Rafa looked up with a smirk when I entered, ankle propped upon his knee, phone in hand. ‘Congrats, man. Feels good to watch you hand them their asses.’
‘Fuck yes, it does.’ My eyes slid to my own phone sitting on the table next to him. ‘So?’
‘Progress.’ He slid his phone into his pocket and picked up mine. ‘I’ve established, with some degree of accuracy, that there is indeed a link between Ivanovski and, surprise surprise, the other Mancinelli driver.’
My eyebrows jerked up. ‘Stan Paul?’
He nodded and cracked a smile. ‘Yup. All-American-Stan with his aww shucks attitude isn’t quite so benign.’
‘Say more.’ I peeled off my race suit and fireproof underlayers and approached the ice bath with gritted teeth.
‘For starters, Stan Paul is short for Stanislav Palinski.’
Clad in only boxers, I paused at the edge of the tub and set a four-minute timer on my custom Richard Mille watch. ‘Palinski?’ I rummaged around my memory banks and came up empty.
‘Shadowy figure behind the Aksana Group no one’s seen for almost two decades? Rumoured to be in hiding with a not-to-be-sneezed-at army because of a major fall out with a certain dictator?’
‘Fuck.’ My gut churned for reasons other than the much-detested impending plunge into forty-three-degree Fahrenheit water. Bracing myself, I stepped in and quickly dropped into a crouch, letting the water submerge me up to my armpits. The quicker I got this over with the quicker the ordeal would end. ‘How close to 100 per cent is your certainty?’
He held out his hand and toggled it side to side. ‘In the ninety-five percentile.’
I clenched my teeth to keep them from shuddering.
‘I was thinking we shake the extra 5 per cent out of Dear Old Stan?’
‘Agreed.’
His grin widened and he patted his phone. ‘I have his itinerary right here. Since he came a lowly ninth in the race and apparently got bitch-slapped for his trouble by the Narc-Fuck, Stan is planning to drown his sorrows in the arms of… get this… six strippers. He’s booked into the Sapphire Room at the Golden Empress Club.’
‘Is he even old enough to be allowed in there?’
Rafa shrugged. ‘If Daddy can afford to toss out a hundred mil on an F1 seat, he sure as fuck can fund a one-man pity party in aclub where one lap dance, without extras, costs a cool ten grand, regardless of age.’
I checked my watch. Eighty-two long seconds left. My bones screamed with the need for warmth while my thigh muscles tingled as worn tissues stitched back faster than normal.
To further distract myself, I nodded at my phone. ‘Did you verify all this with our helper?’
His good humour dimmed. ‘I tried. No response. Whoever this fucker is, they never answer when I ask the questions. They’re probably watching us.’ His scowl relayed just how much that thought thrilled him.
I made a mental note to be careful where I pointed my phone in future. Especially when I was with Maddelena. Giving an unknown hacker a free show was not my idea of an ideal situation.
‘When do we leave?’ I asked.
‘Bibi and the twins are holding the fort with the sponsors and ass-kissers but Renzo was already complaining.’ His grin returned. ‘I think one of the Kardashians asked for one too many selfies and he almost lost his shit. Anyway, you’re expected to show your face for a bit, shake hands and do the group crew photo thing. So, an hour?’
My timer beeped and I surged out of the frigid water, tugging a towel over my shoulders even before I’d fully stepped out. I peeled off my briefs and was rubbing heat back into my frozen limbs when a knock sounded on the door.
It cracked open at my prompt and Enrico stepped inside with a fresh set of clothes with the Furia Racing insignia and dozens of sponsors’ logos, and the stylish dark loafers I preferred to sneakers.
He set them on the table, folded his arms and eyed me when I winced. ‘You remembered to stretch before the bath, right?’
Shit.My face twitched with the urge not to grimace. ‘Uhh, I?—’
‘Nah, he didn’t,’ Rafaelle narked.
I glowered at him. ‘You know what happens to snitches, right?’
He held up his hand. ‘I’m not about to say “stitches” because this isn’t the 90s and I have too much self-respect.’
