Page 7 of Full Throttle

Vance went back to typing. “I know a wonderful little spa in Brittany. It’s got a beautiful view of the mountains.”

In other words, the PR team had done some research on spas and decided on one that couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a rehab clinic. “I’m okay. Really.”

“I’d pay for it,” Vance said.

His fingers tightened on the armrest. “I don’t want to go to the resort.”

“Well,” Vance said, “if you change your mind, you know how to reach me. Oh, and I’ve prepared a statement about your retirement from the sport.” He pushed some paper across the desk. “Go over it with your press team. Make any changes you want.”

Dom stared. “I—what?”

Surely he’d misheard. Vance’s fingers flew over the screen.

“You won’t want to race in a midfield car. It’d be like trading in a vintage Dom Pérignon for a pouch of apple juice. In fact—” His phone rang. “Sorry. I need to take this.”

Right. Conversation over, apparently. “Go ahead.”

Dominic rose, crossed the room, and shut the door behind him. He could hear his father’s voice drifting through the wood, followed by a warm laugh. Was he speaking to Sinclair? Probably. They had only five weeks before the next season started. Details would need to be hammered out, especially with a last-minute signing.

Dominic looked down at the paper. It was two pages, neatly double-spaced and branded with the Duro Stallion logo. He wished the words would blur together, but he was a sucker for detail and he read each one: I hereby announce my retirement from Formula 1…long list of people to thank…eager to pursue other opportunities outside the sport. He crumpled the paper in his fist.

Yeah. Fuck that.

Of course his father wanted him to retire. If Vance Hastings didn’t own an asset, then he wanted it eliminated. He could recall watching a medieval war film together, where the Scottish king had set fire to the ramparts as the English army approached. “Better to burn your own castle,” Vance had said approvingly, “than to let your enemy take it.” Then again, Dominic thought bitterly, his father had once stood in this same office and claimed that he would give anything to protect Dominic’s career. Whatever is necessary, Vance had vowed, which, as it turned out, was a load of bullshit. His father was a businessman first. Always would be.

Dominic tipped his head back. A photograph of his mother stared out from the opposite wall. Colette Hastings clutched a fur hat, beaming on an ice rink in front of the Grand Palais. The photograph had once hung in the kitchen, although his father must have taken it down.

He looked away, then took out his phone.

First, he sent an email to his accountant instructing him to transfer an obscene amount of money to the account of Jeremiah Phipps. Tell him it’s a severance package, Dominic added. Or that he’s won a contest; I don’t care which one. Just make it believable. Jer had a lot of pride; he’d never accept the money if he knew where it had come from.

His grip on the phone tightened.

Right. There had to be another seat available; Duro Stallion was the best team on the grid, but he could go to one of their rivals. Who was taking Sinclair’s seat at Hydra Auto? But no; Bo Zheng, the team principal, was in his father’s pocket. He’d never risk hiring Vance’s estranged son. But maybe Polski Ram would. Or even Asteri Stag, who’d scouted him four years ago.

Dominic began dialing.

Six minutes later, he’d received four rejections. All polite but firm: We don’t want you. He lowered the phone, exhaling. Shit. The stunt he’d pulled in Las Vegas must have really fucked with his credibility. But what about Viper, Hydra Auto’s feeder team? It was a major step down, sure, but Bo wouldn’t have a direct say in who that team hired. Or—?

Dominic paused.

Or.

Or.

An idea sparked. He scrolled back through his messages, his thumb hovering over a name. No. That was mad. He’d have to be certifiably insane.

And yet…

Dominic punched the number, held the phone to his ear. The person answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Ranya.” Dominic closed his eyes. “It’s Dominic Hastings.”

There was a long pause. “How did you get this number?”

“Google,” Dominic lied.