Page 22 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

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Violet

“Nicholas has always been…” Blake hesitates, searching for a diplomatic word.

“A complete nightmare?” I supply.

“I was going to say ‘challenging to manage,’ but yes, a nightmare works, too.” Blake glances at his watch. “If we’re lucky—really lucky—we might find a replacement for him before he destroys the team from within.”

I shake my head. “You know that’s not possible.”

“Is it not? Because I’ve run the numbers, Violet. Either Nicholas will blow up William’s patience with his ego, creating a media disaster we can’t afford, or he’ll drag our performance down while William carries the team on his back. ”

“We don’t have the money, Blake.” The words taste bitter. I’ve repeated them so often lately, they’ve become my mantra. “We don’t have the money. We can’t afford to replace him.”

Blake sighs. “I know. His father’s sponsorship—”

“—is the only reason we’re still on the grid at all.” I finish his sentence, the reality heavy between us. “Without Gritt Tires backing us, we’d be done. Finished. Colton Racing would be nothing but a footnote in F1 history.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. My former employer now holds our fate in its grip. I’d climbed the ranks at Gritt to Vice President before returning to save my father’s team. Now, I need them more than they ever needed me.

“Replacing Nicholas would be the wrong move right now,” I continue, keeping my voice level, even though I want to scream. “The board would fire me before the ink dried on his termination papers.”

“And the scrutiny online—” Blake starts.

“—would be relentless.” I’ve seen enough social media comments questioning my competence. More would follow if I made such a drastic move. “We’re already a joke in the paddock. Have been for over a decade.”

The mocking still stings, even after all these years. Colton Racing, once respected, now the team everyone dismisses before the season even begins. The team where careers go to die. Except, I refuse to let that be our story any longer.

Blake suddenly stops walking, his hand on my arm. “Maybe we could shift Nicholas to a different role. Technical ambassador or something. Give him a fancy title that keeps his father happy, but gets him out of the car.”

I shake my head. “His contract specifies a race seat. We’d be in breach, and the penalties would bankrupt us.

” I dig my fingernails into my palms. “All we can do is manage them. Hope William’s professionalism outweighs his instinct to throttle Nicholas.

” What I witnessed was enough to understand that they were not getting along.

“William seems adaptable. His file said he’s worked with difficult teammates before.”

“Yes, but Nicholas is a special brand of difficult.” I run a hand through my curls. “Did you know he told our engineers that the car felt ‘too responsive’ during the sim test? Too responsive . As if that’s a problem.”

Blake chuckles. “Maybe he’s more comfortable with a shopping cart. Explains his lap times last season.”

A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. There’s nothing like Blake reminding me to find humor in the absurdity, even when everything seems to be falling apart.

We reach the conference room door, and I pause. Through the frosted glass, I can make out the vague outline of the video conference setup. Somewhere on the other end of that call will be Silas Belforte—potential savior, or just another dead end in our desperate search for sponsorship.

“What do we know about this Belforte character?” I ask, straightening my violet silk blouse .

Blake consults his tablet. “Construction magnate. Belforte Construction specializes in ultra-luxury hotels and resorts, mainly in the Middle East. Very successful. Very rich.” He hesitates. “And very connected to the Sbagliare family.”

I raise an eyebrow. “The mafia?”

“The very same. Though, all reports suggest his business is legitimate. Clean money, at least on paper.”

Tension coils in my stomach. We’re desperate for funding, but a sponsor with mafia ties could create problems we can’t afford. Then again, Formula 1 has never been overly concerned with the moral character of its money sources.

“If his money’s clean, and his interest is genuine…” I leave the thought unfinished.

Blake nods, understanding. “We’re not in a position to be picky.”

“No,” I agree, the weight of Colton Racing’s future pressing down on my shoulders. “We’re really not.”

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. Team Principal Violet Colton—composed and in control. It’s the mask I wear, the armor that protects me from the doubts that plague me when I feel alone.

“Ready?” Blake asks.

“Always.” I push open the door, stepping into a meeting that might determine whether my father’s legacy survives another season, or crumbles under my watch.

The video screen flickers to life, and I’m face-to-face with Silas Belforte.

His salt-and-pepper hair is meticulously styled, his suit so perfectly tailored, it might be painted on.

But it’s his eyes that catch me—baby blue, startlingly bright against his tanned skin, and completely at odds with the dangerous aura he exudes.

This is not the gaze of a construction magnate.

This is the gaze of a predator assessing prey.

“Ms. Colton,” he says, and his voice surprises me—warm, with an Italian accent that wraps around each syllable like silk. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, even if only through this screen.”

I straighten my posture instinctively. “Mr. Belforte. Thank you for making time for us today.”

“Please.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Call me Silas. Mr. Belforte was my father, and he was…” A pause, followed by an unexpected grin that transforms his face. “Well, he was a miserable bastard, if I’m being honest.”

Blake coughs beside me, almost choking on his tea, clearly as taken aback as I am by this casual admission. I hide my surprise behind a professional smile.

“Then Silas it is. And you can call me Violet. ”

His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles—not what I expected from a man rumored to be the consigliere of Italy’s most dangerous crime family. “Wonderful. I’ve always believed business is better conducted between friends than strangers.”

I study him carefully, trying to reconcile this charismatic man with the dangerous reputation that precedes him.

We know what he is—or at least, what he’s connected to.

The Sbagliare family doesn’t exactly hide their activities.

Yet, here he is, talking about friendship as if we’re meeting for coffee to talk about the latest series on streaming instead of desperately seeking his money.

“I’m curious,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “What draws Belforte Construction to Formula 1? It’s not the most obvious fit for luxury resort development.”

Silas leans back in his chair, and I catch a glimpse of an elegant office behind him—cream walls, minimalist art, a view of what might be Lake Como through floor-to-ceiling windows.

“A fair question. The simple answer is that I’m a fan.” His expression softens with genuine enthusiasm. “I’ve followed Formula 1 since I was a boy, watching races at Monza with my grandfather. The speed, the precision, the engineering excellence—it’s breathtaking.”

He leans forward, those unnerving blue eyes focused entirely on me. “But more specifically, I’m a fan of Colton Racing. Your father built something special, Violet. I remember when your team first joined the grid in the late 80s. The innovation, the passion, the wins—it was inspiring. ”

There’s a sudden pang in my chest at the mention of my father. “You have a good memory.” Or, you've been watching unlicensed documentaries on YouTube to prepare for this meeting .

“For things that matter, yes.” He taps his fingers against his desk—they’re adorned with two thick, gold rings. “I’ve been watching your efforts to rebuild. It’s… admirable.”

“Admirable, but not yet successful,” I admit, deciding honesty might serve better than pretense with this man. “We have potential, but we need investment to realize it.”

Blake shifts beside me, clearly uncomfortable with my directness, but Silas’ face breaks into a genuine smile.

“I appreciate straightforwardness, Violet. So, let me be equally direct; I’m interested in investing in Colton Racing, but I want to be clear about my expectations, and what I bring to the table.”

For the next thirty minutes, we discuss specifics—how much funding he’s considering, what visibility he expects for Belforte Construction, potential collaborations beyond a simple logo placement on the driver's suit. Throughout it all, I’m struck by how knowledgeable he is about Formula 1’s commercial aspects.

This is no casual fan throwing money at a hobby.

Silas Belforte understands the business intimately.

“My company is legitimate,” he says at one point, addressing the elephant in the room without my having to bring it up.

“Every euro I’d invest in Colton Racing comes from Belforte Construction’s profits—hotels and resorts built legally, and operated transparently.

I understand your potential concerns about my… family connections. ”

I steadily hold his gaze. “I appreciate your candor.”

“The Sbagliare name opens doors, but it also creates assumptions. I’ve worked hard to build something separate from that legacy.” A shadow passes over his face. “I serve as a consultant to certain family interests, yes, but my primary focus for many years has been legitimate business.”

I wonder if he truly believes this distinction matters—if money can be partially clean, like laundry that’s gone through only half a wash cycle.

“Our sport has regulations regarding funding sources,” I say carefully.

He laughs, the sound unexpectedly genuine. “Violet, we both know Formula 1 has taken money from dictatorships, arms dealers, and companies destroying the planet. I’m practically a saint by comparison.”

I can’t help the small smile that escapes. He’s not wrong.