by Eva Charles
“Like hell. I’m not a fucking coward.”
“We don’t know if the car was tampered with—or the track, for that matter.”
“Roberto will figure it out. The race doesn’t start for four hours.” I don’t mention a possible sabotage of the track, because that’s largely out of our control.
“I have great faith in Roberto too. But he doesn’t have much time to determine whether there’s a problem. Getting behind that wheel today, without a clearer picture of what happened, is a big risk for someone with your kind of responsibilities.”
Cristiano knows the best chance he has to sideline me is not to point out the danger but to prick my conscience. Fucker. It’s why we’re friends.
“I’ll be racing today. I’d rather die than live as a coward. If I can be intimidated that easily, I’m useless to anyone. They might as well just take my balls.”
He doesn’t say another word. Although I’m sure I haven’t heard the last of it.
“After I get dressed, I’m going to the track,” I tell Cristiano as I turn on the water in the shower. “On my way over, I’ll contact the head of the racing commission. He needs to know about the breach. We don’t know how widespread it might be. That place needs to be swept carefully without alarming everyone. If I call him personally, he’ll be discreet.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Bom dia, Senhor Antonio.”
“Bom dia, Roberto. Not a cloud in the sky. Beautiful day to take this girl out for a ride.” I slide my palm over the sleek hood of the car that’s served me well for years. “Talk to me.”
He nods. “When I went home yesterday, I left my tools on the bench, nice and straight, like I always do before a race. I came in early to go over everything one more time before the crew arrived.” He points to the rolling workbench. “The bench was moved back from the car, maybe six inches from where I left it, and the tools were not lined up straight. It’s almost like someone moved the thing without unlocking the wheels, and the tools shifted. Not a big shift, but it’s not how I left them.”
“Were you the last one to leave last night?”
“Always. I locked the door and took the key with me.” He pats his pocket. “Cristiano said you’re still set on racing today.”
“I am.”
He nods with a sober expression.
“Any signs of tampering?”
“Not yet. But it’s too early to tell. I have a checklist—more thorough than the one we would normally use on race day. The crew is on their way, and we’re going to go through the car methodically. We’ll drain the fuel, replace the lubricants, and do a visual. We’ll also run some analytics.”
“If you find any problems, let Cristiano know right away.”
Roberto has a nerve-racking job under the best of conditions, but the pressure is ramped up high now. It’ll earn him a nice bonus, whether I win or not.
“Am I going to die today?” I ask in jest.
“Not on my watch.”
I pat him on the back. “I have complete confidence in you, Roberto. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the best in the business.”
We both glance toward the door as Cristiano comes into the garage. His body is so tight I can see the tension from here.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” I tell Roberto, before turning my attention to Cristiano.
“Anything?”
“We’ve swept the place twice for recording devices, fingerprints, and explosives. Other than the bench, nothing seems amiss. Only fingerprints on the car are from the crew, and yours. We’re running some fibers we picked up in the sweep, but they’re likely to lead nowhere.” He pauses for a breath. “We do have one lead. A woman brought the guard dinner last night and gave him a blow job before she left.”
I hope he enjoyed it, because if he let someone into my garage, it’ll be the last time he gets his dick sucked. “Does she have a name?”
“We don’t know her real name. He met her a week ago at a bar where he hangs out after work, and she gave him an alias. We’re running facial recognition on her, but it was dark, and she stayed away from anything that would illuminate her face. She knew what she was doing.”
“Distracting that stupid fuck.”
Cristiano nods. “What do you want us to do with him?”
“Are we sure he wasn’t involved?”
“Right now I’m not prepared to say anything for certain. But I doubt it. He was shitting his pants when I showed up at his door this morning. He was a stooge.”
“Probably. But there’s no way we can have him work the race today.”
“I already took care of it. He called in sick, and we have a guy on him until it’s over.”
“Someone was in here. I don’t believe for a second that it’s someone who wants me to back out of the race so they have a chance to win. This is a charity event with bragging rights for the winning port house. That’s it.”
“Agreed.”
“This was either an attempt to scare me—or kill me. But it could also be a diversion. The big bang could come while we’re chasing our tails.”
“Word’s starting to leak out that Daniela’s back. This could have something to do with Quinta Rosa do Vale.”
“Maybe. Although, even without that, I have plenty of enemies. I want security on her doubled. And I don’t want her on the road today. When it’s time, bring her here by helicopter. Triple-check everything before she boards.”
“I was going to send Alvarez to escort her. He’s totally trustworthy. I need to stay on top of things here.”
“Not happening. I want you with her from the second she leaves my house, through the race, until you drop her off safely, when it’s over.”
Cristiano’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t like it one bit. Big surprise.
“I’m not going to try to talk you out of getting behind that wheel,” he says, taking a new approach. “But if you don’t push the vehicle too hard, you have a better chance of staying in control of the car if something goes wrong. It’s not foolproof, because we don’t know the extent of the problem. But it’s something.”
“I race to win. Otherwise, why bother?”
61
Daniela
From outside the kitchen, I hear Cristiano and Victor talking in hushed tones. Something about Antonio’s car being tampered with last night.
“You know Antonio,” Cristiano says with more frustration than I’ve ever heard from him. “We advised him against racing, because of the danger, but he’s so damn stubborn.”
A chill runs through me. Why would he risk his life for a race that’s essentially meaningless?
When I step into the room, the conversation stops.
“You look lovely,” Victor gushes, as though he wasn’t just contemplating Antonio’s death. He’s wily like the rest of them.
I want to ask about the tampering, but I decide to wait until Cristiano and I are alone. There’s a better chance he’ll let something slip if it’s just the two of us.
“Are you ready?” Cristiano asks.
“Yes.”
As soon as we’re outside, the need to know more gets the better of me. “What happened with Antonio’s car?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I grab his arm at the elbow. “Don’t lie to me. Why is it dangerous for Antonio to race today?”
“You’re perfectly safe,” he assures me, completely ignoring my question.
Oh, no, Cristiano. You will tell me what I want to know.
“I didn’t ask about my safety. But I’m not getting on that helicopter unless you tell me what’s going on.”
“My back is a bit sore today. Don’t make me carry you onto the chopper.” Cristiano has a way of softening a real threat—at least that’s how he behaves with me.
“You can do that, but then you’ll have to carry me off at the other end, and then to the Huntsman box. I’ve been subjected to a lot of humiliation lately. My
tolerance is high. Don’t think for one second that I’m not prepared to make a scene. If you don’t think Antonio wants that, then you better tell me what happened.”
I brace myself for Cristiano’s brand of restrained anger, but there’s a spark of amusement in his expression.
“There isn’t much to tell right now. Someone was in the garage where Antonio keeps the car. A workbench was moved. It could have been anyone. There’s likely an innocent explanation.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
He shrugs. “It’s my job to treat everything out of the ordinary like a threat, but most issues that catch my attention are benign.”
“Thank you,” I say as we approach the landing pad. Although I’m not convinced he’s told me everything.
The helicopter is over the top, like all things Huntsman.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been on one. My father owned one, and we would take it to the apartment in the city, or when we were traveling a distance and the rural valley roads would make the trip too long.
But even a fancy helicopter doesn’t stop me from worrying about Antonio.
I turn to Cristiano while he can still hear me over the chopper. “Given the circumstances, why are you escorting me when you could be doing something more important? I’m not going to run, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“You are important. The only person who doesn’t seem to realize that is you.”
The moment I set foot on the ground, I’m surrounded by burly men—with guns concealed under their jackets, I’m certain. It feels unnecessary, but given the issue with the car, I’m not surprised.
The guards shuttle me to the Huntsman box with only moments to spare before the start of the race.
Cristiano stands directly behind my seat, and even when I turn to ask him about Antonio’s grid position, he doesn’t take his eyes off the crowd.
“One,” he replies, watching intently for any sign of trouble. “He won last year.”
Why am I not surprised?
While waiting for the race to begin, I look to the area where my family’s box had been. It’s been twelve years since I was last here, and I can’t tell one box from another.
As I scan the seats, I notice spectators gawking in my direction. I’m sure the gossips are having a field day with my sudden return—sitting in the Huntsman box, no less. Let them have their fun. It’s not something I can control.
The announcer’s voice booms over the intercom, urging the dawdlers to be seated.
He welcomes everyone, reminding the crowd about all the weekend festivities, and he makes a wish that the vines planted this year grow fertile and lush, bringing sweet, juicy fruit when they reach maturation in a few years.
The new vines are the future of the region.
“Now for the presentation of the camellias,” he announces in a cheery voice, to much whooping and hollering.
Porto is known for many things, but in the spring it’s the city of the camellias. Before the race starts, each participant will do a lap around the track, stopping his car in front of the stands and presenting a camellia to a woman of his choosing. Unless this year is different, the drivers are all men.
The recipient of the flower isn’t always a love interest. She can be a friend, a relative, or a random spectator minding her own business.
When I was a girl, like many others, I waited with bated breath to see who would get Antonio’s flower. He always presented a white camellia, signifying adoration, never a red one that represents love and passion. He always gave his flower to his mother, or to an elderly woman, or to a young girl no older than five or six. I always prayed he would stop the car in front of my family’s box and present me with his flower. But he never did.
While everyone claps and cheers, their eyes focused on the track, or on the big screens that amplify the exchange, I can’t help but wonder if Antonio will give me a flower, or if he’ll continue his tradition of offering it to someone too old, or too young, to provide fodder for the gossips.
Antonio’s car begins to take the lap. He passes the Huntsman box without a glance. I hate that my heart sinks a little when he drives past.
I keep my eyes glued to the car as he takes an unusual second lap. They don’t stray from him, not for a second. Not when he stops the car. Not when he takes the steps, two at a time, to the box where I’m seated. Not when he stands in front of me with quirking lips.
His eyes shimmer with mischief as he hands me a red camellia and a red rose. After a curt bow of his head, he turns and jogs down the steps.
I hold the stems tight, embarrassed by how happy I am.
The crowd cheers as he makes his way to the car. Before he gets in, he looks up to the stands, right at me, and smiles adoringly. It’s all for show, of course, and the crowd eats it up. My cheeks must be as red as the rose.
I lower my eyes to the flowers so that I don’t have to see my flushed face on the screen.
Leave it to Antonio to present a rose and a camellia. Always bucking tradition unless it suits him.
Pinned to the rose, securing it to a lovely grosgrain ribbon, is a gold crown. The Huntsman logo.
I’m captivated by how the crown pierces the rose, right where it buds. I swallow hard. Thankfully, the race begins before I can overthink the connection between the rose and the crown, and what it all means. Because it means something. Antonio does nothing without purpose.
As I watch the cars circle faster, and faster, I hold my breath and clench the padded armrests on the seat. What kind of fool would risk his life for this? One who won’t be cowed.
Cristiano leans over, whispering so that only I can hear. “You don’t have to worry about him. The problem with the car has been resolved. He’ll be fine.”
I want the details, but I know better than to ask about them here. I look up at him. “I wasn’t worried.”
A small smile plays on his lips, but he has the good grace not to call me a liar.
Before the afternoon is over, there’s a small crash, a flat tire, and countless other harmless mishaps, but none of them involve Antonio’s car.
At the end of the long race, my attention is on the large screen as the trophy is presented to the winner. I see the boy I used to dream about. The one who would give his kisses only to me. The joy on his handsome face is palpable, even from where I sit.
And for now, I give myself permission to revel in his happiness.
62
Antonio
As soon as I step off the winner’s platform, I hand the trophy to Roberto. “Add it to your collection. You’ve more than earned it this year.”
Two hours before the race, he discovered that the steering mechanism had been tampered with. It was a slight modification, hard to spot, but it had the potential to cause serious damage. Maybe death.
“Last race?” he asks, like he does every year. One day he’s going to be surprised by my answer. But not today.
“Pfft. I’m just getting started.”
He grins and shakes his head before lifting the trophy so the entire crew can get a good look.
“Congratulations,” Lucas says from behind me. “Even though no one in their right mind would have gotten behind that wheel today.”
“I never claimed to be sane. Anything on the break-in?” I ask when we’re far enough away from the crowd not to be overheard.
“Plenty.”
I look into the stands, searching for Daniela, but the Huntsman box is empty. “Before you start, did the helicopter take off?”
“Momentarily. Cristiano’s with her,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “Do you want me to tell them to wait?”
As much as I’d like to taste that silky mouth right now, she’s safer at the house. “Nah.” I’ll see her tonight. “Tell me what you found.”
“We located the woman on the feed, but someone got to her before we did. It wasn’t a happy ending for her.”
I stop and turn to face him. “They killed her and lef
t the body for us to find?” That’s not sloppiness. It’s a message.
“They left the body for someone to find. I don’t think we’re prepared to conclude that it was left for us.”
“What are we prepared to conclude? That our hands are cramping from holding our dicks for so long?”
He ignores my frustration.
“She had a Georgian passport in her purse. It’s a fake. A good forgery, but a forgery. If the body was left as a message for us, someone wanted to make it seem like the Georgians were behind the sabotage. That’s something we can safely conclude.”
Tampering with my car is an act of war. I could have died.
If we go after the Georgians for it, the small war would cause just enough upheaval for someone else to sneak in under our noses and grab a foothold. It has the Russians’ signature all over it.
But it’s too easy. I never trust easy.
63
Daniela
I spoke with Isabel and Valentina when I got back from the race. They were planning on spending the afternoon at a baseball game in the local park. Normally I would take Valentina and her friends—and pretend to look the other way when they flirted with boys. Isabel won’t be so patient.
After the call, I slid into a scented bath, lingering until right before the stylist arrived. It was indulgent, but a much-needed escape before the Camellia Ball tonight.
I adjust the ruby-and-diamond necklace that matches my gown. A small piece of my heart crumbles as I glance at it in the mirror on my way to meet Antonio.
My mother had a beautiful ruby-and-diamond necklace that my father had given her as an engagement present. It was one of the last pieces of jewelry I sold. The necklace wasn’t as elaborate as the one I’m wearing, but it would have been a better complement to this dress.
You did what was necessary. I did, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.