Page 109 of Full Throttle

“But that’s what it will look like,” Vance said, almost patiently. “If these photographs get out, those companies will drop her. All of them.”

Dominic gripped the folder. The paper was slicing into his skin, although he hardly felt it. “You’d ruin her career. Over nothing.”

“For you. I’m doing this for you.”

The odd desire to laugh filled him. “I don’t want this.”

“As a parent,” Vance said, “my job is to look out for your best interests. Even when you can’t see it.”

Dominic was already shaking his head. “I won’t do it.”

“She needs those sponsorships, doesn’t she? She doesn’t come from wealth.”

Dominic slapped the folder down on the table. “She’ll find new ones.” His heart was pumping. “She’s going to be a world champion one day, and the money will follow. Even you can’t compete with natural talent.”

Vance’s gaze was filled with a terrible pity. “Did you know that Duro Stallion supplies engines to every major racing team? Hydra Auto, Taurus, Asteri Stag, Viper…” He counted each team on his fingers. “All of them rely on our engines to make their cars run.”

Something terrible curled inside him. “You’d really threaten them?”

“Of course not,” Vance said. “But I’d hate to be put in a position where I needed to call those teams and ask for a favor.”

Dominic closed his eyes; it didn’t take a genius to read between the lines. “You’d bar her from racing altogether.”

“No. I’d do whatever is necessary to protect my son’s career.”

They locked eyes. How disturbing, he thought, to realize now how similar they looked; he shared his father’s ink-black eyes, yes, but it was more than that. Something lurked in Vance’s gaze that Dominic saw in the mirror: a deep, fathomless hunger, as if he could crush the world in his fist. There was no stopping that sort of resolve.

He knew that all too well.

When Dominic spoke, his voice was hollow. “What would you have me do?”

Chapter 34

Grill the Grid

Now

Dominic adjusted his microphone.

The studio was busy today. Assistants raced by carrying armfuls of flowers, and a producer was barking orders, gesturing wildly to a green screen. Six drivers sat on stools, making small talk with their makeup artists or scrolling through social media. Juliette appeared to be showing a producer a picture of her family dogs.

Dominic looked away.

It had been three months since the incident at the Milan Duomo. Seven races had passed: Azerbaijan, Singapore, Texas, Mexico, Brazil, Qatar, and Abu Dhabi. He and Juliette spoke only in meetings. It was pretty much killing him. Juliette, on the other hand, had cheerfully asked if he wanted a coffee yesterday, which went to show that she had far better compartmentalization skills than he did.

And it all came down to the final race this weekend. The Las Vegas Grand Prix.

The Sun had called it “The Most Exciting Race in F1 History.” The Daily Mail had called it “that thing that your colleagues refuse to shut up about.” The Mirror had run features on all three contestants for world champion, alongside the odds of each of them winning (Sinclair, 78 percent; Dominic, 19 percent; and Juliette, with a measly 3 percent).

Dominic flexed his hands, glancing at the cameras. Ranya had promised that today’s interview was a bit of fun. No questions about qualifying tomorrow or the race the following day. And especially no questions about how he felt about being back in Las Vegas for the final Grand Prix (terrible, obviously; he’d been hoping for Abu Dhabi, where it was acceptable to eat pancakes slathered in date syrup and cream cheese, and—crucially—where he hadn’t smashed a car into the wall on national television).

He glanced at his watch.

Thirty minutes.

Then he could go back to his hotel suite and think about other things. Like that pearl tapioca recipe that he wanted to try and not, for example, the fact that Juliette’s hair smelled like strawberries.

“Is it just me,” Cap said, “or does that look like a very abnormal interview setup?”