“Understood,” I bit out.
But I didn’t pull back.
I pushed harder.
Lap thirteen. I overtook him again—briefly—in Turn Nine, but he got me back at the hairpin with a late lunge. Always late. Always just on the edge of dirty.
Lap fourteen. I was back on his tail. My vision narrowed to the red rain light blinking on the back of his car. I hated it. Hated him. Hated that I still didn’t know what the fuck was going on with our software. Hated that I couldn’t trust anyone. Not even myself.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Mac warned.
Too late.
Lap fifteen. We came screaming down the back straight into Turn Fourteen. No DRS in the wet, but I tucked into his slipstream, chasing every scrap of speed.
He braked late. I braked later.
There wasn’t enough room.
I lunged down the inside, desperate, reckless—
And collided with his rear tyre with my front wing.
The impact hit like a hammer.
His car snapped sideways with terrifying force. Mine jackknifed, tyres screaming. We slid together in a violent arc, carbon fibre flying, water spraying like a god damn tsunami. The wall came fast.
My head snapped forward, caught by the HANS device. A crunch. Screeching metal. Then silence.
Yellow flags. Shouts in my earpiece. Marshals running.
I blinked hard and saw Moretti’s car facing the wrong way in the runoff. Steam hissed from his engine bay. He was moving. Alive. No doubt swearing in Italian over the radio.
“Are you all right, Aleks?” Mac barked, probably for the fifth time. I blinked and shook my head to clear it.
“I’m fine.”
The crowd roared. Some boos. Some cheers. It didn’t matter.
Screens all around the circuit lit up with replays. Slow-motion shots from every angle.
There was no question.
I’d taken him out.
And everyone had seen it.
Marshals were already sprinting towards the two wrecked cars, carbon debris littering the runoff like confetti. Yellow flags waved furiously. I watched the safety car peel out on a nearby screen.
I unstrapped, adrenaline still screaming through my system, heart pounding so hard I could barely hear Mac in my ear. I climbed free, boots slipping slightly on wet tarmac. The car was mangled. Undrivable. But I’d walked away.
That was what mattered.
I staggered towards the gap in the barrier where I could leave the track, giving the marshals a quick thumbs-up. The air reeked of smoke, burning rubber and ozone. I didn’t care about the pain in my shoulder. I just wanted to get across the barrier, into clear space, and breathe.
Behind me, Moretti's car hissed angrily, its engine silent but its presence still loud. I didn’t look for him. I didn’t want to.
I was across the barrier and tugging my helmet off when the sound of boots crunching rapidly against gravel came at me from behind.
