Page 60 of Redline
“Landon is the reason you’re even in that seat,” my father counters. He steps closer, his eyes hard and clinical. “Luka is out there right now, smiling for the cameras, charming the sponsors you just alienated. He’s fixing the mess you made. He understands that this name is a brand, not a playground for your tantrums.”
“Then go talk to Luka,” I growl. “Since he’s the one with the 'actual charm.' Since he’s the son who does exactly what he’s told.”
“I like results. I funded this. I built this entire team around your talent. But Luka is the one who keeps it alive. He’s the face people actually want to see. You? You’re just the engine—and today, the engine stalled.”
“I became this because of you!” I’m shouting now, the frustration of a lifetime boiling over. “You spent my childhood treating me like an investment and Mom like a footnote. You didn't want a son; you wanted a trophy to polish so people would forget you’re a cheat and a liar.”
My father doesn’t flinch. He looks at me with a profound, clinical pity that makes me want to scream.
“You want to talk about responsibility? Fine,” he says quietly. “I made you. Every lap you take, every dollar in your bank account—that’sme.I’ve spent ten years—ever since I put you in that first kart—waiting for you to outgrow this volatility. I funded the junior circuits. I bought the seats. I built this entire team around your ‘talent.’ But all I see today is a liability that’s costing me money and reputation.”
“Landon’s the problem!” I point toward the track. “He had me playing it safe! If I’d stayed aggressive, I would’ve won.”
“No,” my father says, his voice dropping. “You lost because you’re weak.”
He stays still, watching me with a kind of pity that feels carved out of him.
“You think you’re the star? You’re the overhead,” he says, controlled, like he knows exactly what it’ll do. “You’re terrified that if you listen to anyone else, there won’t be enough ofyouleft to matter. But here’s the truth, Dominic: there is no ‘you’ without my bank account. You’re a fast driver, but there are a thousand fast drivers. Luka has the head for this. He has the temperament. I should have put him in that seat years ago and saved myself the decade I wasted trying to force a championout of second-rate talent.Your brother understands how not to make us look like a problem.”
The air leaves the room. That’s the line. The one we’ve been dancing around since I was eleven years old.
“Then go put him in it,” I say, my voice deathly quiet. “Go find your perfect son and stay with him. Because you’re done. Don't come back to my track. Don't come to the next race. I don't want you there. I don't need you.”
My father stares at me for a long beat. “You think you can do this without me? You’ll be a footnote in a season. Without the name and my backing, you’re just an angry kid who’s good at hitting marks.”
“Get out,” I breathe.
He turns for the door, his posture as rigid as the machine I just climbed out of. He doesn't look back.
The silence that follows is deafening. My hands are shaking—actually shaking. It isn't the familiar, numbness that usually wraps around me like a second skin to survive a race. This is different. This is a raw, violent pulse that has nothing to do with apexes or engines or the prestige of the Valerio name. It’s the realization that I’ve finally cleared the room.
I realize I have no one left.
I grab a heavy glass from the table and hurl it against the wall, the shards spraying across the tile in a frantic, glittering mess that matches the state of my chest.
I yank the door open, ready to burn down whatever is left of the day, but I stop dead.
Carter is standing there.
She’s pressed lightly near the opposite wall, arms loose at her sides like she hasn’t decided what to do with them yet. She’s wearing my family’s name across her clothes, and for a second, I hate the sight of it. She looks like she just arrived, but the stillness in her posture tells me she heard every word.
“Dominic,” she says.
The way she says my name... it’s soft. It’s heavy. To my ears, it sounds like pity—like she’s looking at the fallout behind me and seeing a boy who just realized he’s completely alone.
“Don’t,” I snap, the word coming out like a snarl.
I don’t wait for her to apologize for listening, and I don’t wait to see if that soft look is actually sympathy. I can’t handle either. I storm past her, my shoulder brushing hers, leaving the smell of sweat and failure in the hallway behind me.
Chapter seventeen
Carter
The heavy door of the sauna slams against the wall as I shove it open.
I’m out of breath, my lungs burning from more than just the sudden wave of dry heat.
I’ve been pacing since long before the plane touched down—pacing the hotel room in a fever, mentally pacing the narrow aisles of the team charter, and finally wearing a path into the floor of this silent, suffocating house. I shouldn't even be here. I’ve viewed the Valerio name as a warning, a brand of entitlement and excess that stands for everything wrong with the world. I despised the glamour of F1 and the men who treated life like a high-speed game of chicken.
