Breaking Point
Author
Zainab Sambo
Reads
98.1K
Chapters
36
Taylor Cruz lives for midnight roads and illegal grids, racing as Havoc—the street-racing ghost everyone films and no one catches. When a viral clip detonates her life and costs her license, Marco Vieri, an F1 team owner on the brink of collapse, offers her a last-chance gamble: three weeks in Monaco to prove she deserves one seat on his failing team. Standing in her way is Luca Vieri, the team’s flawless golden driver—and Marco’s son—who distrusts her past and the spotlight that follows her. When River Thorne resurfaces, the pressure turns personal. In Formula 1, speed isn’t the only thing that breaks you—sometimes it’s the spotlight, the crash, or the person you can’t afford to care about.
Chapter 1: Havoc
The city smells like rain and hot metal.
Sodium lights smear across wet asphalt. Engines idle in a low growl that sits in my bones. My helmet is warm against my cheeks.
My fingers drum a beat on the wheel to keep my nerves sharp, not to calm them. Calm has never helped me win.
Tash leans in through the window, a streak of black eyeliner under one eye and a cheap gold chain catching light at her throat. “Grid in ninety seconds,” she says. “Two cops have been circling the docks since midnight. Watch your exits.”
“I always watch my exits.”
“You watch the finish line. That’s why I watch your exits.” She taps the roll cage. “You got this, Havoc.”
The name hits the night like a spark. Someone behind us hears it and repeats it to someone else. Havoc.
It travels like smoke. It never gets old.
Milo knocks on the hood and holds up two fingers for luck. His hands are still stained from the hours he put in with me this afternoon, tuning the turbo and praying the clutch would live through one more race. I give him a thumbs up, then flex my fingers on the wheel until they sting.
Across from me, Knox sits in a matte-black Skyline with more attitude than engineering. He revs like he wants everyone to look at him.
I glance over and he smirks. It is the kind of smirk that thinks it can buy anything and anyone.
“Try to keep up, sweetheart,” he calls.
I lift my visor just enough for him to see my grin. “Try not to cry.”
The starter climbs on a shipping crate with a road flare clenched between his teeth. The crowd ripples forward. Their phones are already up.
I do not give them a face to film. I let them have the helmet and the legend.
It is safer that way. It is also more fun.
The flare spits red. He raises it high. Drops it.
Clutch. Throttle. The car snarls and we launch.
The first hundred meters are a fistfight. Knox eats lane and I let him. I ride the white line and the spray off his tires until he commits to his arrogance.
He goes wide into Turn Two. I carve the inside. There is a moment where we are door to door, mirrors a breath apart.
He looks over like he wants to see the fear in my eyes. He finds a smile instead.
The back straight opens. The docks blur into rails and cranes and stacked containers. The wind shoves at my helmet.
I listen for the car, not the crowd. Temperature is good. Boost is good.
The world narrows to three things: the road, the engine, me.
We hammer through the chicane. I kiss the apex, lift for a heartbeat, and feed throttle until the rear twitches.
The twitch is my favorite part. It tells me I am on the knife and still in control.
Knox tries to out-brake me into the hairpin, and I let him slide in front because I want to see the mistake he always makes. He locks too early, and there it is, that little puff of tire smoke.
I carry speed around his outside, almost brush the cargo netting, and slingshot onto the straight. His headlights drop behind me.
The crowd erupts. Someone screams my name. And I bask in the noise.
I have three corners to go when blue slowly paints the far end of the docks. Sirens chew the dark. The air shifts, loud with the kind of panic that ripples fast.
Tash’s voice crackles in my ear. “Company. They’re coming in from the south gate.”
Of course they are. They always choose the long way, as if that will make us behave.
“How many?” I ask.
“Two cars. Maybe three. One chopper in the distance.”
I laugh once. “They brought a toy.”
“Do not get cocky,” Tash says.
“I am already cocky.”
“You are also the rent, Taylor.”
The name under the name. It lands in my chest with a pang.
Rent. Repairs.
Food that does not come from a box. Milo’s mum needing a new inhaler.
I love the risk. I also love my people. That is the truth I never say out loud.
Knox is gaining. He gets brave in chaos. He dives for my inside on the last bend, and I hold him off with a late tap on the brakes and patience he does not believe I possess.
The finish line is a sliver of white chalk across broken asphalt. The crowd spills into it, bodies pressed tight, hands out like they could touch the speed and keep some for later.
I cross first.
It feels like surfacing from deep water. Sound crashes back.
Flashlight beams. The sweet burn of victory in my throat.
I idle in a half circle, and the crowd pours in. Milo leaps onto the hood and thumps it twice.
Tash drags open my door and tears my harness loose. “We have to move.”
I pull off my helmet. The night hits my skin.
Cold, wet, alive. People chant, “Havoc” like they are blood drunk.
A kid pushes to the front, eyes huge, hands shaking with the phone he points at me. “Oh my God, it’s a girl,” he says, stunned and delighted. “Havoc is a girl.”
“Woman,” I say, and swipe sweat and rain from my mouth. “And this woman needs to leave.”
We dance the car backward as the sirens get louder.
Milo jumps down and points at a gap between two container stacks. “North alley. Go now.”
Tash runs ahead to wave people clear.
Knox screams by in a panic and clips the tail of an old van. The van spins. The crowd scatters.
Chaos blooms in white light and noise. I do the math in a flash.
If I gun it through the gap, I make it out with the car. If I do that, the van blocks the alley, and a dozen kids get trapped between two walls while uniforms flood in.
If I stay, we all get caught. I do not like any of those outcomes.
I drop the clutch and aim for the stacks. “Tash,” I say quietly.
“I see it,” she answers.
There is a rusted forklift beside the stacks with its tines low. I kiss the bumper to it, angle the wheel, and floor it. The rails bite under my tires like teeth.
I ride up the tines and slam into the end of the top crate. The stack shudders and tips.
It happens in a slow, graceful way that makes my heart ache. The crates tumble into the alley and choke it off like a cork.
“Go,” I tell Tash, already climbing out, already pulling the keys.
“What about the car?” Milo asks.
“It dies here.”
He winces. “I put my soul in that engine.”
“So did I.”
The first police car noses into the main lane, lights tearing the night to pieces. The chopper thuds closer, beating the rain into spray.
Someone yells my name. Someone else yells, “Run.”
The world narrows again, but not in the fast way. In the survival way.
I dive over the hood and land in cold water that smells like diesel. Tash grabs my wrist.
We sprint through a cut in the fence that we mapped on a quiet afternoon. Milo pulls the chain link closed behind us. We crawl under a railcar and come up laughing and coughing because fear sometimes sounds like laughter when you still have your skin.
Boots pound past the fence. The chopper sweeps light across the stacks where my car now sits like a casualty.
An officer shouts at the crowd to get back. Knox peels away in a panic and almost takes out two of his own boys. I hope his pride hurts worse than his paint.
We drop into shadows and run. Fifteen minutes later, we are three blocks from the docks, breath hot in the cold air.
We split without speaking. We always split.
Different alleys. Different stories if anyone asks.
I peel off the leather suit in a public toilet that stinks of bleach and beer, shove it into a backpack, and pull on jeans and a hoodie that could belong to anyone. I scrub my face with a paper towel until my cheeks burn pink instead of criminal. In the mirror, I look like a girl who missed the last bus home.
The adrenaline leaves in a rush that almost drops me. I sit on the closed toilet lid and let my hands shake.
The race is still moving in me, as if the corner is only now arriving. I breathe slow.
In. Out. I count to five.
I hate counting. It feels like hiding.
When the shakes ease, I sling the bag onto my shoulder and walk out into the gray that passes for morning. The river is a long iron strip. The city coughs to life.
My phone vibrates nonstop in my pocket. I check it anyway.
Twenty-seven missed calls. Forty-eight new messages. Three numbers I recognize.
Tash
You good?
Milo
They impounded a bunch of cars but not ours. I borrowed a tow, meet you at the garage.
The rest are unknowns. Two offers to buy the clip of me pulling off my helmet. One threat.
Five comments about my body that make my teeth hurt. There is a new email notification from Motorsport UK. Subject: Competition License Suspension Notice.
I stare at it. My chest feels tight enough to crack. I know it will come if I keep doing what I do.
Knowing is not the same as seeing the words. I do not open it. I do not delete it.
I put the phone back in my pocket like it might bite.
By the time I reach the garage, the rain has turned into a fine mist that slicks everything into a mirror. Our roller door is half open. The space smells like brake cleaner, coffee, and home.
Tash is there with two steaming cups and a scowl that is all worry. “You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“You look pale.”
“I always look pale in this lighting.” I take the cup and wrap my hands around it. My fingers still shake a little. She sees and pretends not to. That is what love looks like here.
Milo backs the tow truck in and hops out. The bed holds the carcass of my car. It is ugly in daylight.
Twisted fender. Spiderweb in the windshield. The hood sits crooked, like a broken grin.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
“We can fix her,” Milo says, hopeful and lying.
“We can fix parts of her,” I say, not lying.
Tash lifts her chin at my phone. “You saw the email?”
“I saw the subject.”
“Open it.”
I do. The words blur for a second. Then they land.
Effective immediately. Review of conduct. Indefinite suspension.
My throat goes dry. They cite public endangerment and participation in unregulated competition.
As if the last official track day where I embarrassed a man with a daddy’s money GT3 was the problem. As if we all do not know that the real problem is that my wins happen where their cameras do not get paid.
I laugh without humor. “They finally got brave.”
Tash pulls me into a hug that smells like cheap shampoo and heat. “We will figure it out.”
“Our sponsors will not.” I open the next email.
Sponsor one: terminating partnership effective today. Sponsor two: disappointing decision, wish you the best. Sponsor three: please return the helmet we loaned you.
I scroll until it hurts. The little pile of safety nets I pretended existed vanishes in three minutes.
Milo kicks the tire of the dead car and winces again because kicking metal hurts more than anger does. “We still have the garage,” he says. “We have my cousin’s scrap job on Thursday. We have hustle.”
“I have pride,” I say. “It is not worth much in cash.”
He grins anyway. “You have fame now. Look.”
He holds up his phone. The clip is everywhere. A shaky video of me turning to the crowd, lifting my helmet, sweat running down my neck, teeth showing in a smile that looks feral.
The caption screams, Mystery female racer outdrives police at 220 mph. Under it, the comments swim by.
“Legend. Criminal. Marry me.”
“Lock her up. Havoc, holy hell.”
The angle catches the way my eyes look when I win. I barely recognize the hunger there. It looks like a secret even from me.
“I hate that someone filmed that,” I say quietly.
“You love it,” Tash says, but not unkindly. “You hate the reasons, not the eyes.”
“Maybe.”
We drink coffee and listen to the rain until my heartbeat stops living under my tongue. The garage hums the way it does when a day is about to begin.
Milo puts the car on a lift and pretends he is doing triage on a corpse that can still be saved. Tash answers two calls from numbers she recognizes and ignores the ones she does not. I sit on the edge of the workbench and try to imagine a future that does not involve roaring into the dark with a pack of wolves at my back.
The bell above the front door chimes. We all go still because no one uses the front door at this hour unless they are selling toner or trouble.
Tash steps out first with her chin up. I follow, wiping my hands on a rag I do not need, as if grease makes me unafraid.
The man who steps inside wears a suit that does not belong on our street. The fabric catches light in a way that says old money and better tailors.
He is not wet. That is the first thing I notice. He is not wet because someone held an umbrella over his head between his car and my door.
His hair is iron gray, clean cut. His mouth is sharp without smiling. He looks around like he has been in a thousand places like this and none of them have mattered until now.
“Ms. Cruz,” he says, as if we have met. His voice is low and Italian and expensive. He glances at the car suspended on the lift and then at the viral clip still looping on Milo’s phone. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
“You are interrupting,” Tash says.
He looks at me, not her, as if I am the only person in the room. “I have been looking for you.”
“People usually email first,” I retort.
He nods once. “I prefer to offer certain things in person.”
“What things?” I ask.
He finally smiles and it is not kind. It is interesting. “A chance to make a different kind of history.”
Tash’s eyes cut to mine. Milo’s mouth opens and then shuts because he has manners when he is shocked.
The man steps closer and holds out a card. A clean white rectangle. A black logo that eats the light.
Five letters that hit me in the gut. Vieri.
He watches my face like a driver watches the road as the red lights glow before the start.
Calm. Confident. Ready to go when the world says go.
“Marco Vieri,” he says. “Do you have a minute, Ms. Cruz?”
I look at the ruined car. At Tash’s cheeks still pink from the run. At Milo’s hands, raw around the knuckles.
At the email open on my cracked phone screen. My heart does something reckless and familiar.
I set the coffee cup down.
“I have a minute,” I say. “Maybe two.”
