Chapter 11 - The Empire Written in Platinum
Three hours later, the navy-and-gold car of DeSantis Motorsports crossed the finish line three car-lengths ahead of the field to take the checkered flag at the Daytona 500.
Victory Lane was an explosion of confetti, champagne, and cheering mechanics.
Sarah Jenkins stood on the roof of the car, raising the Harley J. Earl trophy into the Florida sunshine while photographers fought for position around the stage.
I stood at the center of the stage beside Matteo, holding the owner's trophy—a massive bronze sculpture that weighed thirty pounds.
As the press cameras flashed, a local sports reporter pushed a microphone into my face.
"Mrs. DeSantis!" the reporter shouted above the noise of the crowd. "Four months ago, people said your career in racing was over. Today, you just won the biggest race in the world as a team owner. What do you have to say to your critics?"
I looked directly into the camera lens—knowing that somewhere in a dusty, windowless trailer behind the track garages, Chase Whitaker was watching this screen on a black-and-white monitor.
I reached up, adjusting the collar of my silk shirt, letting the afternoon sunlight catch the massive black diamond ring on my left hand.
"I have nothing to say to my critics," I said clearly, my voice broadcast to twenty million homes across the country. "I only have advice for women who are sitting in the dark, thinking their life is over because someone told them they are nothing."
The reporter leaned in. "What advice is that?"
"Never let a boy tell you what a man is capable of giving you," I said softly. "And never forget that the mind behind the car is the one that owns the finish line."
The crowd cheered. Matteo smiled down at me, his hand slipping into mine, his heavy platinum ring clicking softly against my own.
That evening, after the trophy presentations and the corporate sponsor dinners were complete, Matteo and I walked along the quiet, private beach behind our hotel in Palm Beach.
The Atlantic ocean crashed gently against the white sand under a dark sky filled with brilliant stars. The air was warm, carrying the scent of salt spray and night-blooming jasmine.
I took off my leather sandals, letting the cool water wash over my bare feet as we walked along the tide line.
Matteo walked beside me, his hands in his trouser pockets, his suit jacket left behind in the suite. He looked relaxed, unburdened, his gray eyes reflecting the starlight.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked softly, stopping beside a large piece of driftwood.
I looked out at the dark horizon where the ocean met the sky.
"Four months ago," I said, "I thought my life ended on a wet porch in Highland Park. I thought eight years of work had been wiped out in five minutes."
"And now?"
I turned to face him. I reached up and touched his jaw—the sharp, strong angle of his face that had become my shelter, my strength, and my home.
"Now," I said, "I realize that night wasn't the end of anything. It was just the moment the door was finally unlocked so I could walk through."
Matteo leaned down, pressing his lips to mine—a deep, slow, possessive kiss that tasted of ocean salt and quiet triumph.
When he drew back, his hand rested against my cheek, his thumb gently tracing the smooth skin of my lower lip where a scar had almost been born.
"You will never stand in the rain again, Vivian," Matteo whispered against my mouth. "I promise you that."
May you like
I looked into his pale gray eyes, knowing with absolute certainty that the feared man of Chicago would keep his word until the day he died.
I slid my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, as the dark waves rolled onto the shore behind us, washing away every footprint we had left behind.
