From my quiet corner on the SkyPark observation deck of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel, I looked down at the Singapore racetrack. I wasn’t sure how my security had managed to cordon off the quiet spot for me considering this was one of the most popular features of the hotel, and I didn’t much care. The sultry temperature and cold cocktail with the sights and sounds of the vibrant city at my feet was the perfect way to end an imperfect day.
I should have been relieved that after two breaches of security they had finally got their act together. It didn’t even matter that half of them had been swapped over, probably due to several demotions and a few fist-to-jaw reckonings in the two weeks since the last race.
It didn’t matter because the next breach to occur would be from me. A mostly willing participant.
My phone buzzed with a new text message. They had been arriving all day long from Cesare, with hard questions about his mole, to which my every answer sounded highly suspect, dropped me deeper into a pit where my guilt seemed unquestionable.
My own clandestine probing had confirmed what Cesare knew and I had suspected. That somehow a different agenda had been carefully laid within the Mancinelli racing team. One I’d been deliberately shut out of.
Every question he’d asked that I hadn’t been able to competently answer – because surprise surprise, my access to vital information had suddenly been blocked, or said information seemed to have vanished into thin air – shamed me.
The final straw had arrived halfway through the week, when I’d been preparing – silently relieved – to leave New York for Singapore.
All week my grandfather had swung from the high of his certainty that – despite there being seven more races to the end of the season – we would win this year’s championship. Hell, he was already planning exactly how big the celebrations would be.
But what disturbed me most was the frequency with which he’d pursued his other new favourite subject. Dropping names of eligible men he’d loved to see as sons-in-law into our conversations.
After one such reference aimed squarely at me, Narciso had smirked, his gaze shifting from a departing Bonafacio to me. ‘Careful, sis, I think Nonno Bona is planning a triple celebration with marrying you off as the cherry on top of the two crowns I’m going to win us this year.’
The grunt of pain that followed had diverted my attention to Sofiya to find her watching me with a carefully neutral expression.
‘What was that for?’ Ciso grumbled, rubbing his calf and glaring at Sofiya.
‘I think it was for talking about your older sister as if she’s a side of mutton in a butcher’s shop,’ I’d snapped.
He’d had the grace to flush with shame. ‘I said cherry, not mutton,’ he’d muttered. ‘Cherries are nicer.’
But his words had burrowed deep, trailing white-hot vapours of fear behind it.
If Bonafacio was getting over his fear of losing his precious moneywoman, then I was fucked. Because it meant he’d either found my replacement, or worse, a husband who he believed he could control just as ruthlessly as he controlled every member of his family. But unfortunately, spineless men who cowered before El Topo tended to take out their frustration on their wives behind closed doors. The thought of finding myself in that position was the very definition of hell.
‘And you shouldn’t count your chickens just yet, Ciso,’ I’d added.
That warning, admittedly couched in a little spite, hadn’t appeased me for long. And it had earned me a hooded glare from Sofiya for threatening her precious baby brother, closing the door on the idea of asking her if she knew the details of Bonafacio’s plans.
By the time I’d decided to track her down to ask her anyway the next morning, she was gone. Narciso had shrugged his ignorance when I’d asked if he knew her whereabouts. My father had smirked and said, ‘She’s doing her part to safeguard the championship. You stick to doing your part to ensure the money is flowing in the right direction,sì? And plan for every contingency. We can’t afford any mishaps this close to the end.’
‘What does that mean? What contingencies?’
He’d waved me away impatiently. ‘Nothing, nothing. Your grandfather will let you know if anything is needed from you.’
And that had been that. I arrived in Singapore with a million more questions hanging over my head than I’d gone home to New York with.
The perpetual churning in my belly spun faster as another text arrived. But it wasn’t a question this time.
Lose your security.
My heart jumped into my throat, but the sensation chasing it was neither fear nor concern. More like the feeling you got when you’re hovering over the first plunge on a rollercoaster, knowing your breath was about to be snatched clean from your lungs and your stomach would be smooching your spine. And welcoming the thrill it would bring. But hell if I was going to make this easy or blindly follow his intentions for me.
Not happening.
I felt his seething irritation and dominance from how quickly the words popped up.
Lose them. Now. Temporarily.
Or this time Fist will disable them PERMANENTLY.
Start with the old fucker who’s been leering at your tits for the last ten minutes.
