Chapter 24: Performance Review
The polished aftermath of the sponsor meet-and-greet felt like a stage play where Alma had forgotten her lines. Her body, still humming with the aftershocks of what had happened in the strategy room, was a traitor. Every time she caught Sergio’s eye as he charmed a billionaire, a fresh heat bloomed low in her belly. Enzo moved through the crowd like a grounded torpedo, his earlier resignation replaced by a gruff efficiency that pointedly ignored the charged space between his two employees.
Finally, the last guest was ushered out, the catering staff began their silent clearing, and the motorhome’s doors were secured. The sudden quiet was a physical pressure.
“Palermo,” Enzo said, not looking up from his phone. “Private debrief. Strategy room. Ten minutes.”
Alma’s spine straightened. Sergio just nodded, his expression unreadable. The formality of ‘private debrief’ hung in the air, a thinly veiled order.
She used the ten minutes in the small, attached bathroom. She splashed cold water on her wrists, reapplied a neutral lip balm, and tried to reassemble her professional facade in the mirror. The woman who looked back had dark, knowing eyes. There was no going back. She didn’t want to.
When she entered the strategy room, it had been restored to its clinical perfection. The table gleamed, every trace of their earlier presence scoured away. Sergio was leaning against it, arms crossed. Enzo stood by the data wall, a closed folder in his hands.
“Sit, Alma,” Enzo said, his tone not unkind, but final.
She took a seat at the table, smoothing her skirt. Sergio remained standing, a silent pillar of resistance.
Enzo began without preamble. “What happened in this room today is a problem. Not because it happened. Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long.” He shot a brief, acidic glance at Sergio. “It’s a problem because of where it happened, and because it lacks definition. I am not a prude. I am a manager. Unmanaged things become liabilities. Liabilities lose championships and fuck up careers.”
“It’s managed,” Sergio said, his voice quiet but hard.
“Is it?” Enzo turned his gaze to Alma. “Alma. You are exceptional at your job. This… complication does not change that. Yet. But it will, the moment it bleeds outside these walls. The moment you miss a call because you’re in his bed, or he throws a qualifying tantrum because you’re having a fight. This sport eats distractions alive. It grinds them into the asphalt.”
“It won’t be a distraction,” Alma said, her own voice surprising her with its steadiness. She felt Sergio’s eyes on her, felt their weight and their heat.
“It already is,” Enzo countered. “For him. For you. For me, who now has to consider how to schedule your travel so the press don’t get a whiff. This is not a romance. This is a physical complication within a high-stakes environment. We need rules.”
Sergio pushed off the table. “I don’t need rules.”
“You’re not the one who could get hurt!” Enzo’s voice cracked like a whip, sudden and sharp. The paternal concern was raw beneath the professional veneer. “She is. Her reputation, her career. You are Sergio Dorbenson. The world winks at your indulgences. They will not wink at hers. They will call her ambitious. They will call her a whore.”
The ugly word hung in the sterile air. Alma flinched, but held Enzo’s gaze. “I know what they will call me.”
“Do you?” Enzo sighed, the anger deflating. He looked old. “The first rule is discretion. Absolute. That means no more using the goddamn war room as your personal fuck den. My heart can’t take it, and the cleaning staff talk. Use the apartment, use a hotel, use the back of a rented limo if you must. Not here. Not where the team is.”
Sergio was silent, jaw tight. He gave a curt nod.
“Second. This stays separate from work. In meetings, on race weekends, during debriefs, you are driver and assistant. The moment that line blurs, Alma, you’re on the first plane home. That is not a threat to your person. It is protection for your profession. Understood?”
“Understood,” she said.
Enzo looked between them, his expression bleak. “Third. You do not own her, Sergio. She is not part of your brand portfolio. If this runs its course, and it likely will, you will be a gentleman. You will be discreet in the ending as you were in the beginning. Am I clear?”
Sergio’s eyes darkened, but he nodded again, a single tense dip of his chin. The idea of an end clearly hadn’t occurred to him.
“Good. Now get out. Both of you. I have to explain to accounting why we need a ‘deep clean’ of a room that was supposedly empty.” Enzo turned his back on them, a clear dismissal.
They walked out into the deserted lounge. The tension from the meeting coiled around them, a new, complicated weight. Sergio stopped, his hand closing around her wrist. His touch was electric.
“He’s wrong,” Sergio murmured, his lips close to her ear. “It’s not just physical.”
Before she could respond, a door slid open near the entrance. Enzo emerged from a storage closet, carrying a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon and two crystal flutes. He’d clearly gone to fetch it before the ‘debrief.’ He saw them, offered a grunt. “Forgot we’d promised this to the Swiss. Their loss.” He set the bottle and glasses on a side table with a soft clink. “Don’t stay up too late. Media pen, 9 AM sharp.”
He headed for the private sleeping quarters at the far end of the motorhome, leaving them alone again.
Sergio watched him go, then looked at the champagne. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. It was a predator’s smile. All the frustrated energy from Enzo’s lecture seemed to channel into it.
“He thinks he has it all figured out,” Sergio said, his voice a low rasp. He picked up the bottle. “Come on.”
He didn’t lead her to the bedroom. He led her back toward the strategy room.
“Sergio, the rules—” she started, but the protest died. Her heart was hammering. The transgression was the point.
He shouldered the door open and placed the champagne bottle on the table with a definitive thud. The room was dark, illuminated only by the ambient paddock lights filtering through the slatted blinds. It threw stripes of gold and shadow across the vast tactical surface.
He turned to her. In the dim light, his eyes were pure obsidian. “Fuck his rules. This is where it started. This is where we decide what it is.”
He reached for her, his hands gripping the lapels of her blazer, pulling her to him for a searing, possessive kiss. It was a kiss that claimed and defied all at once. Her fingers flew to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in the dark. He helped her, shrugging it off, letting it fall to the floor. His hands went to her skirt, unzipping it, letting it pool around her ankles. He stripped her blouse off, then her bra, until she stood shivering in just her heels and silk panties.
“Bend over,” he commanded, his voice rough. “The table. Now.”
A thrill, sharp and dangerous, shot through her. She turned, placing her palms flat on the cool, familiar surface. She heard the pop of the champagne cork, the festive sound grotesquely out of place. Then the slow, heavy pour of liquid into a glass.
He came up behind her, his hard, warm body pressed against her bare back. One hand circled her waist, pulling her against him. He smelled of sweat, expensive cologne, and sheer want.
“You liked him watching,” Sergio whispered, his mouth against her ear. It wasn’t a question. He nudged her legs apart with his knee. His free hand slid down her stomach, inside her panties, his fingers delving into her wetness. She gasped, pushing back against his hand. “You came harder knowing he was there. You’re a filthy, perfect surprise, Alma.”
He pulled her panties down, just enough. He unzipped his trousers, freed himself. The thick, blunt head of his cock pressed against her entrance. He was huge, and she was still tender from before. He didn’t slow. He gripped her hip with one hand, and with a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.
A choked cry tore from her throat. The stretch was exquisite, a breathtaking fullness. He didn’t move for a moment, letting her adjust, letting her feel every inch of him claiming her. He reached forward, grabbed her discarded blouse from the table, and bunched it in his hand.
“Here,” he grunted, putting it in front of her mouth. “Bite down. Let’s see if you can be quiet this time.”
She took the fabric between her teeth, the faint scent of her perfume a sharp contrast to the raw act. He began to move.
He fucked her with a relentless, driving rhythm, each thrust slamming her into the edge of the table. The champagne glasses trembled with the force. It was punishing. It was glorious. He set a brutal pace, his hips pistoning, his balls slapping against her skin. The wet, rhythmic sound of their joining filled the dark room. Sparks of pleasure-pain bloomed where her hips met the table. She pushed back against him, meeting every slam, her moans muffled by the silk in her mouth.
The door opened.
Light from the lounge spilled in, framing Enzo in the doorway. He’d changed into a robe. He held a cigar, unlit. He didn’t freeze in shock this time. He just stood there, took in the scene: Alma bent over, Sergio gripping her hip and driving into her, the champagne bottle beading with condensation beside them.
Enzo’s face showed no emotion. He stepped inside, let the door swish closed behind him. He walked calmly to the chair in the corner, the one he always used during races. He sat down.
He took a cigar cutter from his robe pocket, meticulously snipped the end, and brought it to his lips. He lit it with a soft flick-flick of a gold lighter. The acrid, sweet smell of tobacco began to mingle with the scents of sex and champagne.
Sergio saw him. A raw, guttural sound escaped him. His rhythm hitched, then became even more forceful, more possessive. He tangled his free hand in Alma’s long, dark curls, fisting them tightly, pulling her head back to arch her spine. The new angle made him feel even deeper. Alma cried out, the sound partly stifled by the blouse.
“Watch,” Sergio snarled at Enzo, his voice fractured with strain. “Watch how she takes me. Look at her. She’s fucking perfect.”
Enzo took a long, slow pull on his cigar. The ember glowed brightly in the dim room. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes on them, analytical, detached, yet utterly present. He said nothing.
The acknowledgment was a potent, illicit fuel. Sergio’s words, the unblinking audience, the sheer audacity of it all ignited something primal in Alma. The climb to her peak was dizzyingly fast. The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her with violent, silent intensity, her body clamping down on Sergio’s in rhythmic, milking pulses. She saw stars behind her eyelids, her knees buckling.
Feeling her convulse around him shattered Sergio’s control. With a final, deep, wrenching thrust, he buried himself as far as he could go and came. A harsh, broken shout tore from his throat as he emptied himself inside her, his body shuddering against hers, his grip on her hair trembling.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint sizzle of Enzo’s cigar.
Sergio finally softened, slipping out of her. He gently released her hair, his hands moving to her waist, holding her steady as she trembled. He pulled the wet fabric from her mouth.
Enzo stood up. He walked to the table, examined the champagne bottle. He picked up one of the full glasses, looked at it for a moment, then drained it in one go. He set the glass down with a crisp ting.
“The media pen is at nine,” he said, his voice gravelly with smoke. “She can’t walk straight. Sort it out.”
He turned and left, the cigar trailing a ghostly ribbon behind him.
Alma slowly pushed herself upright, wincing. Sergio turned her to face him. His eyes searched hers, frantic, vulnerable. “Tell me what this is,” he demanded, his voice raw. “Tell me it’s more.”
She looked past him, at the two empty champagne flutes, at the ghost of cigar smoke in the air. She looked at the man who had just owned her completely, in front of the only man whose opinion he truly feared. The rules were already ash. There was only momentum.
She reached for the remaining glass of champagne. Her hand didn’t shake. She took a sip, the bubbles sharp and bracing on her tongue.
“It’s more,” she said.