Page 23 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Blake interjects with questions about logistics and timelines, and I’m grateful for his practical focus. The conversation shifts to more concrete details—potential contract terms, exclusivity clauses, integration with our existing sponsors.

As we near the end of our allotted time, Silas leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

“I don’t make decisions like this without meeting in person.

The Italian Grand Prix is a couple of months away.

I own a villa near Monza. Perhaps we could continue our discussion there?

Good food, better wine, and an opportunity to see if we’re a good fit for each other. ”

The proposal sounds innocent enough, but I’m not na?ve. Meeting a mafia-connected businessman at his private villa carries certain risks.

“That sounds reasonable,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Though, I typically prefer to conduct business at the track, or in public venues.”

His smile doesn’t falter, but something shifts in his eyes—a brief flash of something calculating before it’s replaced with warmth again.

“Of course. But I find business discussions are more productive when people are comfortable. My chef makes a lasagna that will change your life.” He spreads his hands.

“Bring whoever makes you feel secure. Your colleague here is welcome, of course.”

Blake nods stiffly beside me.

“We’ll discuss the details closer to the race,” I say, not fully committing, but not refusing either. We need this money too desperately to dismiss him outright.

“Excellent. Please take your time to consider. Take however long you need to be one hundred percent sure of this.” Silas’ smile broadens. “I look forward to meeting you in person, Violet. I believe we’ll accomplish great things together.”

The call ends, and I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly.

“Well,” Blake says after a moment of silence. “That was…”

“Not what I expected,” I finish for him. “He’s very…”

“Charming? Laidback?” Blake offers. “For a mafia guy?”

“Yes.” I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “ Too charming and laid back, maybe. ”

“You’re not seriously considering going to his villa, are you?” Blake’s concern is evident. “That seems like the beginning of a crime documentary.”

I stand up, needing to move. “I don’t know. Everything feels too perfect. Why would someone like him want to invest in us? We’re a backmarker team with a decade of failure behind us.”

“Maybe he really is a fan.”

“Or, maybe he needs a high-profile way to launder money,” I counter, pacing the small room. “Though, why choose a struggling team for that? If visibility is the goal, there are better options.”

Blake watches me pace. “He seemed sincere about admiring your father.”

“People like that are trained to seem sincere about everything.” I stop at the window, looking out at the factory where our team is building a car that might be competitive if we had the proper funding.

“But he’s right about one thing—F1 has never been particularly ‘choosy’ about where money comes from. ”

“There’s a difference between sportswashing for a questionable government and taking money from an actual criminal organization,” Blake points out.

“Is there?” I turn to face him. “Honestly, I’m not sure there is anymore. Also, we’re taking money from his company, not his mafia family. Although, I can already imagine people online making the wrong connection.”

Blake shifts uncomfortably. “I still don’t like the idea of you meeting him alone. ”

“Who said anything about alone?” I manage a small smile. “You heard him—you’re invited, too.”

“Oh joy.” Blake deadpans. “Just how I want to spend a race weekend—playing bodyguard at a mobster’s villa.”

I return to my seat, suddenly exhausted. “I’ve been in worse situations, Blake. The biggest monsters aren’t usually the criminals, anyway. They’re the wolves in sheep’s clothing—the paddock predators with their perfect public images.”

Blake raises an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

I shake my head. “Nothing specific. Just… I’ve seen things in this sport. Heard things. Some of those ‘gentlemen’ Team Principals have done things that would make Silas Belforte look like a choirboy.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Blake mutters.

“My point is—I’m willing to give him a chance. His money could save this team. And surprisingly, I wasn’t irked by him.” I tap my fingers against the table. “Besides, if something happens to me, you’ll take over as Team Principal.”

Blake stares at me, horrified. “Absolutely not. I’m operations, not leadership.”

“Too bad.” I flash him a grin. “It’s in my will. If I die mysteriously, Colton Racing is your problem.”

“That’s not funny, Violet.”

“It’s a little funny.” I gather my papers. “Besides, I’m not married, no kids. Someone has to carry on the family business if Belforte decides to fit me with concrete shoes.” I tap on his shoulder. "You're like family, so I'm leaving the team to you. "

Blake shakes his head, but I catch the reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You have a morbid sense of humor.”

“Comes with the territory.” I stand, straightening my blazer. “Now, I need to review the aero data before I head home. The season starts in a few weeks, and mafia-tied sponsor or not, we need to be ready.”

The unnervingly blue, yet warm eyes of Silas Belforte, as he spoke of my father’s legacy, stay with me as I leave. Dangerous or not, he might be our last hope for survival. And in Formula 1, survival trumps moral purity every time.

The Porsche Taycan responds to my touch like it’s reading my mind, humming rather than roaring as I navigate through London traffic.

Night has fallen, the city’s lights smearing across my windshield like melting stars.

I tap the call button on my steering wheel, and Anna’s name appears on the display.

My shoulders relax in anticipation of her voice.

This video call is overdue. I’ve been avoiding it since Bali, knowing she’ll see right through my “everything’s fine” facade. Anna always does.

The line connects, and her face appears on my dashboard screen, blonde waves wild around her face, those blue eyes crinkling with delight .

“There she is! The elusive Violet Colton—most mysterious woman in motorsport who left me hanging in Bali,” she exclaims, her British accent tinged with the subtle inflections of Japanese that sound incredibly endearing. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten my face.”

“Impossible,” I reply, as a genuine smile spreads across my face for the first time today. “How could I forget that disaster you call hair?”

“Excuse you! This is called texture. You should try it sometime with those perfect curls of yours.” She leans closer to her camera. “Are you driving? Please tell me you’re actually going home at a reasonable hour.”

I check the time—9:43 PM. “Define reasonable.”

Anna groans. “Vi, we’ve talked about this. The team won’t fall apart if you leave before the sun goes supernova.”

“I had meetings,” I say defensively. “Important ones. Potential new sponsor.”

“Ooh, that sounds promising! Tell me everything.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

I laugh despite myself. “He’s… complicated. But that’s work talk, and I know how you feel about work talk.”

“Correct. Work talk is banned unless it involves scandalous paddock gossip.” She adjusts her position, and I glimpse her apartment behind her—minimalist Japanese decor with touches of her colorful personality scattered throughout.

Her expression softens. “Now, enough deflection. How are you? And I mean really, Vi. Not the press conference version. ”

The question hits harder than it should. I signal for a lane change, buying myself a few seconds.

“I’m… functioning,” I admit finally.

“Functioning.” She repeats the word flatly. “That’s the saddest verb I’ve ever heard.”

“Would you prefer ‘operational?’ ‘In working order?’” I try for levity, but hear the strain in my own voice.

Anna’s not having it. “I prefer ‘happy’ or ‘thriving’ or even ‘moderately content.’ What’s going on, Vi? Talk to me.”

I exhale slowly. “I’m tired, Annie. Really tired. I’m sleeping maybe three, four hours a night. The rest is just… work. Endless work. Trying to find sponsors, keep the one we have, manage the board’s expectations…”

“And by ‘manage the board’s expectations,’ you mean ‘stop them from firing you if the team doesn’t magically start winning?’”

“Something like that.” I navigate onto the highway, the Taycan accelerating smoothly. “I’ve got a new driver, though. Remember the reason I cut short our trip? He's already showing promise.”

“Oh?” I can hear the immediately piqued interest in her voice. “Do tell. Is he cute?”

“Anna!”

“What? It’s a relevant question. You’re spending most of your waking hours at that factory. Might as well have something nice to look at. ”

I roll my eyes, though she can’t see it. “He’s professional and fast. That’s what matters.”

“So he is cute. Got it.” She laughs at my silence. “Full name? Age? Instagram handle? I need to do some reconnaissance.”

“William Foster. Twenty-four. And I have no idea about his social media—I don’t follow my employees online like some kind of stalker.”

“William Foster,” she repeats, mentally taking notes. “I’ll investigate later. But stop dodging my real question. How are you feeling? Not the team, not the drivers. You, Violet.”

The directness of her question catches me off guard.

With anyone else, I’d deflect again, but this is Anna.

She’s seen me ugly-cry over failed exams, held my hair back after too many tequila shots, and stayed on the phone with me all night when my dad died.

She let me move in with her for a couple of months after my mom’s death.

“Honestly?” My voice drops. “Empty. Alone. Like I’m just going through the motions.”

The admission hangs in the silence between us.

“Since when?” she asks softly.