He doesn't answer right away. He doesn't even stop working. Then, his fingers find the skin of my wrist, his grip light but grounding, and he gently tilts the burger in my hand upward. He leans down, taking a deliberate, slow bite of my food while holding my gaze. He chews unhurriedly, the silence stretching between us until it feels provocative, a blatant attempt to distract me with the proximity of his mouth to my fingers. It’s a challenge—a silent dare to see if I’ll flush or look away.
"Who all knows?" I push, refusing to let the deflection work. "Your mom said you and Luka visit weekly, so Luka has to know. Does your dad? Anyone else?"
His hand pauses, his focus narrowing. "Just my family," he says, his voice flat. "And Marco."
"Does my dad know?"
He swallows, his gaze finally breaking from mine to flicker down to the burger, then back up. Something tightens briefly across his face—a flash of disappointed annoyance, like he’s actually irritated I didn’t take the bait.
“You need to eat,” he says, the expression barely there and edged with reluctant regret before he turns back to his work.
I toss the burger onto the workbench, the wrapper crinkling as it slides across the metal. "Why are you being like this? So fucking stubborn. You show me this side of you today—you take me there, you trust me with it—and then you don't expect me to ask questions?"
He snaps. He turns so fast I almost stumble back, but he’s already there, his frame caging me against the edge of the bench."Trust you?" he sneers, the words rough-edged and venomous. "Maybe I was just giving you an out before—"
"Before what?" I demand, my eyes bouncing side to side, tracking the storm in his. "Before the 'warranty' expires? Before I see the 'real' Dominic Valerio?"
He stays silent, but I see it—a brief, frantic flicker in his eyes like he’s actually weighing the risk of telling me his truth. For a heartbeat, the air between us is thin, and he looks like someone on the edge of a cliff, wondering if I’m someone who would catch him or just watch him fall.
Then, the shutters slam closed. His gaze turns flat and impenetrable, the moment of honesty curdling into something sharp as he realizes he’s shown too much.
He lets out a sharp, cynical exhale and smirks—that snarky, arrogant armor sliding back into place. "Doesn't matter."
"It does matter," I snap, my voice cracking with the weight of it. "It matters to me."
"Why?" he challenges, leaning in until our foreheads almost touch. "Why does it matter so much to you, Carter?"
The question catches me in the throat. I search for an answer—some empty, safe reason—but my brain comes up empty, replaced only by the frantic beat of my pulse. I want to tell him it’s just the stakes of the job for the safety of the team, but that’s a lie I can’t even force out. It’s the way my stomach dropped when I saw that wheelchair in the sunlight. It’s the fierce, unbearable need to know he’s going to be okay, even though none of this is supposed to matter to me.Heisn’t supposed to matter to me.
I want to reach out and catch his hand, to thread my fingers through his just to prove they’re still steady, even if mine aren't. I don’t have a name for the feeling in my chest—for the way the world seems to narrow down until he’s the only thing left in focus—and I’m terrified of what it means that I’m even looking for one.
Unable to answer, I scramble for the only ground I can still hold, desperate to shift the spotlight back onto him before I give too much away.
"You never answered me before," I say softly, my voice sounding small even to my own ears. "Does my dad know?"
Dominic lets out a disappointed, dismissivehuh, looking sideways at the wall. "I’m sure my father gave him an extensive breakdown of my history before he ever signed the contract. He had to cover his 'asset'. He probably made your old man sign an NDA that would forfeit his life if a whisper of this hit the press."
"The press?" I ask, the reality of it hitting me. "The general public... they have no idea?"
The second the question leaves my mouth, the answer hits me. Of course they don't. I’ve spent my entire life around this sport and I hadn't heard a single ripple of this. If I hadn’t been forced into his car, into his house, and into his personal space, I’d still think he was nothing more than speed, money, and arrogance wrapped in designer branding.
I look at the way he’s standing—shoulders squared, brows pinched tight—and the realization is a physical weight. The world sees a dynasty. They see the Valerio crown. They don't see the timer.
"They don't know," I say, answering myself. "They’d tear you apart."
Dominic doesn't blink. He just watches me, his eyes turning into that flat, impenetrable flint. So cold. Clinical. Detached.
I look at him—at the raw, fractured silence between us—and the question I’ve been trying to outrun all day finally catches up. My voice is barely a breath, but in the quiet of the garage, it sounds like a gunshot.
"Are you going to end up like her?"
He stills. For a heartbeat, he doesn't even seem to breathe. Then, a slow, ugly smile curls his mouth—one that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Finally," he says, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm vibration that makes my skin crawl. "The real question. The one you didn't have the balls to ask until now."
He steps closer, his presence a thick, suffocating feeling that traps me in place. He leans in, his face back inches from mine, but there’s no heat in it this time. Only ice.
"You're already doing the math, aren't you?" he sneers, the words cutting like glass. "You’re wondering if I’m going to be the reason your father fails again. You want to know if his big shot at redemption is going to go up in smoke the second my hands decide to stop working. That’s what this is, right? You’re just protecting his legacy."
