The Mafia's Racer Bride

Chapter 11

Kelsey Schmidt

Anthony is a big man. He stands like a six-three-foot, and he rules the entire West Coast underworld with an iron fist. To the outside world, he looks terrifyingly cold, the kind of ruthless predator who could easily match or even surpass my father's cruelty toward me. Yet ever since I stepped foot inside his luxury penthouse, he has been gentle with me.

Despite that, it hasn't erased all my deep-seated fears. A paranoid part of me still waits for the shoe to drop. Scared that one day he would walk through that heavy front door in a blind rage, that his endless patience and gentleness would suddenly vanish into thin air.

I suddenly flinched, my heart leaping into my throat when my phone rang loudly in my quiet bedroom. It’s barely one o’clock in the afternoon, and there’s a massive chance my team principal is on the other end. He just had a tense confrontation with Anthony this morning, and he's definitely demanding answers from me.

I hurried across the floor to my bedside table and grabbed the phone. Just as I suspected, it's Gabe Turner’s name flashing across the screen. I’ve been dodging his calls for the past few days because I had zero clue what to say, but now that he’s already spoken directly to Anthony, I can't hide anymore.

I need to talk to him before he thinks about what Anthony’s doing to my career and contract.

I swiped to answer, pressed the phone tightly to my ear, and paced slowly back toward the floor-to-ceiling glass windows to stare out at the gray expanse of Portland City.

“Kelsey, what the hell is going on?” Gabe’s voice exploded through the speaker, frantic and loaded with worry. “Mr. French? Seriously? Is he holding you against your will? Is he controlling you?”

I know he genuinely cares about my well-being, not just because I’m the star driver holding his team together. I trust Gabe. He’s notoriously strict during practice sessions, but I know he’d go to bat for me in a heartbeat.

“He’s not controlling my life, Gabe,” I replied, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “He’s my husband now.”

Silence descended on the line. So dead and heavy that I pulled the phone away to check if the call had dropped, but Gabe's breathing was still right there. I lifted it back to my ear.

“Gabe—”

“You’re married?” His voice dropped an octave, dripping with shock and disbelief. “Since when?! I thought you were not interested in any men, that’s why you rejected a lot of actors?”

Actors that I know will not be serious about me. And I don’t want them involved in my private life. I am so scared of being in any serious relationship because I know Kennedy can ruin it whenever he wants.

“I just got married this week, Gabe. Please... don't leak this to the media yet.”

The last thing I need is a media circus tearing my life apart. Reporters would instantly connect my sudden marriage to my abrupt withdrawal from the Laguna Seca race. I know hiding a marriage isn't part of our normal plan, but I am entirely unready for that kind of exposure. As long as I am locked safely inside Anthony’s home, the New York Gambino family can't touch me.

“Kelsey, are you out of your mind? You’re only twenty! You can’t even drink! You have a massive career and bigger dreams than this marriage!”

“Gabe, I haven't given up on my dreams,” I whispered, fighting the lump in my throat. “He isn't stopping me. I just need to withdraw from Laguna Seca. I just need to rest for a little…”

I should not have mentioned the last part.

“Are you really okay, Kelsey?” Gabe pressed, his tone softening with paternal concern.

Sometimes, back when my father would beat me black and blue right before a race weekend, Gabe would notice how stiff, sore, and agonizingly difficult it was for me to climb into the cockpit. He never pried or forced me to talk about it, but he always saw the truth. Gabe has always been more of a father to me than Kennedy ever was.

“I am okay, Gabe,” I lied smoothly, forcing absolute assurance into my tone.

“Kelsey... you will tell me if something bad is happening to you, right?”

“Yes,” I choked out, though the word tasted like ash. I knew damn well I would never have the courage to actually confess the truth to anyone.

I refuse to let people pity me because my father used me as a punching bag. I want the world to know my name because of how fearlessly I handle a race car, not because I survived abuse.

“I’ll see you at the next race, Gabe.”

“Take care of yourself, Kelsey.”

I ended the call and walked back to place the phone on my bedside table. Right as I turned around, the distinct, low hum of the private elevator echoed through the penthouse. Lunch wrapped up hours ago, and Dulce had already left for the day. She isn't scheduled to return until five to prep dinner.

Heavy, purposeful footsteps stalked down the hallway, and my pulse instantly skyrocketed to a frantic rhythm, dragging me right back to my childhood terror. What if my father found me? What if he’s here to drag me back and hand me over to the New York syndicate?

“Bring all of that into the spare room next to Kelsey’s room,” a deep, commanding voice ordered.

Anthony. Hearing his voice instantly dial back the panic clawing at my chest. I crept carefully toward my bedroom door, making sure my bare feet didn't make a single sound against the floor. I cracked the door open an inch to peek out, only to find Anthony standing right outside in the hallway, looking directly at my door.

I had no choice but to pull the door wider, swallowing hard as my anxiety spiked. It’s early in the afternoon, and I never expected him to abandon his downtown office and come home this early. Through the gap, I watched a couple of his armed men hauling massive, heavy crates and boxes into the empty guest bedroom right next to mine.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked, my voice timid.

“Nothing,” Anthony answered, his dark eyes softening just a fraction as he looked at me. “I just want you to check it out once my men finish setting it all up in the room next door.”

I frowned instinctively, a micro-expression of confusion slipping past my defenses before I caught myself and wiped it smooth. Showing open confusion or questioning my father had always earned me a brutal backhand. Old habits die hard.

“What’s happening?” I whispered, still hovering by my doorway while Anthony stood just feet away, his men shuffling back and forth past us with the heavy equipment.

“I bought you a professional racing simulator.” My jaw dropped, my lips parting in pure shock. Did I hear him right? “It’s obviously not the same as tearing down an actual track, but I figured it might help keep your reflexes sharp while you heal. I hope you like it.”

He bought me a racing simulator?! I’ve been dying to own one for my room for years, but I was never allowed to spend the money I earned on something that expensive. A wild surge of bubbling excitement flared in my chest, but I immediately stamped it down, locking my expression into a neutral mask. Showing too much joy or excitement around Kennedy had always backfired.

“Thank you,” I murmured, my gaze instantly dropping to fixate on the hardwood floor. He keeps showering me with expensive things. From designer wardrobe to a multi-thousand-dollar racing rig. “You really didn't have to do this, Anthony. You’ve already done too much for me.”

“You are my wife.” I snapped my head back up to meet his dark gaze. Hearing Anthony call me his wife rolls off his tongue with terrifying naturalness, like he’s spent days practicing the cadence of the words. “It’s my job to give you whatever you need.”

And what exactly is my job as his wife? Absolutely nothing?

Slowly, Anthony lifted his large hand, reaching out as if he meant to cup my cheek or stroke my hair. But the sudden movement triggered my primal survival instincts. I violently flinched backward, my shoulders hitting the door frame with a sharp thud.

The immediate warmth and gentleness in his dark eyes vanished in a single heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, dark flash of frustration. His thick brows slammed together into a harsh, dangerous scowl.

“Did you just flinch away from me?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly careful register.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that!” I stammered, panic flooding my veins as my hands flew up defensively.

My mind screamed with the brutal muscle memory of my father. Whenever Kennedy stepped this close into my personal space, it was never to comfort me, but to land a brutal slap across my face for simply existing in his line of sight.

“I’m sorry, Anthony,” I repeated frantically, my voice cracking as tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I immediately stopped it, terrified that my reflex had just pushed him over the edge. “Please don't be mad.”

Anthony froze. The dangerous anger rolling off him abruptly evaporated, replaced by a heavy, sorrowful darkness.

“Kelsey... I am never going to hurt you,” he growled, the raw promise vibrating in his deep chest.

Slowly, deliberately, he moved his hand again, bridging the distance between us. This time, I forced my trembling muscles to stay frozen in place as his warm fingers brushed gently against my cheek, tenderly tucking a loose strand of my honey-blonde hair behind my ear. He touched me with an agonizing, reverent care, as if I were a priceless, fragile artifact he feared breaking.

“Seeing you react like that,” Anthony whispered, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek, “just gives me one more damn reason to hunt your father down and break his hands.”