Redline

Music and shadows

Barcelona at night looked like an entirely different world.

Valentina stared at her reflection for a few seconds before getting out of the car and decided that Olivia was going to become absolutely unbearable after this.

The black dress was ridiculously short, perfectly fitted in all the right places, and completely open at the back. The dark fabric hugged her body with a dangerous kind of elegance every time she moved, while the straight neckline left her shoulders bare beneath the lights of the harbor.

The black thigh-high boots completed a look that made her appear far more intimidating than she actually felt.

Her makeup was elegant, with just a hint of shimmer around her eyes, and her dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders while the small diamonds in her ears caught flashes of light even from inside the car.

She looked completely comfortable in that world.

And, in some ways, she was.

She had grown up surrounded by luxury, impossible dinners, billionaire families, and people convinced money was a complete personality by itself.

She knew exactly how to walk in front of cameras, how to hold a champagne glass for hours without actually drinking, and how to smile at unbearable men without listening to a single word they said.

But that didn't mean she didn't find it ridiculous.

Olivia, sitting beside her, wasn't exactly helping them keep a low profile either.

She wore a dark silver dress, short and fitted, with sheer long sleeves and an open back that shimmered softly every time the harbor lights crossed the car windows.

Her flawless blonde hair fell straight over her shoulders, and the antique rings on her fingers probably belonged to some aristocratic woman who had died three centuries ago.

Olivia had that kind of elegant, scandalous beauty that seemed specifically designed to attract photographers.

And the worst part was that she absolutely loved the attention.

“Oh my God,” she murmured the moment she saw Valentina adjusting her dress. “Dante is going to have a cardiac event tonight.”

Valentina laughed.

“I hope not. Adrian would probably try to record it.”

“Adrian would sell the video to Netflix before calling an ambulance.”

The car moved slowly through a crowd of photographers, black vehicles, and private security until it stopped in front of the club's main entrance.

From the outside, the place looked like an exaggerated version of everything Valentina hated about modern luxury.

Purple lights ran across the building.

Massive sculptures illuminated from below.

Ridiculously expensive bottles visible even from the street.

People desperately trying to look important.

Everything screamed new money.

And new money usually comes with terrible taste.

Valentina studied the facade for a few seconds before sighing.

“This looks like the apartment of a crypto bro with self-esteem issues.”

Olivia slowly turned her head toward her.

“Your family owns a private jet bigger than my apartment in London.”

“Yes, but at least we pretend to be ashamed of it.”

Olivia burst out laughing just as security opened the car door.

The noise exploded around them immediately.

“OLIVIA!”

“VALENTINA, OVER HERE!”

“ONE PICTURE, GIRLS!”

Flashes started going off violently the moment they stepped out of the vehicle.

Several people near the entrance turned automatically when they recognized them, and for a few seconds, the movement outside the club seemed to slow just enough to watch them cross the dark carpet toward the entrance.

Olivia Bennett had been used to that since she was young.

She had appeared in magazines before she had even finished school.

British aristocracy.

Charity galas.

Family scandals.

And the European press's unhealthy obsession with following every move made by old families.

Valentina wasn't exactly easy to ignore either.

Heiress.

Occasional model.

Daughter of one of Europe's wealthiest families.

And now constantly linked to Dante Moreau.

The combination was enough to drive paparazzi insane.

“Perfect,” Valentina murmured as they walked toward the entrance without rushing. “Tomorrow they'll say we're trafficking stolen artwork or dating Saudi princes.”

“They already said that last summer.”

“Yes, and my father almost declared war on an Italian newspaper.”

The flashes continued exploding around them as they walked with the perfectly practiced calm only people raised under constant public attention possessed.

Neither of them hurried.

Neither reacted too much.

They smiled just enough to appear elegant without looking desperate for attention.

Old money.

Old rules.

Even though everyone around them seemed to be competing desperately to prove how much they had spent that night.

The club was obscene.

Glass.

Lights.

Massive metallic sculptures.

Champagne is served in glowing bottles.

And a violinist playing live electronic music near the entrance as if someone had lost an extremely expensive bet.

Valentina looked around for a few seconds.

“Ah, yes,” she murmured as they walked inside. “Because obviously the only thing this party needed was a depressed violinist playing techno.”

Olivia nearly doubled over laughing as security closed the doors behind them and the music swallowed the rest of the world.

The inside was even worse.

Moving lights covered the ceiling, massive screens projected abstract visuals, waiters moved through the room carrying crystal trays, and impossibly beautiful people pretended not to care while secretly checking who had just walked in.

From the private balconies, the entire harbor could be seen illuminated beneath them, while several yachts remained anchored outside as if they were simply part of the decoration.

For the first time since arriving in Formula One, Valentina understood something.

The paddock didn't disappear when the races ended.

It simply transformed.

During the day, it was exhausted engineers, desperate journalists, and drivers surviving unbearable pressure.

At night, it became a world of billionaires drinking too much and trying to convince each other they were still happy.

“Ruiz! Bennett!”

The voice appeared through the music seconds before Valentina spotted Adrian Novak leaning against one of the white couches near the main bar.

He held a drink in one hand, two buttons of his black shirt undone, and had the expression of someone who had been making questionable decisions for several hours.

Adrian was almost the complete opposite of Dante in every visible way.

Tall and athletic, yes, but with a much lighter energy.

His light brown hair was intentionally messy, and his bright eyes had that irritating ability to look friendly even when he was paying far more attention than people realized.

He was the media's favorite driver.

Charming.

Photogenic.

Funny in front of cameras.

And dangerously good at saying exactly what sponsors wanted to hear.

The perfect golden boy of Moreau Racing.

What almost nobody noticed was that behind that effortless smile was someone far more intelligent and observant than he allowed people to believe.

And the moment he looked up at them, Adrian completely froze.

“Damn.”

Valentina raised an eyebrow.

“How romantic.”

“No, sorry. I'm trying to imagine Dante's reaction, and honestly, I think you've just become a public safety risk.”

Olivia smiled proudly, as if she had just completed a masterpiece.

“Thank you.”

“Was this planned?” Adrian asked, looking between the two women. “Because if it was, I need to warn public relations before some photographer has a heart attack.”

“She wanted to come ‘simple,’” Olivia said dramatically.

“It was a party, not an audition to become a James Bond villain.”

“And yet here we are.”

Adrian slowly lifted his glass toward her.

“My condolences to any man who tries to talk to you tonight.”

Valentina gave a small imaginary bow.

“Thank you. I try to maintain high standards and avoid psychologically unstable men.”

Adrian immediately started laughing.

“God, now I understand why Dante always looks exhausted around you.”

“Dante looks exhausted by existence itself.”

“That's also true.”

She accepted the drink Adrian offered while looking around.

Some of the drivers were already clearly drunk.

Several mechanics were celebrating near a makeshift track by the water.

And a group of sponsors on one of the upper balconies were shouting something completely incomprehensible.

Then she saw him.

Across the terrace, leaning against the main bar, Dante was talking with two other drivers while an engineer tried to explain something using far too many hand gestures.

He was dressed completely in black, as always.

But without the uniform.

Without meetings.

Without the constant pressure surrounding him.

He looked like a different person.

The dark shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing glimpses of his tattoos beneath the purple club lights every time he lifted his whiskey glass.

His dark hair was slightly messy, like he had run a hand through it too many times during the night.

And for the first time since Valentina had met him, he didn't look tense.

He wasn't constantly scanning the room.

He wasn't wearing that exhausted, aggressive expression like a second skin.

He looked relaxed.

Actually relaxed.

That was the first thing that surprised her.

The second was seeing him laugh.

Not the arrogant smile he used with journalists.

Not the cold expression that appeared before he destroyed someone verbally.

A real laugh.

Quiet.

Natural.

Triggered by something genuinely funny one of the drivers had said.

Human.

Valentina remained still for a second longer than she should have.

Because Dante was much easier to deal with when he acted like a monster.

“Oh, you're done for,” Olivia murmured immediately.

Valentina looked away far too quickly.

“Shut up.”

“You're looking at him like he's a European tragedy with abs.”

Adrian laughed so loudly he almost spilled his whiskey.

“That was incredible.”

“I wasn't looking at him like that.”

“Sure,” they both answered at the same time.

Valentina took a long sip of champagne, trying to ignore the uncomfortable warmth rising up her neck.

But she looked again anyway.

And it was a mistake.

Because Dante had just tilted his head back, laughing again while one of the drivers hit his shoulder playfully.

And for a few seconds, he looked like nothing more than a twenty-nine-year-old man enjoying a night out with friends.

Not the obsessive, paranoid, constantly furious man she knew during the day.

That was far more dangerous.