The Mafia's Racer Bride

Chapter 2

Kelsey Schmidt

Every inhalation felt like swallowing broken glass.

My whole body throbbed with a deep, systemic agony, making even the simple act of lifting my arm feel like a monumental failure of will. But the calendar on my phone glared back at me with a terrifying reminder for my body that the Laguna Seca race is in two weeks.

I had to get up. I had to move, to stretch out the stiffness, to construct a flawless armor before I dared face him again. One wrong flinch, one misplaced tear, and the belt would come out.

If he wanted money, if he needed a bottomless well to fund his vices, beating me black and blue wasn't going to print cash. But logic was a foreign language in this house. I couldn't talk back, couldn't defend myself, because the moment my lips parted, he would inevitably throw my greatest sin back into my face. You killed your mother.

Three agonizing hours after she brought me into the world, she slipped away, and he had made sure I spent every day since paying interest on a debt I never asked to incur.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, turning the shower handle all the way to scalding just to shock my nervous system into numbness. Standing in front of the steamy mirror, I methodically began the ritual of concealment, layering heavy concealer over the blossoming purple and yellow stains wrapping around my ribs and arms. To ensure no stray shadow betrayed me under hotel lights, I bypassed my usual racing tees and pulled on a thick, long-sleeved turtleneck, sealing the bruises beneath layers of fabric.

My phone buzzed against the marble sink counter, flashing Sofia’s name. I swiped and answered instantly, keeping my voice bright and level.

“How are you?”

“I’m okay, Sofia. Nothing to worry about,” I lied, staring at my pale reflection.

I grabbed my bag, exited my bedroom, and walked down the steps of a house that had never felt like a home. It was tomb-quiet. Kennedy and his wife were already gone, likely airborne toward California for the same high-society sponsor event I was forced to attend. My father despised the deafening roar of my race tracks, but he loved the velvet-roped galleries of the elite, playing the proud, supportive father to wealthy investors who didn't know the monster hiding behind his tailored suit.

“I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll meet you at the hotel so I can change. Did you prepare something that will cover me up?” I asked, sliding into the driver’s seat of my car and plugging the phone into the dash.

“You have a new bruise?” she asked, her voice cracking with intuitive worry through the loudspeaker.

“It’s not that deep,” I replied, turning the ignition and backing out into the weeping Oregon gloom.

It was raining again in Portland. It was always raining. The sky hung low and bruised over the pavement, a permanent sheet of gray that drained every ounce of warmth from the world.

“I have a suit and pants for you, Kelsey. Fully covered,” Sofia promised softly.

“Thank you. I’ll see you later, Sofia.”

I ended the call and drove in silence, letting the hum of the engine soothe the raw edges of my mind. Driving was the only pure thing left in my life. A razor's edge of absolute control where danger meant freedom, not fear. I loved cars more than people, more than life itself. It was the one happiness no one could ever strip away from me.

After a short, turbulent flight from Portland down to the Californian coast, I retreated straight to my hotel suite. I stripped off my travel clothes and slipped into the crisp, blinding-white suit pants and matching blazer Sofia had left for me, pulling my honey-blond hair back into a severe, slicked-back ponytail that left no room for hiding.

The heavy silk of the white suit jacket felt like sandpaper against the raw, weeping welts crisscrossing my back. Every breath I took required a calculated, agonizing negotiation with my ribs, but I forced my shoulders back, locked my jaw into a mask of untouchable ice, and stepped out into the glittering ballroom.

To the blinding flashes of cameras and the murmurs of high-society sponsors, I was Kelsey Schmidt. The untouchable princess of the Mercedes-AMG factory team. Inside, I was bleeding behind a wall of heavy foundation and tightly controlled breaths.

I arrived precisely on time, immediately caught in a whirlwind of flashing lights, clinking crystal, and hollow congratulations. I plastered a radiant smile on my face, nodding and thanking sponsors while my internal organs felt like they were rearranging themselves with every shift in posture.

“Kelsey,” a voice cut through the noise. My blood ran cold.

My father was walking toward me, his wife trailing his shadow like a ghost. But it was the man beside him who made every nerve ending in my body scream in red alert. He was built like a heavyweight boxer. Thick-necked, with a crushed, crooked nose, a shark-like grin, and dead, bottomless dark eyes.

“Kelsey, this is Dominic Gambino, one of the major investors from New York.”

“Hi,” I forced out, extending a trembling hand.

He took my fingers in a crushing grip, his smile stretching into something predatory and deeply unsettling. This was a stranger, yet he looked at me with an eerie, proprietary familiarity.

“You were incredible on the track yesterday. So young, so beautiful…” He paused, his gaze dropping to drag slowly up and down my frame like a butcher appraising prime cuts of meat. “And you look terrified.”

It wasn't a guess. It was the clinical observation of a predator smelling fresh blood in the water.

I violently jerked my hand back, instinctively tucking it behind my back as a cold sweat broke out across my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Kennedy’s expression, and his eyes flashed bloodshot and murderous at my defensive retreat.

“Thank you,” I choked out, fighting to keep my voice from trembling. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Gambino. But I really need to talk to someone.”

“Of course,” Dominic purred, stepping aside.

I turned and practically fled, my arms curled tightly around my midsection to protect my bruised ribs as the sea of people parted around me.

“What’s up, princess of Mercedes?”

The smug, teasing drawl hit me like a physical blow. Jules. He was standing there with a half-c****d smirk, his eyes flicking downward just in time to catch me cradling my arm. I instantly dropped my hands to my sides, panic flaring hot in my chest.

“What do you want, Mr. Second Place?” I snapped, my voice sharp enough to draw blood.

Jules rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nice drive yesterday. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing out there. I almost started to believe you're actually a better driver than me.”

“Well, it also almost looked like you could keep up with my dust,” I fired back, refusing to let him see me crack.

I didn't wait for his reply. I turned on my heel and walked away, completely exhausted by the endless cycle of his arrogant posturing and my own internal bleeding. I needed air. I needed silence.

I slipped through a set of glass double doors leading out to the hotel’s secluded garden patio, plunging into the cool night air far away from the cameras and the noise.

“She’s also a virgin!”

I froze, my foot hovering over the stone pathway as my father’s voice drifted through the open French doors of a private alcove nearby.

“That makes her value increase significantly.”

My heart hammered so violently against my ribs I thought it would crack them. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to plug my ears, to unhear what I was about to hear, but my feet were rooted to the cold stone.

“You already signed the contract, Kennedy, and the grace period is over. We want her delivered to New York. Deliver her to us, or you will die.”