Prologue
ROME
Electrifying.
That’s what it’s like to be in this seat.
Zero to sixty in 2.6 seconds with nothing but my pulse strumming wildly underneath my skin.
I check out mentally, and for a moment, it’s just me, the track, and my car.
Unfortunately, it all comes rushing back in when I get a glimpse of blue in the corner of my eye. One of Vanstone’s drivers has been harassing me from the beginning of the race, both of us neck and neck, and with each chicane, he tries to overtake me.
My father’s voice probes the inside of my ear, and I swallow a growl. The concentration I hold is impenetrable, even with his seething tone floating around my helmet.
“You need to be more aggressive,” he says, his words thick with irritation.
“I’m ahead,” I argue.
There’s a corner coming into view, the same corner I’ve been cutting as short as possible.
“He’s struggling with the corners. Maintain your position,” he reiterates.
My heartbeat quickens with every demand, and just like every race since I was a child, I silently ask myselfwhy.
Why do I try so hard to prove that I’m the best to a man who continuously reminds me that I’m the opposite? Why do I work my ass off, day in and day out? Why am I here? Inhiscar?
But then, suddenly, the tires beneath me vibrate, the carbon fiber and metals of the car that surround me shake my bones. The taste of victory, so fucking sweet, sits on my tongue as the podium dangles right in front of me.
It’s theonlything in the world that has given me a high.
It’s the only thing in the world that I’ve ever been praised for, even if short-lived.
“Rome!” my father barks my name, as if I’ve gone somewhere. “Don’t brake until I tell you to.”
I grit my teeth. “I’ve been braking fine the entire race.”
“Don’t fucking argue with me on this. Do you want to win? Or do you want to be a failure?”
If it wouldn’t fuck up my focus, I’d roll my eyes. What aninsolentfucking question.
The corner is in front of me, and I wait like the prodigal son that I am, keeping my foot off the brake until his demand strikes through. Except, he doesn’t, and panic claws up my throat.
My foot hovers until, finally, his barking demand cuts through. “Now!”
I brake, a snarl already on the edge of my lips from causing me to lose position with the late braking, but to my shock, I’m still ahead.
“I can’t believe that fucking worked,” I mutter, shifting my focus to keep my position.
“I told you to trust me, son.”
I recognize that tone. Pride, but something else too. Conceited yet patronizing—both things my father has beenlabeled as throughout the years of taking Pierce Racing to the top.
Two more times around the track, and my braking is somehow even tighter.
I’m driving aggressively, braking quicker than I ever have, taking corners sharply without colliding with the wall or, worse, another driver.
My father’s calm assurances keep me level-headed, but something red is flashing on my steering wheel that is no longer every few miles but instead a constant.
