Alessandro Rinaldo, Italy’s darling F1 champion checked his rearview mirror as he took the premium position at the top of the tack on the last corner. The car behind drifted a fraction down the steep incline in a challenge to his lead. Alessandro always won what he set out to do. The other driver knew that but would be ready to take advantage the minute Alessandro gave him a tiny break.
They went deeper into the tight corner, he focused on the camber of the track, his speed, the distance from the wall. But then, A photo he’d seen that morning of Katrina flashed through his mind. She stood on pointe in a pink tutu holding a baby that had his eyes and his father’s smile. The punch in the chest hit him again. A child he’d never met or even knew existed was as familiar to him as his own face.
He should never have opened his emails. Never read the ballet company donors’ newsletter when preparing for a race. A week ago he’d discovered that his estranged wife had born a child. His child! He’d decided to put the information in his lawyers hands while he focussed on the race, but his will obviously wasn’t strong enough to keep thoughts of her and his child out. His lawyer confirmed that the child was DNA tested shortly after birth, his name was on the birth certificate. Why would she have done this without telling him?
A bitter taste flooded his mouth just as the challenger behind pulled down sharply from the turn in a suicidal attempt to overtake on the inside. Alessandro checked his speed, too slow. The desperate challenger capitalized on Alessandro’s momentary distraction.
If Alessandro moved an inch from the barrier, they would clip wheels, but if he sped up, he could scrape the wall.He must maintain his current position if he wanted to win this race. And he wanted to win this one more than ever. The revelation that he was a father meant he had to keep the promise he’d made. This would be his last year on the circuit.
He hadn’t made this choice. Katrina had gone against their agreement, not to have children. But even if she hadn’t planned it. Not telling him wasn’t fair; they’d made a baby together. She must have been attempting to tell him the last night they were together. God knows he hadn’t made it easy for her. But two years? Not finding a way to tell him in all that time was betrayal, pure and simple. He inhaled deeply and tried to concentrate. I can’t think about that now. I have a race to win.
He pressed the accelerator. Alessandro, formula one world champion, must put this challenge down. No one was going to get the better of him, and definitely not here on the track. But the nearest driver was now beside him and keeping him pinned against the wall. If he pushed in front to take his chances he’d be gambling with both their lives. Dying or winning was on the table, as it always was during a race, but this time was different. The father in him was young and he’d only known for a day that a child existed, but the impact was high. It demanded survival; squashed the idea of dying.
He took his foot off the gas just enough to keep him in second place but the challenger was going too fast now, drifting up the track. Fear spiraled though Alessandro and tangled in his gut. Braking hard would put the rest of the field behind them into peril but keeping up this speed meant the two of them would lock wheels on a tight curve. Losing control would result in a major disaster. He did the only thing he could to save everyone. He let the beautiful car, which he’d spent a year engineering, drift up into the barrier. Metal screamed. In his rear mirror, the cars behind were braking and steering away down the track. The idiot beside him shot ahead. After the pack had past Alessandro pulled his disabled car off the barrier. He‘d thrown the race, his distraction had given the challenger an opportunity. His aching, stiff shoulders slumped.
His tire had a wobble from being pushed against the barrier, and the front guard scrapped it but suddenly dug into it. His back end flipped out and now the front of his car dove into the barrier. The machine lifted briefly and smashed back to the ground before spinning away down the track. The world flashed again and again. I gave the race away and yet I’m going to die anyway.
Highly combustible fuel vapor prickled his nostrils. Metal scraping on metal meant sparks would be flying. His grandfather, his father and now himself all dying the same way. In that moment a strange sense of peace came over him. He resigned himself to his fate, and then he remembered his child. A child he’d never meet. His fists gripped the wheel as, instinctively, he fought to gain control, desperate to live.
The world spun and spun, but the car slowed and eventually stopped turning. He landed on the inside on the race track. A miracle. He unclipped and forced himself to breathe slowly while he waited for the emergency team to arrive and pull him out. He prayed the miracle held and a fire didn’t start before they could get to him. Before he could meet and hold his child. His son.
This child he wouldn’t lose, not like the last time he’d loved a child he thought was his.
Twirling en pointe, Katrina Baxter focused on the corner of the dance studio, marking each revolution.
Tangled, jarring worries about Alessandro’s crash yesterday had played over and over in her mind. The father of her baby had nearly died. Her heart had been in her mouth as she watched the rescue crew pull him from the vehicle. Relief had softened the ache in her chest when he gave a jaunty thumbs up.
She turned faster. Eventually, the prickling memories receded. She breathed deep into her calm center when a reflection – brooding, dark and lithe – flashed past in the long wall mirror. Her breath caught in her throat. A shiver flew down her spine. Her supporting leg shifted a fraction from its axis, and that troublesome kneecap threatened to slip.
Had the vision been her imagination? An apparition, perhaps?
Searing pain shot up the nerve but Katrina, a seasoned prima ballerina, resisted her body’s instinct to collapse and relieve the weight on her knee. Instead, she reined in her outstretched right leg, which had been poised for another momentum-filled pump, and relaxed it. Not the barest hint of a wobble, no matter how great the pain. Controlling her spin with out-stretched arms, she slowed and used the pain that spread up her leg to drive her focus on that corner.
She landed in perfect, fourth position. Her critical gaze flicked to the mirror to check her form. The screaming pain in her knee had not disturbed the fluid grace of her landing. If this had happened on stage, the audience would never have known. If her father had been watching he’d have been proud of her. Never missing a performance, he only noticed her when she was dancing.
Her body line passed inspection. The extra weight had been burned off months ago, and her stomach muscles were tight and flat. Satisfied, she allowed herself to step forward. Favoring her throbbing knee, she limped to her towel.
Alessandro Rinaldo’s reflection stepped into full view. He clapped in slow applause. Six feet of lean, dressed-to-impress, created a perfect foil against the varnished brick, rear wall. His gaze found hers in the mirror. Katarina’s heart pounded as she gulped in air. Her finely tuned body released a rush of adrenaline equal to opening night. She pressed a hand to her heaving chest.
Soft, dark brown hair fell in waves on his forehead. His muscle toned neck disappeared into the vee of his open polo, stirred a need that had gone unmet since the last time he’d held her. She took a painful gulp over the knot in her throat.