Page 116 of Full Throttle

“You clearly have an issue. So spit it out.”

Anthony dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. Monogrammed. Of course it was. “You want to know what my problem is? My problem is that everyone thinks that you’re god’s gift to humanity. Saint Dominic. The Prince of Racing.” His lip curled. “But you’re not. You’re just another arsehole with a trust fund. Like me.”

“Are you done?”

Something flickered in Anthony’s eyes. “You can give up on Juliette. She’s already chosen me.”

Dominic couldn’t help it; he actually laughed. “Marchmont would rather stick hot needles in her eye than go on a date with you.”

“Really?” Anthony pocketed the handkerchief. “Because it didn’t feel like that when she was kissing me in Milan.”

Wait, what?

What?

A dull ringing began in his ears. “You’re lying.”

Anthony’s smile was smug. “She tastes like strawberries. It’s hot as fuck.” He leaned closer. “Although I suppose you already know that. That interview yesterday made it sound like she’s working her way through the whole grid.”

Dominic stilled. Images of Anthony and Juliette flooded his mind. Had the bastard kissed her during dinner on the rooftop? If he’d done anything more…if he’d touched her in any other way…He bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood. A neat trick he’d taught himself when he was young, whenever his father shouted, although it wasn’t helping now. Don’t hit him, he thought darkly. His fingers twitched.

“You know what I did next?” Anthony leaned closer, that smug smile playing around his mouth. “I took her back to my hotel, and I fucked her so loudly that the entire floor could hear her screami—”

Dominic lunged.

He had the brief satisfaction of seeing Anthony’s eyes widen before they crashed into the table. Wrenches tumbled. Someone screamed. Dominic pinned Anthony by the throat, his fingers digging into the other driver’s esophagus. Anthony spluttered; his face was going purple, and he slapped weakly at Dominic’s hands.

“Let—go—”

Feral rage rang in his veins. “Are you trying to say something?” He leaned closer, his fingers tightening. “Maybe you could try screaming. See if that helps.”

“Dominic!”

Ranya stormed across the garage. Several pit crew members hovered nearby, as if unsure whether to intervene. Juliette was openly staring, a biscuit forgotten in her hand, and Dominic felt a brief flicker of unease, but it was drowned out by the heat roaring in his veins. Anthony made a choking sound.

“Let go of him.” Ranya’s voice was stern. “Now.”

Dominic gritted his teeth. “But I—”

“Now,” Ranya repeated firmly. “Before the stewards charge you with unsportsmanlike behavior. And I lose my patience.”

Reluctantly, Dominic loosened his grip. Anthony rolled to the side, coughing hard, his hands flying to his throat. His face was purple with unbridled rage. “You crazy motherfucker—”

“Enough!” Ranya thumped her cane. “The last time I checked, Sinclair, this is a team garage, and you’re not on the team. Get out.”

Anthony looked sulky. “But I—”

“Now,” Ranya snapped.

Anthony scurried off the table, muttering something about his father and the FIA. Dominic watched him disappear with rising satisfaction. Good. Let the bastard slink back to his garage with his pride in tatters. He deserved it. It was only when Dominic turned and saw Ranya’s expression that any smugness vanished.

“What,” Ranya said, her voice low, “was that?”

Any remaining pit crew scampered, picking up pliers and trolley jacks with alarming enthusiasm. Juliette cast him a searching look before getting into her car. Dom stared at his gloves. Thank god the team wasn’t monitoring his vitals yet, or this whole damn garage would see that his heart rate was off the charts.

Dominic shoved his balaclava on. “He started it.”

Ranya looked up at the ceiling. “Look, whatever Sinclair said to you, I need you to forget about it. If you win today, we’re in with a shot at the championship. I need you on your A game.”