify a small pharaoh. His presence here is unexpected—rival teams don't usually do joint conferences, but apparently, when both drivers nearly die in suspicious circumstances, protocol goes out the window.
Terek sits to my right, fielding the initial barrage of questions with his usual efficiency. Harrison is on my left, tablet in hand, probably calculating impact forces and brake failure rates because that's how he processes trauma—through data.
The room is packed beyond capacity. Every major outlet has sent their top people, and the overflow is standing along the walls, cameras and microphones creating a forest of technology all aimed at us like weapons.
"Mr. Wolfe," a reporter from Sky Sports starts, his British accent crisp despite the chaos, "can you walk us through what you witnessed on track today?"
I lean toward the microphone, my voice coming out steady and emotionless, like I'm reading a grocery list instead of describing watching the woman I love nearly burn to death.
"I was focused on my own race. I became aware of an incident involving cars three and fourteen when the safety car was deployed. The team immediately informed me of the situation."
It's a non-answer, professionally delivered. The truth—that I was screaming her name into the radio, that I nearly crashed my own car trying to see what was happening in my mirrors, that I had to be physically restrained from leaving my car before the race was red-flagged—none of that belongs here.
"What's the current health situation of Miss Vale?" Another reporter, this one from L'Équipe, leans forward eagerly.
Terek takes this one. "Auren Vale is currently in stable condition at the circuit medical center. She's conscious and responding well to treatment. We expect a full recovery, though the timeline for her return to racing is yet to be determined."
The sanitized version. Not the part where she was unconscious for fifteen minutes. Not the broken ribs, the severe concussion, the smoke inhalation that had her coughing up black soot. Not the way she looked at me when she finally woke up and whispered "I remembered something" before the sedatives pulled her under again.
"Was this incident premeditated?" The question comes from a German reporter, direct and unsubtle.
"We're investigating—" Terek starts, but another reporter cuts him off.
"Was it a setup? Both cars failing simultaneously seems suspicious."
The room erupts into overlapping questions, voices rising as each reporter tries to be heard over the others. It's chaos—the kind that makes for great television but shit for actually conveying information.
Terek raises his hand, his voice cutting through the noise with military authority. "Enough! One at a time, or this conference ends now."
The threat works. The room settles into something resembling order, though the tension remains thick enough to choke on.
That's when Dimitri leans forward, his movement awkward with the injured leg, and speaks for the first time.
"Both cars had brake failure," he says, his Russian accent thicker than usual, whether from pain or emotion I can't tell. "Mine jammed completely at lap twenty-five, immediately after pit stop. Vale's did same."
The room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"Our technical experts—both teams—have already determined components were compromised," he continues, each word careful and deliberate. "Someone infiltrated both facilities. Someone tampered with both cars. Why?" He shrugs, the gesture somehow more ominous than any accusation. "Is unknown."
The explosion of questions that follows is predictable. Every reporter shouting at once, demanding details, conspiracy theories already forming. But one voice cuts through—an American reporter who's been covering Formula One longer than I've been alive.
"Mr. Volkov, how will your team proceed given your injury?"
Dimitri's jaw tightens, and I see him grip his crutches harder. "My leg is... how you say... out of commission. Shattered tibia, fractured fibula, damaged ligaments. Minimum six months recovery, possibly permanent limitation. I will be replaced."
The uproar that follows is immediate and total. Dimitri Volkov has been Ferrari's lead driver for three years, their best shot at a championship since the Schumacher era. Him stepping down—being forced to step down—is massive news.
But one reporter, young and hungry for controversy, asks the question that makes my blood boil.
"Why did you help Vale, knowing it would not only ruin your good leg but take you out of the competition?"
Before anyone can respond, a female reporter from the BBC interjects, her voice sharp with disgust at her colleague's question. "Obviously, if Dimitri hadn't interfered, Vale would have perished in the explosion. Are you seriously questioning saving a life?"
The young reporter doubles down, too stupid or too ambitious to recognize he's crossing a line. "Well, this is a competition, and he just got lucky she survived. His sacrifice might have been for nothing."
The silence that follows is deafening. Every person in the room turns to stare at the reporter like he's grown a second head. Even his colleagues edge away from him, creating a buffer zone of professional disgust.
Dimitri's response starts in Russian—a string of curses that need no translation, the venom in them universal. Then he switches to English, his voice low and dangerous.
