Page 112 of Racing for Redemption
His handshake is firm, but not domineering. “The pleasure is mine, Silas. Welcome to Colton Racing.”
He scans the motorhome appreciatively. “I wanted to meet in Monza at my villa, as I promised, but unfortunate business matters will keep me away. I was in town, so I thought I couldn’t miss the opportunity to speak with you.”
“Then I’m glad you reached out,” I say, gesturing toward the stairs. “Would you like to continue our conversation in my office? Or, perhaps a tour of our facilities first?”
“The office, if you don’t mind. Business before pleasure.” His eyes twinkle with genuine enthusiasm. “Though watching your young driver William in the past couple of races has been quite pleasurable indeed. Such potential! That points finish in Melbourne was masterful. A pity about the crashes afterwards, but the kid has spunk!”
I lead him upstairs, surprised by his excitement towards William. This is a mobster. Quite possibly one of the most powerful people in the Sbagliare family or, dare I say, the whole Italian mafia. I read the stories online. This man who now prances around our motorhome with shiny eyes and a weird excitement, is well known for his violence and intimidation. Somehow, I’m comfortable around him, and I no longer understand if that's because all the contact I've had with people in the past couple of years was so bad that the first person being kind to me after a long time made me feel at ease, or… Silas is just genuinely charismatic, charming and warm.
Once settled in my office, Belforte’s posture subtly changes—more focused, more businesslike, though his warmth remains. “Like I said before, I’ve been following Colton Racing since your father’s days,” he says. “Met him once at a fundraiser after his retirement, when he was battling his illness. A remarkable man.”
“He was,” I agree, the familiar ache of loss momentarily sharpening. “You seem to know our history well.”
“I do my research.” Belforte leans forward. “Let me be direct, Ms. Colton. I want to invest in your team. Fifty-five million, multi-year deal. I want the Belforte Construction logo on your drivers’ suits, and on the rear wing of your cars.”
The number makes my jaw drop slightly. So much for my professional facade. He smirks a little. That’s more than double our deal with Gritt Tires. Fifty-five million would transform our prospects, allow us to develop the car properly, maybe even attract some engineering talent from the bigger teams.
“That’s a substantial offer,” I say carefully.
Belforte’s smile widens. “I’ve loved this sport since I was a boy watching races at Monza. There’s nothing like the sound of those engines, the precision, the strategy. I’ve always wanted to own an F1 team, but it sounds like too much trouble, so I want to contribute actively to one, and see it win it all—" He catches himself, and a hearty laugh escapes him. “Forgive me. I become a child again when discussing Formula 1.”
His enthusiasm is infectious, but I’ve learned to look for the strings attached to any deal. “And what would you expect in return, beyond the standard branding rights?”
His expression shifts, becomes more serious. “I may not look like it, but I'm a simple man. I have one condition.” He pauses. “The losers must go. Nicholas, and his engineer. It’s painful to watch, both on television and today, as he passed me in the hallway. The boy gave me strange looks, as if I didn’t belong here.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “You’re not the first to have that assessment of Nicholas.”
“He’s wasting your time, your money, and a seat that could go to someone with actual talent. He almost killed your best driver by crashing into him,” Belforte continues. “I want my logo associated with success, not mediocrity.”
“The board has been pushing for the same change,” I admit. “Nicholas was my predecessor’s hire, not mine.”
Belforte leans back, satisfied. “I have good intuition about people. Your father had it, too—that no-nonsense approach mixed with genuine passion.” He studies me. “You have it, as well. Professional, yet passionate. You could be Italian, and no one would notice the difference.” He grins and chuckles. “I appreciate seeing a woman in power who isn’t—forgive my language—a bitch about it. You know how to put people in their place, but you're genuinely human around them. I didn't see anyone flinching in your presence, which is a good sign.”
Most men who comment on my gender in relation to my position get a swift education in professional boundaries. But there’s something refreshingly straightforward about Belforte’s assessment. He's calling it as he sees it. The tone is surprisingly appreciative.
“And William?” I ask, curious about his assessment.
“Ah, William Foster!” Belforte’s face lights up. “Humble, bit of a hothead, but the boy can deliver. Seems to have a mean left hook, as well. William reminds me of the young, hungry drivers from decades past, before everything became so corporate. He drives with his heart.” He taps his chest. “I like that. He's alupoat heart.”
The conversation flows easily from there. I invite him to join us in the garage for the weekend, an offer he accepts with almost guileless excitement.
As practice sessions turn to qualifying, and qualifying to race day, Belforte becomes a fixture at our side. His commentary is insightful, his questions astute, and his presence oddly comforting.
When William crosses the finish line in P10, securing another point for the team, Belforte’s celebration is as enthusiastic as any team member’s. Nicholas DNFd early—a collision thatdamaged his sidepod—but Belforte’s focus remains entirely on William’s achievement.
“Magnificent driving!” he exclaims. “The way he managed those soft tires in the final stint—that’s talent!”
Before William returns to the boxes, Belforte checks his watch. “I must go, unfortunately. Business calls.” He shakes my hand, then Blake’s. “This weekend has been a pleasure. My legal team will be in touch with the details of our arrangement.”
Blake and I walk him to the exit, thanking him for his time and interest. If this man is going to be our partner on this journey to the top, I won't mind it. He's refreshing, fun despite how scary he can look. I still remember the looks of some of our staff as he entered the garage. Some were scared shitless—with good reason, mind you—but the reality is, Belforte, even if he's pretending, is quite refreshing to have around.
“He’s not what I expected,” Blake says as we watch Belforte’s retreating form.
“No,” I agree. “He’s not. See what I told you about going to his mansion? He wouldn't kill me. That guy looked dangerous, but he's actually… quite affable, if it makes any sense?”
"It doesn't." He chuckles. "Yet, I understand what you mean. I wasn’t intimidated around him."
We head back to the motorhome, the weekend’s success and Belforte’s offer creating a lightness I haven’t felt in months.
