I want to answer, but my throat feels closed, words trapped beneath grief and rage. Belforte answers for me.
"Dominic got a beating," he says, voice matter-of-fact. "We're probably going to be fined. And Violet... She'll likely face disciplinary action from the FIA."
"She did what?" Blake's pace falters for a second before he catches up. His gaze drops to my hands, dangling over Belforte's back. "Your knuckles..."
"They're fine," I manage, voice hoarse.
Blake hisses through his teeth. "This is... Christ, this is a mess."
"He was laughing at William's crash," I whisper. The words sound hollow, inadequate to explain the rage that consumed me. "Replaying it. Laughing."
Blake falls silent for a moment, processing. When he speaks again, his voice has changed—softer, gentler. "William's at the hospital. They've taken him to Princess Grace."
My head snaps up, nearly colliding with Belforte's back. "Is he—"
"He's unconscious," Blake continues quickly. "Concussion and a broken hand. Nothing life-threatening according to the medical staff."
The rush of relief is so intense, it's almost painful. My body sags further over Belforte's shoulder, tears flowing freely now. "He's alive," I whisper. "He's alive."
"The doctors are cautiously optimistic," Blake adds. "It looked much worse than it was. The monocoque did its job, even if it separated from the rest of the car."
"A concussion can be dangerous," Belforte interjects, never one to sugarcoat. "And if it's bad enough, when he wakes up, he'll be pissing blood."
Blake winces visibly. "Yes, well... The positive is that it looked more dramatic than it actually was." His expression shifts, curiosity overtaking concern. "But Violet, why would you go after Dominic like that?What were you thinking?"
Belforte finally stops walking, gently lowering me to my feet in a quieter area of the paddock, away from prying eyes. My legs wobble but hold. I lean against the wall of a temporary structure, head spinning slightly.
"That motherfucker must have paid someone from the FIA to tamper with William's car," I say, the words tumbling out through sobs. "I fucking know it. How else could this happen? All electronics failing simultaneously? Right after a random inspection? And then he stands there laughing about it? That's too many coincidences rolled into one common denominator."
Blake's expression shifts from shock to doubt to concern. "Violet, that's a serious accusation. Tampering with a car—that's not just unsporting, it's criminal."
"I wouldn’t put that past him. It lines up too perfectly," I insist, wiping at my face with the back of my wrist, smearing blood across my cheek. "Especially after we sued him with that recording. He's cornered. Desperate. This is his revenge."
"Do you have any proof?" Blake asks gently.
"Not yet." My voice hardens. "But I will find it."
Belforte sighs heavily, rubbing his beard. "Violet, you're like a wild cat protecting those you love. I understand that—respect it, even. But this..." He gestures vaguely toward Vortex Racing's motorhome in the distance. "This may have been too far."
"I don't care." The numbness is fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing anger. "He hurt William. He could have killed him. He could have done this to EJ, too."
"If what you're saying is true," Blake says, emphasizing the "if," "then there are proper channels. Investigations. Evidence. Not... public assault in front of half the paddock."
The reality of what I've done begins to sink in. The cameras. The witnesses. The inevitable headlines. The potential damage to Colton Racing's reputation, to our lawsuit against Dominic, and to my own career.
"There will be consequences," Belforte says, echoing my thoughts. His voice is gentle but firm.
"I know." The words taste bitter.
"Was it worth it?" Blake asks quietly.
I think of Dominic's smug face transformed by shock, then pain. The satisfying crunch of his nose under my fist. The blood on his pristine white shirt. "Yes," I say without hesitation. "I'd do it again."
Belforte's lips quirk in a half-smile, gone so quickly I almost miss it. "That's my girl," he murmurs, too low for Blake to hear.
Blake sighs, running a hand through his hair. "We need to get ahead of this. I'll call our PR team, have them prepare a statement. Maybe we can frame it as... I don't know, emotional distress after witnessing a traumatic accident involving our driver."
"Don't bother," I say, fatigue settling into my bones. "I'm not apologizing for this. Not to the media, not to the FIA, and certainly not to Dominic."
