I spot him before he sees me. He's standing outside the Vortex motorhome, surrounded by his usual entourage of yes-men and technical staff. A tablet is propped in his hands, and he's watching—replaying—William's crash with the broadcast sound loud enough for everyone to hear.Laughing. Actually fucking laughing as he gestures to the screen, pointing out something to the men around him.
Something inside me snaps.
I'm running before I realize it, shouldering past startled team personnel and journalists. Belforte's shout follows me, but it's too late. My vision narrows to Dominic's smug face, his casual amusement at William's suffering.
He turns at the commotion, eyes widening in recognition. His mouth opens—a cutting remark ready, no doubt—but my body barrels into his before he can speak. The impact knocks the tablet from his hands, sending us both crashing backward. His back hits the glass door of the motorhome with a sickening crack. The glass shatters, raining shards around us as we tumble inside.
Pain registers distantly—glass cutting my arms, Dominic's elbow connecting with my ribs as he tries to shove me off him—but it's irrelevant. I'm on him instantly, every lesson from yearsof krav maga flowing through my muscles. My knee pins his chest. My fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood sprays from his split lip.
"You fucking psychopath!" I scream, punctuating each word with another blow. "You could have killed him! Is that what you wanted?To kill him?"
Dominic struggles beneath me, but rage has made me stronger than I knew possible. His attempts to throw me off only fuel my fury. My knuckles connect again, splitting open on contact.
Incredibly, he laughs—a wet, gurgling sound through blood-stained teeth. "Prove it," he taunts. "Prove anything,little girl."
I hit him again. Again. And again. My vision blurs with tears and rage. "You're sick. You'refuckingsick."
"Your driver's a hack," he spits, blood spattering my face. "And you're a whore who—"
My hand closes around his throat, cutting off his words. Behind me, chaos erupts—people shouting, security rushing forward.I don't care.I’ve held it in for over a year. I’m way past my limit. In this moment, nothing exists except my hatred for the man beneath me, and the knowledge that he hurt William. That he could have hurt EJ. That he's laughing about it as if killing someone is normal.
Strong arms encircle my waist, lifting me bodily away from Dominic. I thrash wildly, clawing to get back to him.
"Enough." Belforte's voice is firm in my ear as he physically restrains me. "He’s not worth it, Violet."
Dominic struggles to his feet, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He straightens his jacket with exaggerated dignity, his eyes gleaming with something that looks disturbingly like satisfaction.
"Thank you, Belforte," he says, voice nasal and distorted. "Control your rabid bitch before she—"
Belforte shifts, still holding me firmly with one arm while his foot lashes out, catching Dominic square in the stomach while shielding his move to those outside the broken door. The older man doubles over, wheezing.
"Vaffanculo, stronzo," Belforte growls, the Italian flowing naturally. "That's the only warning you get."
He turns, hoisting me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. I don't fight him now, the rage draining as quickly as it came. Through my silent tears, I see the gathered crowd outside—team personnel, journalists, fans, all with phones raised. Recording everything.
"This will be a headache," Belforte mutters as he carries me away from the shattered glass and stunned onlookers.
I don't respond. Can't. The adrenaline crash hits hard, leaving me limp and trembling over Belforte's shoulder.
My knuckles throb, blood dripping from split skin. But this pain is nothing compared to the sinking feeling in my stomach, and the hollow ache in my chest.
William is still out there. Injured. Possibly...
I can't finish the thought. Can't bear to.
And what have I done? Created a spectacle. Given Dominic exactly what he wanted—proof that I'm unstable, unprofessional, unfit to lead at the moment. The lawsuit, the recording, all our careful maneuvering—jeopardized in one moment of blind rage.
The paddock blurs around me as Belforte continues to carry me away from Vortex Racing's motorhome. My body hangs limp over his shoulder, strength gone, rage spent. Blood from my knuckles drips onto the back of his jacket—small, perfect circles of crimson soaking into the fabric. Each step he takes jostles my ribs, reminding me of the glass that cut into my skin during the fight. I should feel something—shame, regret, worry—but there's only numbness now. William's face floats in my mind, his smilefrom this morning, his kiss. The thought that I might never see that smile again makes fresh tears burn behind my eyelids.
"Silas! Violet!"
Blake's voice cuts through my fog. Footsteps approach rapidly, and suddenly, Blake is there, walking alongside Belforte's long strides. His face appears in my limited field of vision, eyes widening as he takes in my state.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "Put her down, Silas. Let me see her."
Belforte grunts but doesn't stop moving. "Not here. Too many eyes."
"What happened?" Blake's voice tightens. "Is that blood? Violet, are you hurt?"
