Page 53 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Belforte

Violet

T he Italian morning sun hits my face as I step into the paddock, the familiar scent of fuel and rubber filling my lungs after two months away.

My heels click against the asphalt—intense, determined steps that match the rhythm of my pulse.

I’ve missed this, though I’d never admit it aloud.

The board meetings and sponsor rejections have left a bitter taste in my mouth, but here, surrounded by the whirl of activity, there’s a sense of familiarity, like coming home.

“Feels good to be back, doesn’t it?” Blake says beside me, scanning the paddock with the practiced ease of someone who’s spent decades here.

“Better than another boardroom filled with men who can’t see past my gender to my balance sheets,” I reply, adjusting my jacket.

The black suit fits perfectly—a gift from an Italian designer hoping for paddock exposure.

I’m happy to oblige; the cut is impeccable, the fabric breathable despite the morning heat beginning to build. I feel good. Refreshed. Confident.

Blake chuckles. “Ah, the joys of high-level negotiations. Speaking of troublesome men…” He pauses, clearing his throat. “I had a word with William after that incident with Dominic.”

I stop walking, turn to face him. “You did what?”

“Someone had to,” Blake says, shrugging. “He needed to understand that his actions had consequences beyond his own career.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. “I should have been the one—”

“To fire him on the spot?” Blake raises an eyebrow. “Because that’s what would have happened, and we both know it. You were too angry.”

He’s right. I had been livid when I heard the news that William had punched Dominic after the race. That kind of publicity damages everything we’re trying to build. But still, I’m the Team Principal. It was my responsibility. But deep down? Thank god that guy was finally punched in the face.

“What did you say to him?” I ask, resuming our walk toward the motorhome.

“That he needed to channel that fire into his driving, not into punching people who’ve been antagonizing drivers and teams since before he was born.” Blake’s voice softens. “He listened, Violet. He understood.”

I nod, grateful despite my stinging pride. “Thank you. ”

We approach the Colton Racing motorhome, its glass and steel structure gleaming in the sunlight. I absently brush my fingers against the watch beneath my sleeve before I catch myself. Focus, Violet .

Inside, the air conditioning hits like a wall of relief. Nicholas sits alone at a table, eyes glued to his phone, watching something with earbuds in. At the other end of the room, three men huddle around design printouts spread across a table. Two engineers and—

William.

My breath catches. Two months feel like years and seconds simultaneously.

His curls are shorter on the sides—a fresh fade—and he’s tanned, the golden hue making his hazel eyes more pronounced as they flick up to meet mine.

His beard is neatly trimmed, framing a mouth I’ve spent too many nights remembering.

“Good morning,” I say, my voice crisp and professional as I address the room. No one would guess my pulse is sprinting like we’ve just won a championship. “Glad to see everyone’s already hard at work.”

Tom, William’s engineer, straightens. “Ms. Colton, welcome back. We were just discussing potential improvements for the European leg.”

“Excellent,” I say, moving past them to the espresso machine. I sense William’s gaze tracking me, and it takes everything in me to maintain the casual indifference of a boss, not a woman who knows how his hands feel against my skin. “Any breakthroughs? ”

“We’re adjusting the front wing for Imola’s technical sections,” Johnson chimes in. “And testing a new floor design that should give us better downforce through Monaco’s corners.”

I nod, preparing my espresso and selecting a pastry from the platter. “Keep me updated on the simulations. I’ll be upstairs if anyone needs me.”

I don’t look at William again. Can’t trust myself to maintain the professional mask if I do. Instead, I exit with my breakfast and ascend the stairs to my office, the silence a relief after the charged air below.

My office is simple as usual—clean, minimal, and with the best view of the paddock.

I settle at my desk, boot up my laptop, and try to focus on the backlog of emails rather than the lingering afterimage of William’s face.

Two months of traveling the globe, meeting with potential sponsors, fighting for the future of Colton Racing—and all it takes is one glance to send me back to that night in Melbourne.

My phone buzzes. Unknown Italian number.

“Violet Colton,” I answer.

“Violet!” The voice is deep, confident, with the musical lilt of an Italian accent. “This is Silas Belforte, in case you didn't save my number. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Weren't we supposed to meet in Monza? Why this call? “Not at all, Silas. What do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“I’ve acquired some VIP passes for the weekend and find myself in the paddock. Perhaps we could meet in person? I’m much more convinced by a handshake than an email or a video call. ”

Direct. I like that. “I’d be happy to meet. The drivers will be heading to practice soon. Why don’t you come by our motorhome around 10? I can show you our operation.”

“Perfect! I look forward to it, Violet.”

I hang up, a tiny seed of hope sprouting in my chest. If he's pushing to meet with me earlier than we agreed, he's interested. Genuinely so. After two months of rejections, maybe—just maybe—our luck is changing by the hands of the most improbable figure ever.

At precisely 10, Blake knocks on my office door. “Belforte’s here,” he says, voice low. “And he’s exactly what you’d expect from a man with his reputation.”

I put on my jacket and follow Blake downstairs. The motorhome is nearly empty now, with the drivers and most engineers having left for practice. Standing by the entrance is a man who commands attention without trying.

Silas Belforte wears a three-piece suit that probably costs more than some cars.

Tall, imposingly built, with salt-and-pepper hair, and the most startling blue eyes I’ve ever seen—which, in person, are more striking and intimidating than ever.

He radiates danger and authority in equal measure. This is a man accustomed to power.

“Violet!” he exclaims, extending a hand. His smile transforms his face completely, softening the hard edges into something almost boyish. “What a pleasure to meet you in person.” He continues to throw me off big time. This doesn't match the aura .

His handshake is firm, but not domineering. “The pleasure is mine, Silas. Welcome to Colton Racing.”

He scans the motorhome appreciatively. “I wanted to meet in Monza at my villa, as I promised, but unfortunate business matters will keep me away. I was in town, so I thought I couldn’t miss the opportunity to speak with you.”

“Then I’m glad you reached out,” I say, gesturing toward the stairs. “Would you like to continue our conversation in my office? Or, perhaps a tour of our facilities first?”

“The office, if you don’t mind. Business before pleasure.

” His eyes twinkle with genuine enthusiasm.

“Though watching your young driver William in the past couple of races has been quite pleasurable indeed. Such potential! That points finish in Melbourne was masterful. A pity about the crashes afterwards, but the kid has spunk!”

I lead him upstairs, surprised by his excitement towards William.

This is a mobster. Quite possibly one of the most powerful people in the Sbagliare family or, dare I say, the whole Italian mafia.

I read the stories online. This man who now prances around our motorhome with shiny eyes and a weird excitement, is well known for his violence and intimidation.

Somehow, I’m comfortable around him, and I no longer understand if that's because all the contact I've had with people in the past couple of years was so bad that the first person being kind to me after a long time made me feel at ease, or…

Silas is just genuinely charismatic, charming and warm .

Once settled in my office, Belforte’s posture subtly changes—more focused, more businesslike, though his warmth remains.

“Like I said before, I’ve been following Colton Racing since your father’s days,” he says.

“Met him once at a fundraiser after his retirement, when he was battling his illness. A remarkable man.”

“He was,” I agree, the familiar ache of loss momentarily sharpening. “You seem to know our history well.”

“I do my research.” Belforte leans forward. “Let me be direct, Ms. Colton. I want to invest in your team. Fifty-five million, multi-year deal. I want the Belforte Construction logo on your drivers’ suits, and on the rear wing of your cars.”

The number makes my jaw drop slightly. So much for my professional facade. He smirks a little. That’s more than double our deal with Gritt Tires. Fifty-five million would transform our prospects, allow us to develop the car properly, maybe even attract some engineering talent from the bigger teams.

“That’s a substantial offer,” I say carefully.

Belforte’s smile widens. “I’ve loved this sport since I was a boy watching races at Monza.

There’s nothing like the sound of those engines, the precision, the strategy.

I’ve always wanted to own an F1 team, but it sounds like too much trouble, so I want to contribute actively to one, and see it win it all—" He catches himself, and a hearty laugh escapes him.

“Forgive me. I become a child again when discussing Formula 1. ”

His enthusiasm is infectious, but I’ve learned to look for the strings attached to any deal. “And what would you expect in return, beyond the standard branding rights?”