“Has anyone ever accused you of being too beautiful for your own good?” My voice was a bit breathless.
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The sly grin that came to his face was answer enough. I smacked him on the chest and we both started laughing. Before I could pull my hand away, he took it, kissing a trail from my elbow to my wrist, his mouth lingering on my pulse.
He said something in gruff Italian that sounded so beautiful. “I savor every moment of this life with you, Leonora Bigatti. Living with you is living.”
I rested my head on his shoulder and got as close to him as I possibly could. I never thought I’d be the type of woman who felt like she had to be attached, but in so many ways, I wanted to be attached to Tullio Bigatti. Almost like I wanted to melt into his skin sometimes.
The track came into view, and Big kissed my temple as the car stopped. When the driver opened Big’s door, Big held his hand out for me, and we walked together to wherever he needed to be. The place swarmed with crews getting the cars ready for the drivers. These cars were different from the cars I’d seen for NASCAR. They were single-seated with an open cockpit and open wheels. Sleeker looking, closer to the ground, with thick wheels. The engine was behind the driver.
Big showed me to his car. It was red with the name brand of the car painted on the back. Or as he called it,the rear wing. He dissected the areas of the car for me as he pointed them out.
“Rear wing, camera mount, engine intake, cockpit, front wing.”
“What makes these cars different from the ones from NASCAR?”
“You have your Mustangs, Cameras, even Toyotas for NASCAR, but F1 cars, even though they’re only eight to twelve miles an hour faster, can take corners up to five times as fast. It all has to do with aerodynamics and the downforce they create.”
Everything about this car fit Tullio Bigatti. It made sense. Just like him running a casino that brought in millions of dollars a day did. He seemed built for both, even if I couldn’t find a connection right away.
Or…maybe there was one.
It took a powerful man to do either of these things. A man who was like a jaguar in terms of speed, and as fierce as one with his bite.
I fell a little deeper in love with Tullio Bigatti at the thought.
“Was this one yours?” I asked. “Or is this just a loaner?”
I wasn’t sure if I should touch the car. Maybe it was like boats and women and bad luck. But my finger itched to trace the number thirteen painted on the slim hood around all the companies who had their logo displayed. Or I guess that was what it was called—a hood. Big never gave it a name, but it was connected to the front suspension.
“Mine,” he said, giving me a peculiar look. “Rocco retired it and keeps it in their F1 museum.”
“You chose 13 because 13 is a lucky number in Italy, right?”
He nodded, almost warily. “No one else uses it. Superstition.”
“But here comes Tullio Bugatti, the Younger, and says…fuck it. It’s lucky because I believe it’s lucky.”
“You have me all figured out, Aphrodite.”
We stared at each other. It was intense, especially since so much was going on around us.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” I finally asked.
“I’m returning the question.”
“Oh, you noticed.”
“I notice everything.”
“Yeah, not going to argue about that.” I sighed. “This. You. Here. It makes me…proud of you, and…all of this is turning me on.”
He slow-stepped toward me, crowding me against the car, leaning in. “Wait till you see me drive.”
“Fuck,” I breathed out. “I might combust.”
He chuckled, but it was the truth. A man came over and interrupted our moment. He was older, with dark eyes and pure silver hair tucked underneath a Tullio Bigatti hat. Tullio’s Great Uncle, Flavio, who managed him and saw him out of the paddock. He was Tullio the Older’s youngest brother. He was warm and kind, and he insisted I call him uncle, but he wanted Tullio,myTullio, to get his mind on straight and get to business. Big still had to walk the track.
“To remember it,” Uncle Flavio said to me.
