Page 1 of On The Edge

PROLOGUE

Cruz

“You did it. You fucking did it, man.”

Thumps on my helmet. Pats on my back. Quick hugs teem with astonished excitement.

I blink back the tears that threaten and allow the moment to soak in.

I did it.

I really fucking did it.

A lump of emotion lodges in my throat, and pride swells in my chest. My third race in Formula 1, and I place on the fucking podium.

That’s right. I’m a goddamn Navarro. To those who thought I was riding on the coattails of my legacy, I just proved them wrong.

And me right.

My crew celebrates around me as they push me toward the staging area for the trophy ceremony, but I search the crowd for only one set of eyes.

For one man.

For the giant I’ve spent my life seeking approval from.

And when I see him, when I lock eyes with the quiet steel in them, my smile freezes . . . then fades.

He gives the subtlest shake of his head as he walks toward me. “Third?” he says under his breath, disappointment and disgust edging his tone. “That’s all you could get with all the wide-open space you were given? You’re a Navarro. Perform like it.”

The minute the words are out, his smile reappears for everyone around us to see. The Dominic Navarro façade firmly in place. He shakes the hands held out to him. He accepts the congratulations on my behalf. He shows the world the only side of him they’ve ever known.

And when I take the podium later and look out through the sting of champagne in my eyes, he’s nowhere to be found. Not with my crew. Not with the other families of the podium holders. Not even mixed somewhere in the back of the crowd.

“You’re a Navarro. Perform like it.”

It’s my third race in Formula 1, asshole.

I am a Navarro. On track to live up to my grandfather’s greatness. And in the process?

I plan to beat every fucking milestone you ever held.

I’ve only just begun.

If you’re jealous of my talent now? Just you fucking wait.

CHAPTER ONE

Cruz

“I never claimed to be a saint,” I say and slip my sunglasses down to take them off only to push them back up the minute the sun hits my eyes.

A fucking kick drum is pounding in my head, and the bright sun isn’t doing me any favors in quieting it down.

“How long ago was your IV?” Lennox Kincade, my agent, asks. When I don’t respond, she prompts, “Cruz?”

“That was you?” Question of the morning answered. Not that I wondered about it too long.

Too many people depend on me. No doubt one of those people sent the nurse to my hotel room to make sure I recovered. Now, I know who ordered it.