He reached me in two long strides, his gaze frantically searching mine. ‘Ivanovski will be wanting answers, and that fucker isn’t known for being rational. Are you mad,cara?’
‘Mad that my grandfather won’t be around to beat up on my sisters while I’m not there to protect them? I should be, very mad that you Salvatores have won, again. But’ – I kissed him, my heart squeezing with everything I felt for him – ‘I absolutely cannot find it in myself to be. Not when my mother and the girls are safe.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’ He deepened the kiss.
This was by no means over.
But when Cesare pulled me close in bed an hour later, I fell asleep with a happy smile on my face.
31
CESARE
My third Formula One drivers’ and constructors’ championships were in the bag.
We had one hundred and forty million dollars to develop next year’s car.
In two days, I was marrying the most beautiful woman in the world. And the other secret project I’d been working on was rolling along nicely.
With Bonafacio scrambling to liquidate assets to appease Ivanovski before he was literally liquidated in a vat of sulphuric acid – ostensibly one of Liv’s preferred methods of dealing with his enemies – Maddelena had insisted on joining me in Qatar for the last race. I’d given in, of course.
I thought she would be wicked mad at me for the unapologetic hand I’d played in fucking shit up for her family, but hell if she hadn’t flipped the script and thanked me in the sweetest way possible.
And with every day her grandfather stayed away, every day her mother and siblings remained unharmed, her eyes grew brighter, her smile wider and layers of tension dissipated.
I would puff my chest out with pride like a fucking peacock for protecting my woman if that stone in my gut wasn’t growing heavier by the day.
Standing on the top podium for my last race win, I fixed my smile in place. Hell, I even managed a wink in her direction, making her blush when a million gazes swung her way and the whispering started.
Eyes on me,bedda.
We hadn’t exactly publicised our intentions, but she was wearing my ring – proudly – and fuck if that didn’t fill me with even more pride. And if she was nervous about being acknowledged as publicly mine for the first time, she hid it well.
The anthem finished playing. I was handed the trophy and hoisted up by Renzo and the third-place guy – not Narciso, thank fuck – and something clicked into place inside me.
I’d done it.
I’d achieved my goals. Wrestled my dream into reality. With three championships I was already in an elite group. I would probably never achieve super-elite Lewis Hamilton or Michael Schumacher status, but I’d launched the Salvatore name into Italian racing history books.
Orazio wouldn’t have a leg to stand on now.
Not when I presented him with the next Salvatore dream project I had cooking up.
I pushed the ball of dread churning inside and allowed the team’s euphoria to carry me all the way to when I opened my dressing room door an hour later and saw what awaited me.
‘Oh… fuck.Bedda.’
‘Hey, champ.’
I fumbled for the door handle behind me and opened it a crack. ‘Fist. I do not want to be disturbed for the next hour.Capisci?’
‘Yes, Boss.’
I slammed the door shut and inhaled, but it was no use. All my blood had rushed south.
Maddelena was spread out on my small bed, decked out in the racing green and black colours of my team. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the leather and lace concoction, nor did I want to.
I tugged off my suit, grimaced at the sweat and champagne stickiness of my skin. ‘I need a shower.’
