Chapter 61: Senna
The Monza paddock is a whole different world. Everywhere I look, there’s a blur of activity, pristine white uniforms with splashes of Ferrari red, McLaren orange, Mercedes silver. The air smells like burning rubber, expensive cologne, and money, lots of it. Mechanics dart around like worker ants, their movements precise and urgent as they make final adjustments to the sleek machines that probably cost more than I can fathom.
I’m trying to act natural, but it’s hard when you’re wearing a leather collar in public and your lover is visibly high on cocaine.
Caterina hasn’t stopped talking since we left the hotel. Her words come out in rapid-fire bursts, her crimson eyes darting around the paddock with predatory intensity. One moment she’s explaining the aerodynamic principles of the Ferrari front wing, the next she’s pointing out some billionaire who’s just handing around.
“Adam, did you know that the Ferrari engine produces over 1000 horsepower? A thousand! Can you imagine? That’s like fifteen normal cars put together. I once drove one of these, you know. Not in a race, obviously, but Valentina let me take it around the track at Fiorano. Hit 250 kilometers per hour on the straight. That’s, what, like 150 miles?”
She doesn’t wait for my answer before launching into a detailed history of Formula 1 engine regulations.
I nod along, my brain struggling to keep up with her manic energy. The drugs she gave me this morning have me feeling floaty and calm, which is probably for the best, given how overstimulating everything is. The contrast between my chemical tranquility and her cocaine-fueled hyperactivity is almost comical.
“Cat,” I murmur when she finally pauses for breath, “maybe slow down a little?”
She looks at me with those wide, dilated pupils, her perfect lips quirking into a smile that’s just a touch too sharp.
“Am I talking too much? I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” She doesn’t slow down at all. “It’s just that there’s so much happening today. So many moving parts. Everything needs to be perfect.”
There’s something in her tone, an undercurrent of intensity that goes beyond normal race-day excitement. I tilt my head, studying her with mild concern.
“Is something special about this race?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Caterina’s smile widens, showing too many teeth. “Every race is special when family is competing,” she says, but there’s a glint in her eye that makes me wonder if there’s more to it.
Before I can press further, a tall figure in Ferrari red approaches us. Valentina, looking every inch the professional racer in her team uniform, her short blonde hair perfectly styled despite the humidity. Her crimson eyes, so like Caterina’s, flash with determination as she approaches us.
“Cat,” she says, her Italian accent more pronounced than yesterday. “Good to see you made it to the grid.”
Caterina’s arm tightens around my waist, her cocaine-fueled energy momentarily focused entirely on her cousin.
“Val! How are you feeling?” Caterina asks, her words coming out just a bit too fast. “Ready to show these bitches who’s boss?”
Valentina’s shoulders slump slightly, her crimson eyes darkening with frustration.
“I feel as good as I can with a losing car,” she sighs, running a hand through her short blonde hair. “Verstappen is about a full second ahead of us per lap in qualifying. It might as well be an eternity.”
I watch Caterina’s face carefully, noticing how her expression doesn’t register surprise or disappointment. Instead, there’s something calculating in her eyes, like she’s mentally checking off a box on some invisible list.
“Just do your best,” Caterina says with a shrug, her tone surprisingly casual, given Valentina’s obvious distress. “That’s all anyone can ask.”
Valentina’s expression shifts, her initial frustration giving way to a smug smile that transforms her entire face. She stands straighter, her crimson eyes gleaming with sudden confidence.
“Oh, I always do my best,” she says with an arrogant smile.
Caterina’s smile widens to match her cousin’s, but there’s a tightness around her eyes that wasn’t there before. “Well, that’s what separates champions from the rest, isn’t it? That extra something special.”
Valentina nods, then glances at her watch. “I should get back to the garage. Final strategy meeting before the formation lap.”
As she turns to leave, she catches my eye and gives me a small nod of acknowledgment. “Nice to see you again, Adam.”
“Good luck,” I call after her, not sure what else to say.
Caterina pulls me quickly. “Come on, let’s head to our seats.”
*****
We’re sitting in a fancy private booth overlooking the Monza track, over looking the starting line. TVs line the walls to cover the parts of the track we can’t see directly, each one showing a different camera angle.
Caterina hasn’t stopped fidgeting since we sat down. Her knee bounces, her fingers drum against the armrest, and her crimson eyes dart between the screens with manic intensity. The cocaine’s got her wired tight, like a spring about to launch across the room.
“This is going to be amazing,” she says for maybe the tenth time in as many minutes, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Valentina’s going to win today. I can feel it in my bones.”
I shoot her a confused look. Didn’t Valentina just tell us her car was shit? Like, literally an hour ago?
“I thought she had no chance,” I point out, shifting in my seat to get comfortable. The leather collar feels heavier around my neck in public, even though nobody else seems to care.
Caterina waves dismissively, her movements too sharp, too jerky. “Anything can happen in Formula 1, Adam. Anything. Rain, crashes, safety cars, mechanical failures. That’s the beauty of it.”
Maddy and Lara sit off to the side, both looking professionally bored. Lara’s typing on her iPad again. Maddy’s eyes keep flicking to Caterina with subtle concern like she’s monitoring a bomb’s countdown timer.
“Five minutes till take off,” Caterina announces, checking her watch with exaggerated precision. She stands up suddenly, pacing in front of the massive window. “They should be getting into position now. Valentina’s starting P5, which isn’t ideal, but it’s workable. The McLarens are P2 and P3, but they won’t be a problem.” She smiles to herself, a private joke I’m not privy to.
The door to our private box swings open without warning. Isabella Moretti glides in like she owns the place, her silver-streaked dark hair perfectly styled, her designer outfit screaming old money. Behind her, Tony shuffles in, hunched and small in his expensive suit, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
Caterina freezes mid-pace, her cocaine-fueled energy momentarily redirected into what looks like pure annoyance.
“Isabella,” she says, her voice dripping with false warmth. “What an unexpected surprise.”
Isabella smooths her expensive skirt and offers a razor-thin smile. “Well, we figured since we’re already here,” she says with practiced Southern charm that barely masks her venom, “we might as well join you, fine folks. The view from this box is unparalleled.”
Caterina’s cocaine-enhanced smile stretches unnaturally wide. “True enough,” she replies, her crimson eyes flashing with something that looks suspiciously like anticipation rather than annoyance.
Isabella and Tony settle into seats on the opposite side of the box from us. Tony keeps his eyes downcast, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the expensive upholstery. Isabella, meanwhile, sits with perfect posture, her jade-green eyes scanning the room with calculated precision.
‘I wonder where Luna is?’
The atmosphere in the box crackles with tension as the cars line up on the starting grid. Caterina’s leg bounces faster, her fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against her thigh. She leans forward in her seat, crimson eyes locked on the starting lights.
“And they’re off!” the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers as the five red lights go out.
Except they’re not all off. P1 Maxine Verstappen’s car sits completely motionless on the grid while the rest of the field screams past her. The championship leader’s Red Bull hasn’t moved an inch, smoke beginning to curl from beneath the engine cover.
Caterina erupts into peals of laughter, slapping her thigh with undisguised glee. “Would you look at that!” she crows, her voice pitched higher than normal. “The mighty Verstappen can’t even make it off the starting line!”
Isabella’s head snaps toward Caterina, her jade eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. “My, my,” she drawls, “aren’t we enthusiastic about another driver’s misfortune?”
Caterina doesn’t even try to tone down her manic energy, still giggling as she watches Verstappen’s team frantically gesturing from the pit wall. “It’s racing, Isabella. Mechanical failures happen.” She turns to me, her dilated pupils making her crimson eyes look almost black. “Adam, baby, this is perfect! With Verstappen out, Valentina has a real shot at the podium!”
I nod, not entirely sure what to say.
“The McLarens are pulling ahead,” Isabella observes coolly, her gaze shifting back to the track. “Your cousin has quite the challenge ahead of her.”
Caterina’s smile doesn’t falter. “Just wait,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for me. “This race is going to be very interesting.”
*****
The race has entered lap 49 of 53, and I’m barely hanging on to my composure. It’s not the thundering engines or screaming crowd that’s got me squirming in my seat. It’s Caterina’s hand. She’s been rubbing my inner thigh for the past ten minutes, her fingers inching higher with each caress while her crimson eyes remain laser-focused on the track.
“You like that, baby?” she whispers without looking at me, her words slightly slurred around the edges. She’s been disappearing to the bathroom every thirty minutes or so, coming back each time with wider pupils and more manic energy.
“Cat,” I whimper, trying to keep my voice down with Isabella just across the booth. “You’re making it hard to concentrate.”
Her lips curve into that predatory smile I’ve grown to crave. “Good,” she purrs, her hand squeezing harder.
I glance nervously toward Isabella, but she’s fixated on the race, her jade-green eyes tracking the cars with calculated precision. Tony sits beside her, shoulders still hunched, gaze firmly on his shoes.
“Holy shit!” Lara suddenly shouts, jumping to her feet and pointing at the massive screen.
We all whip our heads toward the display just in time to see P2 Piastri’s orange McLaren slam into the side of P1 Norris at the first chicane. The impact sends both cars careening off the track and onto the grass in a shower of carbon fiber and rubber.
Isabella seems unsurprised.
Caterina, meanwhile, erupts into unhinged laughter, clapping her hands together like a child at a birthday party. “Oh my GOD! Did you SEE that?” she screeches, her pupils so dilated her eyes look almost black. “Both McLarens out! This is fucking PERFECT!”
Isabella arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow, her jade eyes glittering with suspicion. “My, my,” she drawls, her Southern accent thickening with sarcasm. “It’s almost like that crash was foretold in the stars. Quite the fortunate turn of events for your dear cousin.”
Caterina doesn’t even try to hide her smugness, cocaine confidence radiating from her in waves. She leans back in her seat, crimson eyes dancing with barely contained glee.
“What exactly are you implying, Isabella?” she purrs, her fingers still tracing lazy circles on my thigh. “That I somehow fixed a Formula 1 race? That’s quite the accusation.”
Isabella’s lips curl into a thin smile as she examines her manicure with exaggerated interest. “I’m not implying anything, dear. It’s no skin off my back what happens here today.” She shrugs elegantly. “Just making an observation about coincidences.”
The tension between them crackles like static electricity, but Isabella’s attention drifts back to the race with practiced indifference.
With the McLarens out and Verstappen never even starting, the rest of the race feels almost anticlimactic. Valentina’s red Ferrari dominates the track, maintaining a steady half-second lead over her closest competitor. The commentators can barely contain their excitement over the Italian driver potentially winning on home soil.
I try to focus on the race, but Caterina’s hand has migrated dangerously upward. Her fingers are now brazenly rubbing my cock through my expensive pants, her movements hidden from the others only by the angle of our seats and my strategically placed jacket.
“Cat,” I whisper urgently, my face burning. “People might see.”
She doesn’t stop. If anything, her touch becomes more deliberate, her crimson eyes still fixed on the track while a knowing smile plays on her perfect lips.
“Let them,” she whispers back, giving me a squeeze that makes my breath hitch.
I’m trapped in this exquisite torture, my body responding eagerly to her touch while my brain screams about the awkwardness of getting a hand job in a room with Isabella Moretti.
Valentina’s Ferrari crosses the finish line first, the checkered flag waving triumphantly. The crowd erupts into frenzied cheers, the Italian fans going absolutely wild for their hometown hero’s victory.
Caterina leaps to her feet with such sudden energy that she nearly knocks over our chair. Her hand finally leaves my crotch as she throws both arms into the air, screaming with genuine joy.
“YES! THAT’S MY FUCKING COUSIN!” she shrieks, jumping up and down like a teenager at a concert.
In her cocaine-fueled excitement, Caterina grabs my face and crashes her lips against mine. The kiss is messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth as she practically devours me right there in the private box.
When she finally pulls back, her crimson eyes are wild, pupils blown so wide they almost swallow the red entirely. Her perfect blonde hair is disheveled, her chest heaving as she stares at me with naked hunger.
“Adam,” she pants, her voice husky and urgent, “meet me in the men’s restroom. Now.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Wait, you want to fuck here? At the race track?”
“I need to,” she growls, her fingers digging into my shoulders with bruising force.
A wave of warmth washes over me, equal parts embarrassment and arousal. The drugs in my system make everything feel so exciting, even this wildly inappropriate suggestion.
“Okay,” I whisper, a dopey smile spreading across my face.
I push myself up from the chair.
“Two minutes,” Caterina whispers against my ear, her breath hot against my skin.
I nod as I make my way toward the door. Behind me, I hear Caterina saying something about needing to make a call to congratulate Valentina, her voice oddly controlled considering what she just whispered to me.
I navigate through the VIP hallway, following the signs to the nearest restroom.
When I reach the men’s room, I awkwardly maneuver my elbow to push down on the handle. The heavy door swings open, and I slip inside, letting it fall shut behind me with a solid thud.
The sudden quiet is jarring after the cacophony of the race, making me wonder if the area is sound proofed in some way. The bathroom is surprisingly luxurious for a sporting venue but more importantly, it’s completely empty.
I lean against the sink, taking a moment to catch my breath. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and that leather collar snug around my neck. I look exactly like what I am. Someone’s well-kept pet waiting for instructions.
*****
[Maddy’s POV]
I lean against the wall of our private viewing box, exhausted but satisfied, as I watch Valentina take the podium. The Italian national anthem swells through the speakers, and I allow myself a small smile. After staying up all night arranging this victory, it’s gratifying to see our work pay off.
“Worth every penny,” I murmur to myself, remembering the astronomical sum we paid Piastri to take out her teammate.
Valentina stands proudly on the top step, clutching her trophy with both hands, her crimson eyes bright with joy. The Ferrari team below her celebrates wildly, red flags waving in a sea of delirious fans. It’s a perfect moment, an Italian driver winning for Ferrari on Italian soil.
I stifle a yawn, the exhaustion finally catching up to me. Beside me, Lara taps away at her iPad, probably writing more of her depraved fiction.
The crack comes suddenly, a sharp, distinctive sound that my brain registers before I can process what’s happening.
On the screen, Valentina’s head snaps backward, a spray of red misting the air behind her. For one suspended moment, she remains standing, trophy still clutched in her hands. Then she crumples, collapsing in a heap on the podium as chaos erupts.
“What the fuck?”
Moments before disaster: