Read Chapter 8: First Practice

The roar of the V6 hybrid engine was a physical thing, vibrating through the carbon monocoque and into Jack’s spine. It was his second flying lap of the session, the red and silver Fenice blurring through the Swimming Pool chicane, and the car felt alive beneath him. More alive than anything he’d ever driven. Luca Moreau’s chassis, rebuilt and tuned with the precision of a surgeon, responded to his every breath. The steering was telepathic, the brakes brutal, and for the first time in years, Jack felt like the machine was an extension of his own will.

He crossed the line at Sector 3, his engineer, Riccardo, crackling in his ear. “P4. Point four off the top time. Leclerc’s on a flyer but his second sector is slower.”

“Copy.” Jack kept his eyes up, flicking through the mirrors as he started a cool-down lap. The principality glittered beyond the barriers, the yachts bobbing in the harbor, but he didn’t care about the view. He was thinking about the glove in his duffel bag, the ledger in his pocket, and the coordinates on his phone. Focus. The track is the only thing that matters right now.

The tunnel came up fast, the shimmering orange lights swallowing him whole. Sound compressed, doubled, the engine howling off the walls as he threaded the needle between the concrete and the barriers. Out of the tunnel, blind into the chicane, the car danced on the kerbs. He held it, muscle memory and instinct guiding him through. He was quick. Genuinely quick. If the car held together, if the team kept giving him what he needed, he had a shot at this.

Then the rear wing shimmered in his peripheral vision, a flash of navy blue and gold. Viktor Petrov’s car. Half a second later, the Russian was alongside him at the exit of the chicane, too aggressive, too early. The racing line wasn’t theirs—Jack was on the inside, heading into the tight left at Casino Square. There was no room. No space for two cars.

Viktor didn’t back off.

The crunch of carbon-on-carbon was sickening. His right-side floor scraped against Viktor’s front wing, the impact jolting through the suspension. Jack yanked the wheel left, but Viktor had already cut across, his rear tire clipping Jack’s front. The Fenice snapped sideways, the rear end stepping out in a vicious, uncontrollable slide.

Jack fought it. Hands a blur, feet dancing on the pedals. He caught it, barely, the car wobbling as he ran wide onto the inside kerb, the left wheels bouncing hard over the raised cat’s-eyes. The vibration rattled his teeth. He stabbed the brakes, the car slowing just enough to make the next corner, but the damage was done. The lap was ruined, and more importantly, the underfloor was likely scraped to hell.

“Viktor’s a prick,” he muttered into the radio.

Riccardo’s voice was strained. “We saw it. That was deliberate. Bring it in, Jack. We need to check the floor.”

Jack didn’t argue. He nursed the car back around, the balance already compromised, the rear end twitching every time he so much as breathed on the throttle. The puncture risk alone was enough to make him paranoid. He pulled into the pit box, the crews swarming over the car like ants. He popped the halo and climbed out, his helmet muffling the noise of the garage.

He knew exactly where Viktor would be.

The Red Bull–blue and gold of the Petrov Transport livery was impossible to miss at the other end of the pit lane. Viktor’s car was already in its box, the Russian standing with his arms crossed, talking to his race engineer. He spotted Jack approaching and a thin smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes.

“Turner,” Viktor said, his accent thick, casual. “Good lap. Shame about the mistake.”

“Mistake.” Jack stopped a meter short of him, close enough to feel the heat coming off the still-warm brakes. “You ran me onto the kerbs at Casino Square. That wasn’t a mistake. That was a shove.”

Viktor’s smile widened. He uncrossed his arms, looking Jack up and down like a mechanic inspecting a used part. “You’re in Luca’s car. It is a good car. But you are a substitute, not a teammate. You understand the difference?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “I understand you’re scared.”

That landed. Viktor’s eyes flickered, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Scared of what? Of you? You have one session. One lucky lap on soft tires. You have no history here. No wins. You are a debt collector’s dream, nothing more.”

The words stung, but Jack didn’t flinch. He knew exactly what Viktor was doing—trying to get inside his head, to make him overreach, to turn a clean rivalry into a messy one. But Viktor didn’t know about the ledger. He didn’t know about Luca’s glove, or the crash that wasn’t a crash, or the weight of everything Jack was carrying into this weekend.

“You know what I think?” Jack said, stepping closer. “I think you’re worried that when I outqualify you tomorrow, people might start asking why Luca crashed in the first place. And I think you don’t want that conversation.”

Viktor’s smile vanished. For a second, there was something beneath the surface—something cold and wary. Then he shook his head, laughed it off. “You talk too much. Like a journalist. Keep your head on the track, Turner, and maybe you’ll last until Sunday.”

He turned and walked back toward his garage, the door sliding shut behind him. Jack stood there, his heart hammering, adrenaline still coursing through him. The pit lane was full of eyes—mechanics, engineers, a few journalists with cameras. They’d caught the exchange, and by the time the next session rolled around, the paddock would be buzzing.

But Jack didn’t care about the gossip. He turned and walked back to the Fenice garage, his mind already shifting from Viktor’s games to the bigger picture. He found Riccardo hunched over a tablet, frowning at the telemetry.

“Hear might have,” Riccardo said without looking up. “The floor’s damaged. We can repair it, but we lost the setup window. We’ll be chasing the balance for the rest of the session.”

“Then tell them to fix it,” Jack said. “And pull the data logs from Viktor’s car. If he did that on purpose, there’ll be a steering input spike. We can protest.”

Riccardo finally looked up, his eyes tired. “Protest? Jack, you’re new here. You don’t protest your teammate’s team. Not unless you want to make enemies.”

Jack met his gaze. “I’ve got enough enemies already.”

He walked past Riccardo, through the garage and into the small driver’s room at the back. He closed the door, the noise of the paddock muffled to a dull hum. He pulled out his phone, scrolling to the coordinates Marco had sent him. The hills above Nice were an hour away, maybe less. If he left after the afternoon session, he could be there by dusk.

But first, he needed to know who he was dealing with. He typed a quick message to Sophie, asking if she’d had any luck tracing the “A.G.” initials in Luca’s ledger. His thumb hovered over the send button as his other hand reached into his duffel bag, fingertips brushing against the worn leather of Luca’s glove.

Whatever happened on track, whatever Viktor threw at him, this was bigger than a racing seat. Someone had killed Luca Moreau, and they’d buried it under an official report and a betting scandal. If Viktor knew something—if Petrov Transport was tied into any of it—that confrontation in the pit lane had just put a target on Jack’s back.

He sent the message. Then he sat back, staring at the ceiling, and let the weight of the weekend settle onto his shoulders. He had to qualify fast. He had to win. And he had to figure out who in this glittering, beautiful prison had already decided he was a loose end.

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