Page 188 of Knot So Lucky

"We'll see," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral despite the surveillance I know we're maintaining on him.

Because despite the sabotage suspicions, Marco has been nothing but professional and supportive. If he's being coerced, I haven't seen evidence of it yet.

"Thanks for the assist, Roran," I call toward the comm station.

"Anytime, sis. Anytime."

Late-night simulator sessions have become routine.

The Thorne compound never truly sleeps—there's always someone working, always a driver in the simulator running endless laps, always engineers analyzing data and chasing those marginal gains that separate winners from also-rans.

Tonight it's just me and Luca.

The main simulator—a fully enclosed cockpit that replicates actual race conditions with disturbing accuracy—hums with electronic life. Multiple screens display telemetry data, track maps, competition timing.

And there, on the leaderboard, is Dante Moretti's name.

He's been climbing steadily, his new team apparently providing the resources he needs to unlock genuine speed. His lap times are competitive, consistently in the top five across multiple circuits.

It's impressive. Concerning. And raises questions about how much his previous poor performance was actual skill deficit versus being held back by inadequate equipment.

"He's fast," Luca comments, settling into the simulator beside me for our head-to-head session. "Faster than I expected."

"Yeah." I study the times, mentally calculating the gaps. "New team must be good. Or he's more talented than we gave him credit for."

"Or both." Luca's expression is thoughtful. "Don't underestimate him just because he's an asshole. Some of the best drivers I've competed against were complete dicks."

The wisdom in that observation makes me smirk.

"Speaking from personal experience?"

"Fuck off, Lane." But he's smiling as he says it.

We run simulations for two hours, pushing each other to find faster lines, experiment with different strategies, build the kind of competitive understanding that only comes from direct wheel-to-wheel racing.

Luca is relentless—finding speed in places I wouldn't have considered, forcing me to adapt and improve just to keep up. But I give as good as I get, occasionally beating him with lines that prioritize exit speed over minimum apex distance.

By the time we finish, we're both mentally exhausted but satisfied with the progress.

"Same time tomorrow?" Luca asks as we exit the simulators.

"Wouldn't miss it."

The private test session starts normally.

Clear day, perfect track conditions, fresh tires on the prototype. I'm running evaluation laps, collecting baseline data before we implement the latest aerodynamic updates.

Richard watches from pit wall, his voice calm through the comm. "Looking good, Rory. Keep it smooth, we need clean data."

"Copy."

Lap three is perfect. Nailing every apex, maximizing every straight, feeling the car respond exactly as it should. This is the zone—where conscious thought fades and pure instinct takes over.

Then, mid-corner through Turn Eight, everything goes wrong.

The engine mapping switches modes without warning—suddenly I have significantly less power than the corner requires. The car understeers, pushing wide toward the barriers as I fight to compensate.

My steering input lags, a fraction of a second delay between turning the wheel and the car responding. At racing speeds, that fraction is an eternity.