The Mafia's Racer Bride

Kelsey Schmidt “And here comes the blade in the circuit coming from the corner to overtake the surgeon for the third time!” I am totally high on adrenaline as I pressed deeper into the gas just to overtake my greatest enemy in this race, Jules. Breaking during a turn is not in my dictionary, and that’s also what I always use to overtake people in the race track. They call me “blade” for one reason. It’s because of my perfectly surgical precision for overtaking. The roar of the Mercedes-AMG GT3 engine filled my helmet, a violent, metallic symphony that rattled straight down into my bones. The G-force pressed me hard into the molded bucket seat as I whipped the steering wheel through the apex, tires screaming in sharp protest against the asphalt of Sonoma Raceway here in California. The heat and the noise make my blood run faster. Faster than my car. Faster than me. In my peripheral vision, the #11 BMW M4 GT3 loomed like a shadow that refused to die. Jules. Of course, it was always Jules. He was glued to my gearbox, hugging my line with that infuriating, data-driven precision the press loved to gush about. The Surgeon. They called him that because he dissected tracks with sterile calculations. But racing wasn't math. It was always the raw instinct, a desperate gamble with gravity. We had already swapped the lead twice in the last three laps. This was the final stretch, and I needed to be the first. I always want to be the first. Ahead loomed Turn 11, a sweeping, deceptive radius where most drivers instinctively tap the brake, terrified of kissing the concrete barrier. My foot hovered over the pedal. Every logical warning bell in my brain screamed to back off, to protect the car, to live to race another day. No. I will never do that. That’s never my thing. I slammed my foot down harder on the accelerator instead, refusing to yield an inch. The rear end kicked out, a heart-stopping twitch of oversteer that I caught by a fraction of a second, relying entirely on muscle memory and the manic hum of adrenaline flooding my veins. I didn't brake. I dove into the inside line, utilizing the sheer momentum of the car to drag myself past his front quarter-panel. For a split second, our carbon-fiber bodies were so close I could hear the aggressive whine of his turbocharger over my own engine. Then, I cleared him. I shot across the finish line, taking the victory by a single, hard-fought car length. The checkered flag waved furiously from the marshals' post, but the roar in my ears was deafening long after I crossed. “Yes! Yes!” I yelled. On the cool-down lap, as I tried to steady the frantic hammering of my heart, the crackle of the team radio broke through the static. “That’s my girl!” my best friend, Sofia Alvarez, yelled through the radio connected to me. She’s also my racing engineer. “You got it, girl!” I smirked when Jules pulled his BMW directly alongside mine, matching my speed down the straightaway. He tapped the side of his helmet in a slow, painfully sarcastic salute. He always does that. His voice came through the comms, clear, mocking, and broadcast straight for the media monitors to make fun of me, "Tell the Princess her car carried her again. Without that car, she’s going to face the back of my car.” A hot spike of fury shot through my veins, burning away the lingering remnants of fear. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white, and keyed my mic back. "Tell the Surgeon to check his data because I was literally pulling away.” Julian Vaugn is my number one enemy on the circuit. We've been doing this for so many races that I can’t count. Every time I defeated him, he would make sure to embarrass me in front of the media, thinking that he was always better than me. That’s because my car is faster, that’s why I won the race. He can try to give me a slower car, and I will still make sure to be the first one to cross the finish line. I parked my car in front of the number-one sign and got out. I immediately wave to the fans in the grandstand and remove my helmet, letting my braided hair fall out in the sun. It makes my honey blond hair more alive. The fans shouted and cheered for me, and I completely ignored Jules. I walk toward the side of the podium to stand by. They start calling the third place, the second place, then me. All the cameras are on us. This is what makes me happy and alive. Standing on the podium, watching the people that supporting my racing career is all I want in life. We sprayed champagne on each other as my heart beat so fast. I wish my life were all about racing, and that’s it. But I know that can never happen. I exited the podium after a long round of congratulations and media interviews to return to the paddock. Sofia walked towards me when she saw me. When I saw her bright brown eyes behind her glass that was full of worry, I knew my happiness was ready to end. “Congratulations, Kelsey!” She tried to sound happy, but I could still sense that something was off. “What happened?” I asked instead of saying thank you. Sofia handed me my phone, “Your father called. Sixteen times.” I gave her a smile and tapped her shoulder, but she still worried. She knows everything about the man who called me sixteen times, that’s why she's worried like this. “I’ll handle this. I need to fly back to Portland as soon as possible. Can you please help me arrange it?” “Sure.” She walks away, and I watch my best friend's curly brown hair as she leaves. She has been my best friend since I started with Mercedes. We are always meant to be together. She’s stanford mechanical engineering graduate. Mercedes recruited her straight out of college to be my race engineer. I’m lucky to have her as my best friend, but never lucky to have a father like Kennedy Schmidt. I closed my eyes tightly, and I started to remember the man that I should not be thinking about. It’s been months since the last time that I saw him, but every time I have a hard time with my father, he’s the one I always remember. “Call me if you need help.” That's his exact words every time we see each other, but I never call. We live in the same state, but I barely see him. I opened my eyes and saw Jules watching me. His eyebrows are close to each other. I rolled my eyes at him and walked inside my private room to check my phone. When I entered my room, I turned on my phone and immediately saw the 16 missed calls from my father and countless text messages. “Kelsey, I need the money!” “Send the money now!” “Kelsey, go home!” His texts were two hours ago. I immediately changed my clothes faster than I thought. He’s mad again. I wish I could just run away, but as someone everybody knows, I can’t just run away and ignore my father. I can never run away. I can only face him. It was already dark when I parked my car in front of our house. It’s quiet, and there’s an eerie feeling that I don’t want in my life. I want to ask for his help, but I am too scared. I entered the house and walked straight to my father’s study. The door to the study was slightly ajar, a sliver of pale yellow light spilling out onto the dark hardwood floor. My heart hammered against my ribs, a stark contrast to the thumping bass of the victory music that had filled my ears just hours ago. Every instinct I possessed, every survival reflex honed over years of living under this roof, screamed at me to turn around, to run back to my car and drive into the night. Instead, I swallowed hard, raised my hand, and pushed the door open. Kennedy sat behind his heavy mahogany desk, the very picture of frayed gentility. His expensive designer shirt was wrinkled at the collar, his thinning blond hair greased back from a forehead slick with sweat. He looked up, his bloodshot blue eyes locking onto mine with an immediate, predatory intensity. "You're late," he said. His voice wasn't loud. It was worse than that because it was quiet, flat, and soaked in a terrifying kind of calm. "I had podium ceremonies, media interviews that I can’t just ignore…" I started, my voice tight and defensive, instantly shrinking back into the frightened girl I was whenever I crossed this threshold. "I don't give a damn about your ceremonies," Kennedy interrupted, standing up from his chair. At six-foot-one with a heavy paunch, he loomed over the desk, his large hands gripping the polished wood. Those were the same hands that had mapped out every bruise, every hidden scar beneath my long sleeves. "The bookie's deadline was six o'clock, Kelsey. You brought in millions for Mercedes today, and my account is empty. Do you enjoy humiliating me?" "I wired the portion from the last race—" "It wasn't enough!" he roared, slamming his fist against the desk so hard a stack of papers rattled. Across the room, standing silently by the doorway with her arms crossed over her tight, expensive clothing, stood Dottie. My stepmother watched the exchange with her small, watchful eyes, completely devoid of pity. She didn't blink. She didn't move. She was a parasite, feeding on the chaos Kennedy created, and right now, she looked like she had reported every minute of my delay to him herself. "I'm sorry," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I hated myself for saying them. I hated that my voice shook. It’s not my fault that he does not have his own money. It's not my fault that he got fired as an investment banker ten years ago for embezzlement. It’s not my fault that he’s a gambler! I want to say all of that, but I can’t. I can only say sorry again and again for the things I never caused. "Sorry doesn't pay my debts, Kelsey," Kennedy said, rounding the desk with slow, deliberate steps. "You think because you drive fast cars in circles, because a bunch of screaming fans chant your name, that you're independent? You are nothing without me. You killed your mother the day you were born, and every breath you take is just paying off that debt." The familiar, crushing weight of his words settled over my chest, suffocating and absolute. I didn't flinch away when he reached out. I couldn't. When the heavy leather belt lashed out, cutting through the air and striking across my shoulders, I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. I didn't cry out. Crying only made it last longer. I stared blankly at the floorboards, letting my mind detach from my physical shell, retreating to the only place Kennedy could never touch. That roaring, beautiful fraction of a second behind the wheel of a Mercedes GT3, where I was fast, and I was free. Dottie just stood by the door and watched. And somewhere in the dark, silent corners of my mind, as the blows rained down, I thought of a man with dark, immaculate hair and eyes that looked almost black in low light. I thought of the phone number I had memorized but never dialed. Call me if you need help. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain, enduring it in total silence. I can’t leave this house because I always think about my mother. That it’s my fault, that’s why she died, and this is me paying for it.