Chapter 3: Corruption
The Mediterranean night was a deep, velvet blue by the time Kimi’s blacked-out Mercedes SUV crunched up the gravel drive to the villa. The scent of jasmine and salt hit him the second he killed the engine, a fragrant contrast to the stale, pressurized air of the paddock. The lights from the sprawling white house glowed warmly against the cliffside.
Inside, the grand living room was quiet. The only sound was the soft, intricate melody of a Chopin nocturne drifting from the speakers. She’d chosen his playlist.
He found her on the vast terrace, curled in a deep wicker chair, a soft-looking blanket pulled to her chin. The hoodie she wore was his—the gray one from his first karting championship, faded and soft, swallowing her small frame. A pair of black leggings hugged her legs, which were tucked beneath her. Her dark curls were a wild halo around her face, which was lit by the screen of her phone. She looked up as the glass door slid open, and her entire face transformed.
“You’re back!” Her smile was immediate, wide, and utterly devoid of the day’s earlier hurt. It was like the argument in the driver’s room had never happened, washed away by sleep and her boundless capacity to forgive him.
“Told you I would be.” He dropped his team backpack by the door and walked over. She unfolded herself, letting the blanket fall, and stood up. The hoodie sleeves hung past her fingertips. She reached for him, not with a hug, but with her hands pressing against his chest, feeling the solid reality of him. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, traced his face.
“You look tired,” she murmured.
“Long day.” He let his hands come up to cover hers on his chest, squeezing them. The image of the Alpine engineer’s leer flashed behind his eyes. Sweet, innocent vibe everywhere. He pushed it down, focusing on the feel of her small, warm hands under his. “You order the food?”
“It’s keeping warm in the oven. The terrible one, just like you promised.” She grinned, then yawned, stretching like a cat. The movement made the hoodie ride up, exposing a sliver of her stomach above the leggings. Kimi’s gaze flickered there, then away, back to her face. The innocence in her expression was a physical shield. He would not be the one to crack it.
They ate at the outdoor table overlooking the dark, murmuring sea. The paella was, as predicted, mediocre—the rice a little dry, the vegetables vaguely rubbery. She didn’t seem to care, happily shoveling it in, telling him about the book she was reading, about a funny video Leo had shown her in the car. She was chatter and light, a balm he didn’t deserve.
He watched her, listening, nodding. But his mind was a locked room where a ugly film kept playing on a loop. Stroll’s chuckle. Zhou’s muttered joke. The graphic, peeling description of her. Getting her to make those big eyes even wider.
His fork clinked too loudly against his plate. Alessia paused, mid-sentence.
“Kimi? You’re somewhere else.”
He set the fork down. The night air felt suddenly cold. “I need you to promise me something, Lessia.”
The shift in his tone made her straighten. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, her dark eyes attentive, serious. “Anything.”
“In the paddock. From now on. You stick close to me, or to Leo, or to one of the senior team ladies. Okay? You don’t go off alone. Not for a chat, not to see a car, not for anything.” He kept his voice level, but it came out rougher than he intended. “Not with any of the other drivers. Not with any of the engineers. Not with anyone.”
She blinked, confused. “Why? Did something happen?”
“No.” The lie was instant and smooth. “Nothing happened. It’s just a zoo. A lot of guys with big egos and bigger entitlements. I don’t want you in a situation that feels… uncomfortable.” He reached across the table, catching her hand. Her fingers were sticky from the food. “Promise me, Alessia. No being alone with any of them. Ever.”
She searched his face, looking for the source of this sudden, intense decree. She saw only the tightness in his jaw, the unbluing intensity of his gaze. She saw her best friend, protecting her. Her protector.
The confusion softened into understanding, then into a gentle, obedient resolve. She turned her hand under his, lacing their fingers together. A simple, trusting gesture that shot a bolt of pure agony through him.
“Okay,” she said, easy as breathing. “I promise. I’ll stick to you like glue. You know I always do anyway.” She offered a small smile. “My own personal security detail.”
The tension in his shoulders unknotted a fraction. “Good.” He pulled his hand back, the ghost of her touch lingering. “That’s good.”
They cleared the plates in a companionable silence. She stood on her tiptoes to put the leftovers in the fridge, the hoodie stretching across her back. He leaned against the counter, watching the domestic scene, the ugly voices in his head momentarily drowned out by the mundane sound of the refrigerator door sealing shut.
He leaned against the counter, watching the domestic scene, the ugly voices in his head momentarily drowned out by the mundane sound of the refrigerator door sealing shut. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and turned, leaning back against the appliance, studying him with that quiet, perceptive look that always saw too much.
“You’re still wound up,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Your shoulders are up by your ears. Come sit.”
She padded past him into the living room, dropping onto the large, cream-colored linen sofa. She curled her legs underneath her and patted the cushion beside her in invitation. The piano music had switched to something slow and ambient, a pulsing electronic beat underneath soft chords. The terrace doors were still open, letting in the rhythmic whisper of the sea against the cliffs far below.
He followed, lowering himself onto the sofa but not relaxing into it. He sat on the edge, elbows on his knees, staring at the abstract art on the far wall. He could feel her watching the side of his face.
“Talk to me,” she said softly. Her voice was a balm he wanted to sink into. “What’s in your head right now?”
“Nothing good,” he admitted, the words gritty.
“Is it the car? The race setup?” She shifted closer, her knee pressing against his thigh. The contact was a brand. “You seemed okay about P5 earlier.”
“It’s not the car.” He closed his eyes. The engineer’s voice slithered back. Teaching her what all that worship is really for. His hands clenched into fists on his knees, the knuckles blanching white.
Her small, cool hand came to rest over his fist, smoothing the tense ridges. “Then what? Did someone say something? At the debrief?” Her fingers began to work, trying to gently pry his fist open. “You’re going to bruise your palms.”
Her touch was a cool shock against his skin. He forced his fingers to uncurl, one by one, revealing the half-moon indents his nails had dug into his palm. She made a soft, sympathetic sound and traced the red marks with her fingertip.
"They're just idiots, Kimi. All of them." She said it with such conviction, as if she'd somehow gleaned the truth from his clenched jaw alone.
He looked at her then, really looked. The overhead light caught the gold flecks in her brown eyes, the absolute certainty in them. She thought this was about rivalry, about professional jealousy directed at him. Her innocence wasn't just naivete; it was a fortress. She had no idea what men said when women weren't around. No concept of the specific, ugly hunger she inspired.
"Yeah," he lied, his voice gravelly. "Just idiots."
"Then stop letting them live in your head rent-free." She tugged his arm. "C'mere. You're taking up, like, three percent of this couch. It's rude."
A breath escaped him, something between a sigh and a laugh. The sound felt foreign in his tight chest. He let her pull him, his body moving with a strange, heavy obedience. He sank back into the soft cushions, his head tilting back to stare at the ceiling fan making lazy circles above.
Immediately, she shifted, rearranging the universe around them. She didn't ask permission. She simply turned and fitted herself against his side, her legs curling up, her head finding its familiar spot in the hollow between his shoulder and chest. One arm slid across his stomach, holding on. The other hand came up, her fingers gently pushing into his messy curls.
He went still. Then, muscle by muscle, he surrendered. A deep, shuddering release traveled down his spine as he relaxed into the cushions, into her. His own arm came around her, anchoring her close. The world shrank to this sofa, to the rhythm of her breathing, to the faint, clean scent of her shampoo—vanilla and something like ocean air—that clung to his hoodie she wore.
Her fingers began moving through his hair, scratching his scalp in slow, deliberate circles. It was a gesture from childhood, from a thousand nights of bad dreams or post-race adrenaline crashes. It worked now as it did then, unspooling the knots of tension one by one.
"Mmm, your hair is like a bird's nest," she murmured, her voice vibrating against his chest. "All wind-swept from the helmet. I think there's a piece of Monza in here from last year."
He closed his eyes, a real smile touching his lips. "Probably."
She hummed a little, a tuneless, comfortable sound as she worked. Her other hand left his stomach and rose to his face. Her thumb smoothed over the furrow between his brows, then traced the line of his cheekbone, the stubble along his jaw. Her touch was exploratory, grounding, as if she was mapping his tension to soothe it away.
"Leo said the new simulation data looked promising for the race," she chattered, her voice a soft stream in the quiet room. "Something about the tire deg being less than expected. He also ate, like, four of those energy bars you hate, the chalky ones. I told him he'd regret it."
Kimi made a low sound of acknowledgment, listening. He loved this. He loved the meaningless flow of her words, the way she catalogued the tiny details of his world as if they were the most important things.
"The gardener came today while I was sleeping," she continued, her thumb brushing the corner of his eye. "He trimmed the bougainvillea, but I think he scared the little lizard that lives by the terrace door. I haven't seen him since. I hope he comes back."
"He'll come back," Kimi murmured, his voice drowsy.
"He better. I named him Fernando." She giggled, the sound pure and bright. "Because he's old and surprisingly fast when he wants to be."
This time, Kimi’s laugh was real, a quiet rumble in his chest that made her shift against him. Her own laughter subsided into a contented sigh. She nestled closer, her hand falling from his face to rest over his heart. Her hair was silk against his chin.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of her breathing, the distant sea, and her fingers moving in his hair. The vile echoes from the paddock receded, muffled by the simple, devastating reality of her here. His. Like this. The thought was a deep, warm current pulling him under, away from the sharp edges of the day.
He was almost asleep when she spoke again, her voice so soft it was almost part of the darkness. "You know I'd never go with any of them, right? Not for a chat or anything. I only want to be with you."
His eyes opened. The words, so perfectly aligned with his own feverish fears, lanced through the haze of comfort. His arm tightened around her, a reflexive, almost painful squeeze. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, a hard, silent kiss that was a promise and a prayer.
"I know," he whispered into her hair. "I know, Lessia."
He held her like that, listening to her talk about nothing and everything, until her words slowed and her breathing evened out into sleep. He didn't move. He memorized the weight of her, the trust in her limp body, the absolute peace on her face. The fire in his veins had banked to a low, enduring burn.
The fire in his veins had banked to a low, enduring burn. He let it simmer there, a subterranean heat beneath the calm surface of his breathing. Her weight was a perfect, warm anchor against the rising tide of his thoughts.
He watched her sleep, draped across him.
In the dim light, her features softened into something younger, vulnerable. Her parted lips exhaled gentle, even breaths that whispered against the neck of his t-shirt. One hand remained fisted loosely in the fabric over his stomach, a claim even in unconsciousness. The other had fallen limp, her fingers still curled as if remembering their path through his hair.
The grand piano melody cycled to its end, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, relentless sea. In the new quiet, he could hear the faint, rapid flutter of her eyelids. Dreaming.
A small sigh escaped her. Her brow furrowed slightly. Her fingers twitched against his stomach.
“Kimi…” she breathed, the word a sleep-slurred murmur into his chest.
It wasn’t a call, not really. It was an affirmation. His name was the landscape of her dreams. He went utterly still, his own breath catching. A fierce, painful tenderness cracked open inside his ribcage.
She said it again, more sure this time, her voice thick with the texture of sleep. “You’re okay.”
It was a statement, not a question. As if in her dream, she was assuring him, or perhaps assuring herself. Her body relaxed deeper into his, a subconscious surrender. The furrow in her brow smoothed away, replaced by a trace of a smile. She dreamed of him. Not of monsters or fantasies, but of his safety, his presence.
The knowledge was a gift and a torture.
He slowly, carefully, shifted his head to look down at her fully. The curve of her cheek, the dark fan of her lashes against her skin, the trusting fall of her body against his—it was a composition that unraveled him. The low burn in his veins flared, hot and sharp. It was a struggle to keep his hand where it was, splayed safe and broad on her back, and not let it trace the line of her jaw, not let his thumb brush over the softness of that sleeping smile.
He knew he should move her. Carry her to her own room, tuck her in, and walk away. It was the correct script. The brotherly action.
He didn’t move.
He stayed perfectly still, a monument to his own failure, and let her use him as a pillow. He watched the digital clock on the cable box change its numbers in a silent, red progression. Ten minutes. Twenty. Each minute was a stolen, guilty currency. Her phone, discarded on the couch cushion, buzzed once with a notification, its screen lighting up the space between them. He saw the preview: a message from a friend back home, asking how the weekend was.
‘Amazing,’ he thought, his gaze fixed on Alessia’s sleeping face. ‘It’s amazing and I’m going to hell.’
Another soft sound escaped her, a contented hum. She nuzzled her face against his chest, seeking warmth. The movement brought her closer, her forehead pressing against the base of his throat. He could feel the pulse there hammering against her skin.
His control, so carefully banked, sparked.
His hand moved from her back. It was a slow, predatory drift, giving her every chance to wake. It traveled up the ladder of her spine, over the merino wool of his own hoodie, until his fingers found the delicate, warm skin of her neck. His touch was feather-light, just the barest contact, his thumb resting in the hollow behind her ear where her pulse danced a slow, sleepy rhythm.
She didn’t stir. She trusted him completely.
His fingers curled, not to hurt, but to hold. To possess. His thumb swept a tiny, devastating arc on that sensitive skin. He imagined the engineers by the tire warmers seeing this. He imagined their grins dissolving. This was not for them. This intimacy was a locked room, and he held the only key.
She dreamed of him, and he was wide awake in the nightmare of wanting her.
It couldn’t last. The guilt was a cold acid seeping through the heat. With a final, agonizing effort, he broke the spell. He slid his hand back to the safe territory of her shoulder and gave a gentle, shaking squeeze.
“Lessia,” he whispered, his voice rough from disuse. “Hey. Bed time.”
“M’comfy,” she protested, the words mushed against his shirt.
“I know. Come on.” He maneuvered them both, his movements deliberately clumsy to avoid any suggestion of grace, of tenderness. He sat up, cradling her as he rose from the couch. She was a warm, pliant weight in his arms, her head lolling sleepily onto his shoulder.
He carried her down the hall to her bedroom, the floor cool under his feet. Her room smelled like her—vanilla, a hint of citrus, clean cotton. The moon through the sheer curtains painted silver stripes across the unmade bed.
He laid her down, pulling the duvet over her. She immediately curled onto her side, clutching a pillow. He stood there, a silhouette in the doorway, watching her settle back into deeper sleep.
She smiled again in her dreams.
He turned and walked out, shutting the door with a soft, definitive click. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, his fists clenched at his sides. The villa was silent, a cavern of his own making. He could still feel the ghost of her body against his, the imprint of her head on his shoulder, the sound of his name on her sleeping lips.
The low burn was now a contained inferno. It had a new, sharper focus. It wasn't just about possession anymore. It was about deserving the trust she gave so freely. It was about becoming the man she dreamed of, even if that man could never truly be her brother.
He pushed off the door and walked back to the dark living room. He didn't turn on the lights. He picked up his phone from the coffee table and opened the team’s secure messaging app. He found the engineering roster, his thumb hovering over a name. The Alpine engineer’s name was right there.
His jaw tightened. He didn't type a threat. He didn't need to.
He opened a new note and typed a single line, a private vow in the glowing blue light: Make sure she never has a reason to dream of anything but good things.
He deleted it. The promise was already etched somewhere deeper, far beyond words. He had a race to win tomorrow. He had a world to conquer, if only to build a wall high enough around the one thing in it that truly mattered. The momentum was no longer about the championship.
It was about fortification.