Vicente was sitting on the couch when I started changing the bandage. Too calm for someone who hadn't followed a single recommendation. Despite the lack of care, the cut looked better. Less red. The edges slowly closing, as if his body were trying to make up for his stubbornness.
I cleaned it carefully. He didn't complain.
When I finished, I leaned back a little to check the result and then raised my hand almost without thinking, holding his face.
Vicente flinched for a brief moment. A quick, almost imperceptible reflex.
— Stay — I murmured.
He obeyed.
I tilted his face slightly, studying the wound above his eye, which no longer had a bandage, almost healed. A thin mark, but one that still told the story of a night that hadn't been simple.
I let out a slow breath.
The first-aid box slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.
I didn't bend down to pick it up.
I sat on the coffee table in front of him, so close there was no way to pretend everything was normal. I rested my hands on my knees and held his gaze.
— So — I said. — Now you're going to explain.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
— You're not getting up from there — I continued — until you tell me what happened today.
I crossed my arms.
— Everything.
Vicente ran a hand over his face before speaking.
It took a moment…
— This town is too small — he finally began. — Small enough that everyone knows everyone… and big enough that nobody does anything about it.
I didn't interrupt.
— There's a guy here who controls almost all the pieces. It's not just the shop. It's access too. If you want to build a good, fast, competitive car, you go through him. There's no choice.
— For races? — I asked.
He nodded, without enthusiasm.
— He organizes everything… openly or behind the scenes. Brings people from here, from nearby towns. There's betting, money, ego. A lot of things spinning around it.
I took a slow breath.
— So only the people he wants get the best parts?
— Exactly — he said. — Or the ones who pay what he asks.
— And why doesn't anyone open another shop? — I asked. — One that sells fairly. That breaks the monopoly.
Vicente looked at me differently.
— They've tried.
— And?
He shrugged.
— It didn't last.
The way he said it was enough to keep me from asking more.
— A while ago — he continued — I crossed paths with another guy who wasn't okay with that. But he was different from the others… he doesn't race, never has. But he bets high. He has money, contacts… and patience.
— Patience for what?
— To play the game his way.
I rested my elbows on my knees.
— And where do you come into this?
Vicente took another deep breath.
— He has a driver who races his car. The deal was simple: he gets the parts, I do the customization, get the car ready. He pays me well, nobody knows… and I never race when his car is on the track.
My stomach twisted.
I opened my mouth to speak.
— Before you say anything… — he cut in, firm. — I didn't start racing because I wanted to.
— Vicente…
— The first time was desperation — he said bluntly. — I needed money. There were no pretty options back then, but I'll tell you about that another day.
I swallowed.
— After that… — he continued, choosing his words — I learned how to read the environment.
He looked up at me.
— Now I only enter when I know who's going to be on the track. When I know the race will be clean. No craziness, no traps, no people trying to prove something.
— And these injuries? — I asked, pointing at his arm. — Were you racing?
Vicente let out a humorless laugh.
— That was an accident.
I tilted my head, waiting.
— I was leading the race — he went on. — Almost at the finish. Everything was under control.
He paused briefly.
— Lobão was right behind me. He's a decent guy… but too childish.
I frowned.
— Childish?
— His girlfriend was watching — he explained. — He wanted to show off… make an impression.
I took a deep breath.
— And what did he do?
Vicente rubbed his injured arm absently.
— He cut me off in a curve. Got too close. I tried to hold it, but the rear slipped. The car jerked sideways…
My stomach twisted.
— It wasn't a hard crash — he added quickly. — The side got dented, the glass shattered. The cut on my arm was from the shards. The one on my eye… the seatbelt didn't hold everything.
I swallowed.
— And Lobão?
The trace of a smile disappeared.
— He got it worse.
I looked up.
— His car lost control when he tried to correct. It rolled twice before stopping.
— Is he okay? — I asked, almost in a whisper.
Vicente nodded slowly.
— He's broken, but alive. — He took a breath. — The car's a mess. It'll be a while before he can face a track again.
I ran a hand over my face.
— That could have been much worse.
— I know — he said seriously. — That's why I get pissed when someone turns racing into a show.
He looked at me, steady.
— That's not a place to prove anything to anyone.
— And those parts? — I asked.
He hesitated. Just a little, but he did.
— I don't ask where they come from — he finally said. — My job is to build. To make it work. To make sure the car holds up and doesn't kill anyone.
I raised my eyes.
— Doesn't that scare you?
Vicente met my gaze.
— It does — he said. — That's why I never wanted you anywhere near this.
I swallowed.
— So… what you went to get today…
He nodded.
— It wasn't an ordinary part. That guy is betting high on a race that hasn't happened yet. — He took a breath. — And that part will make sure his car is fast enough.
— Fast enough?
— Yeah… to break the game. — He explained. — There are people here who control who wins and who loses. They control the parts, the drivers, even the bets. When a car shows up outside that control… they notice.
My stomach dropped.
— So the car that followed us…
— Was a message — he said. — Someone's suspicious… they wanted to let us know they're watching.
He fell silent for a moment.
— That's why I panicked when I realized you were with me.
— This is really dangerous — I said, my voice lower than I wanted. — What if they find out you're the one building that car?
Vicente looked at me calmly.
— They won't come after me for me — he said. — They'll want to know who I work for. Who's behind the driver. Who owns the car.
A chill ran down my spine.
— And you think they'll just ask? — I murmured. — You know they won't. If they want that answer… they won't stop. Not until you talk. No matter how.
For a second, the whole workshop felt very far away.
Vicente didn't look away.
— I know.
The way he said it wasn't bravado.It was awareness.
I stayed silent, feeling the weight of everything fall on both of us at once. It wasn't just his world I had stepped into.
It was the danger too.
Vicente slowly reached out and took my hand.
— That's why — he said softly — I tried to keep you away from this.
But now it was too late… because I was already there. And I had no intention of leaving.