Page 95 of Full Throttle

Drivers vaulted into cars, pushed buttons. Baz released her shoulder. “Good luck. Not that you need it.”

Juliette jogged backward. “I’ll see you after for an aperitivo?” She forced a smile, doing her best to imitate Baz’s accent. “We can bully Cap into getting a cheese pizza? Formaggi…er…whatever the word for pizza is.”

Baz gave her a tired smile. “Wave at me from the podium.”

Juliette hopped into her car. She adjusted her headset, frowning as something crackled. Static? But no, she realized; that was Hamish, crunching on a packet of crisps over the radio. “What flavor is it today?”

More crunching. “Irn-Bru.”

“You’re having me on.”

“Dead serious.” Her race engineer crumpled foil. “They sent you a PR package. It’s a limited-edition flavor.”

Juliette debated asking Hamish if he regularly opened her mail, then decided she didn’t want to know. “I was thinking Plan B today. Track conditions look right.” A two-stop strategy made the most sense: hard tires, then switch to softs at the end. Even better if there was a safety car, and they could switch without losing track position.

“Robert wants to do Plan C,” Hamish said.

Juliette paused, her hand hovering over a button. Plan C was a one-stop strategy. Which…

Made no sense. On any level.

“On mediums?”

Hamish typed something. “Those are the orders.”

Even worse. She’d be driving on scraps of rubber by the end. “But—”

“We can assess later on,” Hamish said.

Juliette gripped the wheel. This, she’d learned, was code for “you’re lucky to be driving so shut up and listen to the experts.” Not that Hamish got a choice, either. But still. She swallowed any further retort, her eyes flicking upward.

Five lights flickered.

Lights out.

Juliette gunned it forward. Starting in fourth position was good, but it meant nothing in Monza; the track was called the Temple of Speed for a reason. Overtakes were common. The key was to stay focused. Don’t give anyone the room to pass you.

Ten laps passed.

Twenty.

Thirty.

She overtook Ethan Johnson, zipping up to third place. Dominic was ahead, and then Sinclair. Both cars fought in a tangle of red and blue, like fireworks exploding, and her heart tightened. If only Dominic wasn’t such a beautiful driver. Then it might be easier to hate him. She passed the finish line again.

Forty laps. Thirteen to go.

Juliette barreled down a straight. A yellow flag went up, and she slowed the car, her heart racing. That meant…

“Safety car,” Hamish said. “Von Galen went off. Hit the wall and spun.”

“Frederick’s okay?” Juliette asked, purely because she felt that she should.

“Fine. Just a scratch.”

Her heart pounded. “Pit me.”

A pause. “We’re doing Plan C.”