Arthur looks at me. “But who’d believe me over you? You’d taught me that I’m reckless, stupid, wild Arthur, and you’re the wonderful, pragmatic Holmes Bianco. So, I kept my thoughts a secret, and all the shit I had to deal with because of them… until her.” He squeezes me close, his nose skimming my cheek, tickling my skin. “She could’ve gone along with the same story everyone knew. She could’ve written me off, sold me for parts. But shedidn’t. Because she’s the one thing you never could’ve expected, Uncle—she’s a good person. She never cared if I won or lost. She only wanted me to be happy.”
Bob turns to his old friend, shocked. “Is it true? Back then, here at Monza… did you really…?”
The mask Holmes has worn is gone. He’s a deep angry scarlet, and Sarah moves to squeeze in next to us on our sofa, cringing. “He’s lying. He doesn’t have any proof.” The man throws his cards face down on the table. “Arthur, think critically. It isn’t too late. Go downstairs. Get ready to drive. This is Monza—this is where it happened—and you can’t not drive today.”
“Why?” Arthur asks. “Just curious is all.”
“Because… you need to. I—I can still make you the best driver of your generation,” Holmes stammers. “You need this. If you would’ve been smart enough to learn the lessons I taught you, if you would’ve manned up and stared death in the face like a Bianco—”
“Actually, I think he’s super smart,” I interrupt. “And you still haven’t answered the question about why it’s so important for Arthur to go out there.”
“Shut up!” Holmes yells, andnowthe Paddock Club has fallen bizarrely silent as the millionaires and models watch the infamously calm Holmes Bianco scream at me. “So what if I did hit him?You’rewhat’s wrong with Formula 1. Things worked before your type joined. There was order, efficiency. You think you know what’s better for this sport than a man who’s lived it since he was born? You are nothing here. You don’t belong.”
“No, that’s not true. I don’t thinkI’mwhat’s wrong with F1.” I don’t know where I find this strength. This power. It doesn’t come from Arthur, or my friends. It’s deep inside of me, like it’s been waiting for this moment, when I could play against Holmes,against my birth mom, against myself, and see that I always win when I stop playing. “You should check out what my company recorded you saying. You remember Max Black, right? Well, he’sreallyinto audio. He’d rigged microphones all around the Paddock Club before we’d met with you the other day. I didn’t even think to look until Arthur bought me the film rights.” It’d been right there beside our love story. Muffled, but there. “I guess it wasn’t that smart to hire a documentary company this summer, huh?”
Holmes explodes. “You conniving, gold-digging—”
Really, there are enough mimosa-gulping witnesses around to watch his meltdown, I don’t need to grab Delaney as security finally rushes over. I do anyway, Arthur shielding us as guards pin Holmes to the concrete floor.
“Did you get that?” I ask her breathlessly.
Delaney nods to the Panasonic camcorder stuffed in her bag. Old school. “Recorded everything.”
“Lilah!”
The bellowing startles us apart. Twisting, I find Holmes staring up at me from the ground, one guard’s boot squarely on his back. “The game. Show me the cards,” he hisses. Red, angry. Desperate not to lose. “Please.”
Slowly, I look at his crappy hand, left behind on the table. Then I think about my own. Might’ve been a stroke of luck—another cosmic joke—but between the cards on the table and my own hand, I have all four kings.
Today could’ve been different. Arthur could’ve spent the morning preparing for another grueling race, shutting away his emotions, climbing into the car, instead of hatching this plan with our friends. And in that other reality, I would’ve tried to understand, since I’m only just learning myself what it’s like to live without pain giving my life meaning.
Luckily, I don’t have to find out how that sadder story goes.
Sidling up to Arthur, I wrap my arm around his waist and smile up at him. “What do you think? Should we show him?”
Arthur looks down at me, humming, pure sunlight in his eyes. “Don’t think we have to. We already know who won here.”
EpilogueOne year later
Three seconds. Four. Five.
I watch the five red lights, refusing to blink.
They go black. The cars kick forward.
I lean forward in my chair, too, brace my elbows on my desk, and suck at the ginger candy Merlin gave me.
“Back in Monza!” Arthur sings over the radio. “How’s everyone feeling?”
“Focus, King,” Cameron orders. “This one’s yours to lose.”
Usually, the Cavalli garage is a finely tuned machine. There’s Cameron tuned in to the telemetry, ordering Arthur through the races. Merlin in the back, tracking his vitals. Sarah and Delaney, juggling his social media second by second. And me, Cavalli’s newest junior strategy analyst, doing what I do best: watching life through a screen.
Only here, I get to do it for my team.
But this race has us a bit stressed. It’s Arthur’s first Italian Grand Prix at Cavalli, and after my film about last summer catapulted him to bona fide racing legend, Leone has been nipping at our heels all weekend. Sadly, dear uncle Holmes isn’t here to see Arthur kick their asses. After getting charged by the FIA for conspiracy connected to Arthur’s accident—and getting suspended fromFormula 1—the police began sniffing around. A wild month and some tax evasion evidence later, and F1’s famously careful driver-turned-team-principal is currently sitting in a white-collar prison somewhere. Which is nice and all, but giving our documentary the perfect, most poetic ending was icing on the cake.
Also, the millions of dollars as payout from Holmes’s estate, Ignition, and Leone. Money I’ve thoroughly enjoyed sending home to Kentucky.
