10 Azerbaijan

10

AZERBAIJAN

LATE APRIL

COSMIN

Race week in China was already shit before the grand prix. Phaedra was cold, and even the perennially unflappable Klaus seemed out of sorts.

Team owner Mo went to the States for a “family situation,” and there was gossip in the press about what that might mean. Then, nine laps into the race, my right rear driveshaft hub broke, and I had to retire. Jakob came in eleventh, just outside the points. No one was happy.

This weekend will be different. The Baku City Circuit in Azerbaijan is quite long—over six kilometers—and thrillingly fast, with gorgeous technical bits that play to my strengths. I qualified in fourth and Jakob seventh. A podium finish is within my grasp.

During the morning meeting on race day, Emerald’s chief strategist suggests a daring plan, unlikely to be implemented by other teams. Based on today’s weather report—taking heat, wind, and even angle of shadows into consideration—he lobbies for starting the race on hard compound tyres.

Most teams will start on soft compound tyres and switch to hard later, employing one pit stop. A few other teams may start on mediums and switch to hard. Computer simulations suggest this bold alternate approach could put Emerald at a serious advantage.

As the strategy is discussed, there are nervous sideways glances amongst the team members in the room.

Phaedra speaks up.

“I see the potential advantage,” she allows, her tone cautious. “Switching to soft tyres later in the race would be great when the shadows cool the track and there isn’t as much worry about the rubber degradation. In the meantime, we’d get some good data seeing how everyone else performs on them. But”—she massages the bridge of her nose—“at this circuit, there’s a massive probability we’ll see the safety car. This is Baku, so there’s a high crash risk. I mean, it’s only worse in Monaco—we all know this, right?” She lifts her hands and looks around the room in an appeal for agreement.

About half the team members nod in concession; some glance at Klaus, as if wondering whether to commit to an opinion.

He hasn’t weighed in yet, and I’m not the only person who’s noticed an odd tension between him and Phaedra this past week. I even overheard a mechanic joking about it, saying, “The Fellowship is broken! We’ll never make it to Mount Doom now.”

“If so,” she continues, “we’re royally fucked. Might as well pass out pillows of lube to the other teams. They can enjoy it along with their less costly pit stops while the safety car is out.”

“I assure you, Miss Morgan,” the strategist asserts, “it’s worth the risk.”

“Perhaps you’d like to see the data, Phaedra my dear?” Klaus puts in mildly.

He’s looking at a tablet, not at her. His tone says the offer, rather than being an invitation, is rhetorical, meant to imply that her question is unwelcome. It’s also the first time I’ve heard him directly address her as anything other than Schatzi.

She fixes him with a look of disbelief. “And perhaps you’d like to walk back the condescension.”

Klaus lifts his gaze, so slowly it borders on careless. They lock eyes, the air between them thick with tension.

“It’s windy as fuck today,” she goes on. “With decreased grip on the hard tyres, Cos and Jake are already going to struggle with braking points. Did the simulations take into consideration exactly where the wind will be channeled through building gaps? Are the gusts going to hit them in—”

“Respectfully,” Klaus interrupts, “it’s what your father pays Wilhelm to determine.” He nods toward the chief strategist.

Highlighting the fact that Ed Morgan owns the team is a card dealt from the bottom of the deck, and out of character for Klaus. I can’t imagine what’s instigated this hostility. I wonder whether Phaedra said something negative about Santorini and Klaus’s feelings were hurt.

“Oh, apologies ,” she tells him with heavy sarcasm. “If I’d known I was expected to be only ‘seen and not heard’ today, I’d have dressed up fancy.”

Several people in the room develop a rapt interest in their coffee cups. Jakob unwraps a protein bar with the careful silence of someone trying to eat candy in a theater during a deathbed scene. Anything to avoid Phaedra’s calmly murderous expression.

After an uncomfortable silence, she looks at me. “All right then. So. What do you think, Legs? Jake?”

Jakob pauses mid-chew, then shrugs, eyes wide at being put on the spot.

“Gotcha. And how ’bout you?” she asks, lifting her chin at me.

I take a slow breath. “It’s a bold plan and partially contingent on luck. But isn’t that life? I’d love to hear the commentators gasp and chatter when they see the Emeralds roll out on white sidewall tyres.” I grin. “And if we pull it off, we’re gods.”

A tiny smile flickers at the corner of those sweet lips. It’s the first I’ve seen directed at me in over two weeks since the housekeeper incident in Shanghai.

She claps her hands together. “I’m sold.”

I’m excited to see if the gamble pays off. But more than anything, I am delighted to see Phaedra smile at me again.

After I pass Anders Olsson, Phaedra’s voice in my ears is calm.

“Clean, Cos. Nicely done. P2. You’ve gone purple in sector one.”

“Copy.”

I can’t believe our luck in avoiding the safety car. It’s almost unheard of here because the long straights necessitate a low-downforce setup, and due to the high number of ninety-degree turns on a street circuit, there’s heavy braking. A street circuit also means minimal run-off area, so a mistake is likely to buy you an appointment with the nearest wall. It’s a demanding combination.

I feel like I’m flying, outside and in. I’ve ramped up my aspirations since Ortiz retired with a gearbox problem and Ono had what Phaedra refers to as a “four-way clown fuck of a pit stop”—nearly forty seconds when they brought out mismatched tyres.

A podium isn’t enough anymore. Now I plan to take down Drew Powell and fucking win .

“Box this lap,” Phaedra says. “Let’s get the softs on.”

The expression “man plans, and God laughs” would not be inaccurate to describe what happens next. My own pit stop is at least a three -way clown fuck when the left front tyre’s wheel gun malfunctions. The tyre gunner is struggling and crosses his arms in the air to indicate a problem.

Fortunately, there are two wheel guns for each tyre, allowing for just such a failure, and it’s swapped out. We’re past twenty seconds and cold steel seems to settle in my gut as I acknowledge even a podium has likely slipped away.

My brain pivots to points— any .

I get the signal and speed away. But something is amiss. Did I imagine the mechanic’s posture and arm movement, glanced in my periphery, indicated a problem?

As I surge out of the pit lane and onto the track, I can feel it. Something’s off.

“What happened back there?” I ask Phaedra.

“One moment, Cos. Lars is talking with the crew chief.” It’s only a few heartbeats until she’s back. “The wheel’s not fitted correctly. You need to—”

“Fuck! What the shit?” I snap. “All right. I can bring her around.” I see the shimmy now, and slow down.

Cars are blasting past me, and I’ve received the black-and-orange flag indicating a mechanical problem. Seeing flashes of the wheel as the tyre starts to dance free, I realize I can’t make it to a run-off area without endangering everyone. I pull over.

Despite a potentially brilliant strategic choice, we were undone by a simple mechanical error. It’s maddening.

“Yellow flag,” Phaedra tells me. “It’s not your fault, Legs.”

The other cars whip past, orderly under the virtual safety car.

Merry fucking Christmas, guys , I think, releasing my harness as the track marshals trot out to meet my twelve-million-dollar paperweight.

After a race, all I want to do is take an ice bath, rehydrate, and sleep for at least ten hours. (Sometimes with company, but no such luck in Baku.) Viorica texts me Sunday night as I’m lying in bed, listening to music and doing meditative breathing.

Don’t reply now , she writes in Romanian. I know you must be exhausted. So sorry about the race. I am glad you’re safe, as always. There is information I need to share about the donor. Please call tomorrow.

I flick the table lamp on and call her.

“I did not mean to wake you,” she says.

“I couldn’t sleep. And I’m curious about this donor information.”

Viorica makes a reluctant humming noise. “We should speak in the morning. If we discuss this now, I’m concerned you may not sleep.”

“It’s better to tell me, so we can deal with it. Now you have me worried.” I pile pillows behind my back.

“First let me say this: he’s offering a quarter-billion leu.”

I suck in a breath. “A quarter billion —with a B ? That’s fifty million euros.”

“Yes. And with that money we could finish the children’s villa. All twelve houses, the adjoining school, and an on-site medical clinic.”

I pick up a glass of water from the bedside and sip. “For you to sound apprehensive, the attached conditions must be troubling.”

“Yes. The man is… Grigore Lupu.”

My hand clenches the glass so hard that I must consciously set it down or risk injuring myself. The water’s surface tremors like a storm.

Neither of us has spoken this man’s name in a decade.

My sister’s captor. The man who abused her innocence when she was a girl of sixteen and our uncle sold her to him.

My gut boiling with rage, I flip over to Romanian in a burst of profanity. Fuck his mother’s Easter, that worthless shit-shoveler!

“Cosmin!” Viorica scolds, aghast.

“No. Absolutely not. We don’t take five bani from that dog.”

“Listen, please .”

“It’s out of the question. Unacceptable. I’m making good money already, and if all goes well, I could have a substantially bigger offer in two years when my contract is up.”

“You’re getting two million. Even though you live modestly and send most of it to Vlasia House, and will surely command more soon, it could take a decade to amass the sum Grigore would give us immediately.”

“Rica, no . We—”

“Think of our dream,” she cuts in. “Twelve adjoining houses in the villa, each with a housemother and six children in residence. Raised like families , not like forgotten, lost children.”

“Why does this villain wish to give us the money? What does he want?”

Her sigh crackles over the line. “He wants to make amends.”

“Some things, Rica, cannot be forgiven. You should know this better than anyone.”

She emits a bark of laughter. “A quarter-billion leu to forgive. You would withhold this money from the children because you won’t pardon someone for a wrong done to me ?” She pauses, and her next words are cold as iron. “ It’s not your place. ”

“I apologize,” I mutter.

“He is in his seventies now and feels remorse.”

“Bullshit.” I scrub my face with one hand.

“ Cosmin. ” Her tone is hard. “You must trust me.”

“Many of the associates of Uncle Andrei weren’t honest businessmen. If we entangle ourselves with this man, it could end up defying the purpose of having used our inheritance to start the foundation.”

“Do not lecture me—”

“We’re protecting children who’ve lost their parents as we lost ours. Sparing young girls the horrors you suffered. You’d take a payoff from the monster who victimized you?”

She huffs out a sharp sigh. “I don’t wish to discuss this anymore. Are you coming home before the Spanish Grand Prix?”

My sister tends to change the subject when she knows I’m right, so I don’t press further. The money would have been useful, but I’m relieved she’s letting it go. As the emotional turmoil catches up to me, I sag like a puppet whose strings have been cut, draping a hand over my eyes.

“On Wednesday.” There’s silence on the line for a moment. “I apologize for being so adamant about this donor,” I say. “Thank you for your patience with my temper.”

“Yes. We needn’t say more.”

Once we hang up, I turn out the light and stare at the shifting parallel lines of city glow on the ceiling as the AC agitates the vertical blinds. Putting in my headphones and listening to soothing music doesn’t help me to calm.

I reach for my laptop and type out another of the emails to Phaedra I’ve been writing and saving to my draft folder, unsent.

I tell myself it’s not possible to miss something I’ve never had, but I do. I miss the win that slipped through my fingers today. I miss the childhood denied me.

I miss you.

You make me feel poetic, which is why I will never send these letters.

“Your eyes are like the green vines nodding in the shadows on the patio in Santorini. Do you recall the split tree on the hillside, how I pointed out your hair was the same color as the heartwood, when we were overtaken by that rainstorm?”

Only a fool speaks like that.

But I would be a fool for you.

Good night, drag?.