Page 152 of The Savage

She smiles faintly. ‘I want to be. Where you are is exactly where I belong.’

She reaches up, fingers hooking into the collar of my race suit, and pulls me down just enough to kiss me. Slow. Grounding. Her mouth knows exactly how to steady me.

She kisses me again. Deeper this time. A reminder and a promise.

I rest my forehead against hers. ‘I need my head clear.’

‘You have it,’ she says. ‘Go win. Come back to me.’

I kiss her once more, hard enough to leave us both breathless.

Then I grab my helmet and step out. My face pops up on another screen and the crowd go mental. I ignore every single reporter trying to get my attention.

The engine noise swells outside. The world narrows.

I step out into it knowing one thing for sure.

I’m not running from this.

I’m driving straight through making Giada safe, mine in every way, even if I have to drive through hell and the devil himself to make it happen.

* * *

Giada

The noise of engines screaming hits first.

The crowd is a living thing, pulsing and hungry, and I blink at the reality of it, standing at the edge of the paddock with Sofiya, my hands clasped tight enough to hurt, eyes locked on the screens.

Renzo is calm in the car. I can see it even through the helmet, the way he always settles when it matters. Focused. Ruthless. Alive.

Lap after lap, the tension winds tighter.

Narciso pushes him hard, overtaking him twice. But Renzo doesn’t let that slide. He comes back hard, harder, and I watch with my heart in my throat as they go toe-to-toe into the corner at the ridiculously steep banking at Arie Luyendykbocht.

I recognise his style immediately – aggressive, unforgiving, like he’s trying to prove something to the world and himself. Dante isn’t far behind, clean and precise, a predator who doesn’t waste motion.

When the final lap starts, my heart is in my throat.

Renzo takes the corner like he owns it. And when the checkered flag drops, he wins by more than seven seconds.

A disgruntled Narciso crosses second with Dante third.

The sound that erupts is deafening. I don’t hear anything else until Renzo is out of the car, helmet off, sweat-damp hair, eyes already searching.

When he finds me waiting at the barrier, he doesn’t hesitate.

He crosses the space between us in long strides, ignores the cameras, the officials, the noise. He scoops me up in his arms and kisses me hard, unapologetic, claiming me in front of the world.

Gasps ripple. Phones fly up. Somewhere, hearts break.

I don’t care.

For one perfect second, it’s just us, then the officials pull him away for his post-race procedures.

Rafa’s hand lands lightly on my shoulder. ‘Eyes on you now,’ he mutters, adding as he walks away, ‘Careful, some of the fans can be fucking nuts.’

I barely have time to process it before someone brushes past me, close enough that I flinch. A hand presses something cold into my palm.