She had a mind-boggling head for numbers and a calculating mind that secretly terrified me at the best of times. That she also used that mind as an investment analyst to turn millions into billions for the Salvatore family was the only reason Oraziohad allowed her to join Furia Racing, the Formula One team I’d risked life and limb to turn from dream to reality.
The dream now hung in serious balance because finishing anywhere but first, especially if the top step was taken by the scarlet-red car in the lead, would drive Orazio into another days’-long ranting I could do without.
‘Is second a possibility?’ I asked Bibi, even though I guessed what her answer would be.
‘I’m sorry, but no. It’ll be close but we’ll run out of laps before that can happen.’
‘Fuck!’
Despite her sound analysis, I couldn’t stop myself from flooring the pedal. The one thousand horsepower beast responded like a dream, harvesting every last kilojoule from the power unit, edging me closer and closer to my nemesis as the laps dwindled.
From the corner of my eye I saw thetifosirise to their feet as the grandstands whizzed by. Sparks flew behind my race car in a shower of light. We’d gone too aggressive with the ride height and my tailbone was definitely feeling the effect of the carbon-fibre floor scraping the ground, but I didn’t care. Good thing I was fit and used to sustained pain. An ice bath after the race and a few cognacs and I’d be right as rain.
As to whether I would escape unscathed from Orazio’s disappointment without him implementing the ultimatum hanging over my head was another matter.
Jaw clenched tight, I winced through correcting an understeer at the Ascari chicane and rounded Parabolica just in time to see the scarlet monstrosity of Mancinelli Racing streak past the checkered flag to win the race.
I stabbed my radio. ‘Tell me we made it?’ I snapped.
‘Yeah, we’re 11.2 seconds ahead of fourth,’ Brazzo confirmed. ‘Take away the ten seconds and we’re cool,’ he added, as if I couldn’t do the math.
Third place. A spot I actively detested. It was two steps down from my rightful position. And it was a place that was also becoming far too familiar. Suspiciously so.
‘Rafa?’
‘Sì, debrief in an hour.’
I exhaled and manoeuvred the racing green and black car into its resting position, confident my silent command was understood. On days like today I was glad my brother and right-hand man was equally as ruthless, if not more so.
With my dreams of wresting the Salvatore name from a bloody and gruesome history into a semblance of respectability, I would need every ally I could cajole, threaten and blackmail into subservience.
The continued roaring of thetifosidrowned out the blows of my fists pummelling the shit stain whining incoherently for his life on the floor. The wild Italian fans were rabid on any given day. But when one of their own won and another occupied the podium in Monza, the spiritual home of motor racing? The atmosphere was off the charts.
There would be partying into the night in Monza and around the country.
Unfortunately, unlike the past three years straight, it wasn’t a Salvatore mounting the top step and basking in the adoration of the thousands who flooded the racetrack after the chequered flag fell.
My fury after being forced to stand next to Narciso Mancinelli, watch the cocky, snot-nosed kid smirk and fidget his way through the national anthem and all but shove the first-place trophy under my nose was at boiling point. No doubt there would be images splashed all over the newspapers by nightfall stoking the juicy private and public race and family rivalry. Wondering how I was taking the threat of being deposed by a driver ten years my junior.
Yeah, that shit ended tonight.
The smell of motor oil, hot tyre blankets and naked terror filled the air as I leaned over the man attempting to curl into a foetal position. His thin jumpsuit didn’t protect him from the stomp of my boot on his ribs.
There was a vein of recklessness in my actions tonight. For one thing, I was meting out punishment not in a secluded spot far from prying eyes, but in the back of the Furia Racing Team garage in the pit lane, where a dozen team motor homes and hospitality suites filled with people risked someone stumbling onto my little impromptu tête à tête with the snivelling weasel.
The extra muscle that permanently shadowed every Salvatore from my grandfather down were dutifully guarding the various entrances, but still, with phone cameras everywhere these days, few things remained truly secret for long.
I didn’t care.
Not when everything I’d worked so hard for was on the line. When my fickle grandfather was growing restless, making noises about it being time to ‘abandon that shitty little pipe dream’. As if that same dream hadn’t cleared the Salvatore Organisation a cool half a billion last year in legitimate sponsorship and another billion through a few shrewd laundering schemes.
Frustration drove my fist into flesh already pulpy from my beating, and I barely felt the wince as my knuckles jarred against bone.
Another gasping appeal for mercy only made me madder. ‘You know what you need to do. The pain stops if you give me the names.’
‘Easy, brother,’ an amused voice said from beside me.
I turned to meet dark cognac-brown eyes. Rafaelle took a step back at my fierce look, his hands rising in mock surrender while his lips twitched.
