Something protective and fierce rises in my chest. EJ is eighteen. A prodigy, yes. A professional driver, certainly. But in this moment, he looks like what he is—a boy thrown suddenly into a world of adult sharks circling for blood and using him as a pawn.
"Violet?" His voice catches as we approach the porch. "Mr. Belforte? I can't believe you actually flew here on Christmas."
Before I can respond, Silas moves past me with surprising speed for a man his size. In three strides, he reaches EJ and does something I never would have predicted—he engulfs the young driver in a bear hug.
"Of course we came," Silas says, his accent thicker with emotion. "You think we'd leave our driver alone to face these vultures? Never." He holds EJ at arm's length, examining his face with paternal concern. "Now listen to me, Ethan. Your ass is still very much glued to Colton Racing. This nonsense with the Vortex bastards? Politics. Games. Nothing for you to worry about. Also, nice to meet you in person for the first time, kiddo."
I watch, astonished, as EJ's posture changes, relief visibly washing through him at Silas's blunt reassurance. The intimidating businessman who negotiates multi-million dollar deals, and once operated in the shadowy world of organized crime, is speaking to our young driver with the gentle authority of a father calming a frightened child.
"But my manager said—" EJ begins.
"Your manager," Silas interrupts, "is an asshole and has apparently forgotten who he works for. We'll discuss that particular problem inside. It's freezing out here, and these matured Italian bones prefer Mediterranean temperatures."
EJ's laugh is small but genuine—the first crack in his anxious demeanor. He glances at me, seeking confirmation of Silas's assurances.
I nod, moving closer. "We're here because you matter to the team, EJ. To us. What Dominic is doing is a tactical move against Colton Racing—not a reflection on you."
He exhales shakily, snowflakes catching in his sandy hair. "You'd better come inside. It's pretty cold, and my mom would kill me if I kept you standing out here."
As we follow him toward the door, I fall into step beside Silas. "You'd make a good father," I observe quietly, still processing the tenderness I just witnessed.
He chuckles, the sound warm in the frigid air. "I'm godfather to an infuriating yet lovable kid—well, a twenty-nine-year-old man now. That's enough for me." His eyes carry a momentary sadness. "I never wanted children of my own, though I suppose I do have some talent for looking after them."
Inside, the house is warm and fragrant with holiday cooking. EJ's parents greet us with midwestern hospitality that manages to overcome the awkwardness of team executives appearing on their doorstep on Christmas Day. Introductions are made, coffee is offered, a slice or two of deep dish pizza and some turkey, and we're ushered into a comfortable living room decorated with framed photos of EJ throughout his racing career—from a gap-toothed child in a go-kart to his F3 podiums last season.
Once seated, with EJ's parents discreetly retreating to give us privacy, we address the situation directly.
"Your manager called you about Vortex's offer," I begin. Not a question.
EJ nods, tension returning to his shoulders. "Said it was the opportunity of a lifetime. That I'd be crazy not to take it. That fifteen million plus a seat with the Constructors' Champions doesn't come along every day." His gaze drops to his hands. "When I said I was genuinely happy at Colton Racing, that I'd just signed the contract, he got... pushy. Said sometimes circumstances change in F1, that I should think about my future."
"And did he mention how much commission he'd make on this new deal?" Silas asks, voice deceptively casual.
EJ's head snaps up, realization dawning. "You think he's working with Mr. Harrington? Against me? Against the team?"
"It seems obvious to both of us," I say gently. "The timing, the pressure, the specific talking points. Your manager is supposed to represent your interests, EJ. Not manipulate you into decisions that benefit him."
"So what do I do? I can't just fire him, right? I don't even know anyone else who could—"
"You need a new manager," Silas interrupts. "Someone who understands Formula 1 but prioritizes your career development over quick commissions."
I nod in agreement. "James Pierce is excellent. He's managed William for years, helped him navigate some difficult waters."
Silas's head tilts, considering. "We don't want two drivers represented by the same person," he says, reasonable but firm. "Creates potential conflicts of interest, especially in contract negotiations or team strategy discussions."
"That's true," I acknowledge, mind racing through alternatives. "There's Martina Gallo in Italy, or perhaps—"
"I'll do it," Belforte says simply.
EJ and I both stare at him.
"You?" I ask, incredulous. "But you're our majority investor. That's a direct conflict of interest with your position in the team."
"Is there anything in our agreements that explicitly prohibits it?" Silas challenges, the businessman emerging from behind the paternal figure. "After all, there are drivers with their parents as the team owners, so…"
"Well, no, but—" I take a deep breath. "The media would still have a field day," I continue. "They'd claim EJ only has his seat because you're backing him personally."
"Let them." Silas dismisses the concern with a wave. "People will always talk. What matters is that Ethan has someone in his corner who understands both racing and the political games being played."
