**Liquid Balance: A Riveting Tale of Wealth, Speed, and Unseen Perils**
Embark on an adrenaline-fueled journey into the opulent and treacherous world of "Liquid Balance," the gripping novel by Viktor A. King. In this spellbinding narrative, follow t...
He proudly passed the red and white car, and set off in pursuit of the blue one, the Englishman's, his daughters said. How excited they were, next to her, and how everyone was giving her looks of admiration for being the wife of Herzog Hans Adolf, they winked with obsequious smiles as we all followed closely the monitors placed around the perimeter of the grandstand. They looked at the monitors, hinted at me, and smiled paternally at the girls, as if in the Austrian victory, we were all part of one big family unified under the colors of the flag. Holy patriotism, they exalted the sport, moving it voraciously with emotion.
Hans was tailing the red car. He was overtaking it right at the height of that tight 90-degree curve near the hotel of the same name. It was a really chilling curve, he hoped he would slow down, he had understood that for him it was essential only to breathe and win in order to live, but, he hoped, he would slow down anyway, calculating that his opponent would slow down as he did, since the curve was really at a tight angle and to be faced in low gears.
A loud bang was heard, the tire of the red car had exploded. Elisabetta clenched her fists. The girls jumped.
The red car was going straight at Hans, pushing him toward the guardrail, the smoke preventing him from seeing, from knowing.
She leapt to her feet, Hans' car was flying off the road to crash with a thunderous roar on the lower curve road. Elizabeth began to scream.
It was unthinkable that she could stop. She screamed and screamed and screamed and shook until Alessia with copious tears pulled her arm strong and her scream was above her screams.
He looked at her, crying. She seemed to be in slow motion.
The world had ended.
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Hans was on a monitor inside a car that had just crashed in a flight of at least a dozen feet at about 200 mph. Smoke enveloped him, rescuers arrived, the stretcher, he saw it.
They were cautiously placing him on the stretcher, sirens were deployed, lights were flashing insistently.
Insistent.
Her body gard took her by the arm, her aide, the girls, the crowd was lively with excitement. The arena had given her blood.
She felt them touching her, a half-talk in French, German, Italian. The bodyguard pushed her into the car, the girls holed up next to her.
They closed the car.
"Mom, how is Hans?" was Benedetta. She was crying.
"Take us to the hospital."
"Would you like us to walk the girls home first?"
"No. Take us to the hospital right now."
"Mom, I'm scared." Alessia, strong Alessia.
"Me too love, let's go and I'm sure everything will be fine." But I couldn't see anything around me, tears were dripping from my eyes. How women cry for real pain, just falling tears and emptiness.
The hospital was crowded, the entrance full of reporters.
The body gard made room for her to proceed, she should have wiped her eyes, worn sunglasses, like divas to keep her emotions from leaking out and remain ethereal in the eyes of others. Instead she felt only emptiness and those tears that kept falling of their own life.
The girls were glued to her skirt. He took them by the hand.
They made her sit in a small waiting room on small green chairs with horrible blue curtains. Hans was still alive, in surgery but alive.
The babies sought his embrace.
They had gone silent.
It would take many hours, it was obvious, or a few minutes, this depended on Hans' stubbornness and his will to live. To live again with her.
They closed in a religious silence of thoughts. Thoughts of how happy life had become. And how they were now on a small armchair praying that it would still be happy for everyone. And how the piece and sole creator of that happiness was indispensable to its fulfillment.
