1
NICOLA
There was a time when I thought the man crowding my space next to me in the back seat of the limo was cute. The dimples, the floppy hair, the charm – it made him hard to ignore. And I maybe had a tiny little crush on him at the beginning of the season. Now? Now, there was no crush, no admiration. His dimples were infuriating, and his hair was always messy like he never bothered to brush it or owned a hair product. His whole face actually was rather stupid.
Matteo DeLuca was the most annoying person to exist. He was a driver of my family’s Formula One team: Moretti Racing. My best friend’s older brother.
And I hated him.
I sat in the car with his whole body pressed next to mine, making my skin buzz with annoyance. Lucia, his sister, was across on the other side of the limo with Matteo’s best friend, Alexander. A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought I’d be here, squeezed between two Formula One drivers and my best friend. A year ago, I was on a beach in Monaco, not paying attention to my family’s company events.
That had all changed when I had waltzed into my father’s study with a frustrated (albeit slightly dramatic) sigh, and plopped into the cold leather chair across from him. An oversized deep walnut-stained table sat between us. One his grandfather had built, sanded, and stained with his own two hands. He reminded me of that fact more than he needed to. We came from a hardworking, breaking-their-backs, rooted Italian family. We had made the name Moretti all by ourselves. Not born into the legacy, but one that was made.
Carved.
Carved a damn long time ago. Moretti Racing debuted in 1930, but it was my grandfather who’d made Moretti into a name. My father had taken up the helm and brought them into world championship titles and top of the line sponsorships.
“I’m very busy today, Nicola.” My father had sighed, not looking up from his computer.
“Fine, then I’ll cut to the point.” I crossed my arms over my chest. My cashmere sweater was a deep green and flowed over a leather skirt, tights, and high-heeled black boots that reached my thighs. I tapped said heeled boot rhythmically onto the hardwood floor beneath me.
“I’ll be joining you on the circuit this season with the team. I’ll help with whatever needed, but if you think Michael gives a fuck about your world, he doesn’t. And I do. Which you know. So I’m done waiting for him to step up, and you should be too.” I felt out of breath by the time all the words toppled out of my mouth. My anxiety wafted over me, but I kept my face even and confident, reminding myself of the goal.
Father wanted Michael, my brother, to work for the family company, but he was off wrapped up in his own life. He had little to no interest in the Moretti empire. I, however, did.
I stared my father down, shoulders back, pin straight posture, manicured fingertips now clasped on my knee. Calmbut firm. He had been the one to teach me to be fierce, to not take no for an answer, and that if I led with facts and fortitude, I could do anything I wanted. Much to mother’s dismay, I wanted this.
The silence stretched on, my father dragged his attention from his computer, his gaze meeting mine. Eye’s softening slightly. Copper brown eyes that were a near mirror to my brother’s whereas I got my mom’s blue shade instead. However, we shared the same deep brown hair and olive skin, and other than the eyes, it was obvious I was his daughter and a Moretti.
He had rings on his fingers, and his suit was pressed to perfection, as it always was. Gianfranco Moretti was not to be tried. Except maybe by his daughter, because after a short moment he did the unexpected.
“Very well.” He agreed with soft eyes and a nod. “If this is really what you want.”
I smiled brightly, fidgeting with my charm bracelet. The one I had collected each and every charm for, the small race car gifted from my father was one of my favorites.
“It is.”
“Alright then. I’ll add you to all the flight information and make some introductions for you.” He typed away on his computer.
I stood, pressed my hands against my skirt and squared my shoulders again. Only the click of my heels on the hardwood accompanied me as I walked out the door.
“You really want to live on the road?” my mother said, looking up from her book as she sat on the plush living room couch. She loved nothing more than to lounge in her favorite room and read a trait I had inherited. Our house was cozy but decadent: high vaulted ceilings, huge windows letting thesunlight stream in, original impressionist paintings were on many walls of the house, my mother’s favorite.
“You’re the one that always told me to chase my dreams.”
“Hmm,” she hummed her approval before going back to her book. I smiled to myself. My parents were such opposites, but even after being married some thirty years, they were inseparable. Father’s steely exterior was softened by only two people, two women: myself and my mother. Looking like an actual replica of my mother helped. He had never been able to say no to her, and by default rarely said it to me.
That was the beginning of it all. When I decided to take my fate by the damn horns and carve my own path. Great grandfather would be proud.
I shook away the fond memory. We were now more than halfway through the season, and I had managed to make some new friends along the way too. My favorite of the bunch was none other than Matteo’s sister, Lucia DeLuca. Her and her daughter Gianna had joined in on the season not long ago now, and we had become fast friends after summer break when Matteo brought them back with him. From the moment I met Lucia, I knew we would be friends. She was all warmth to my icy exterior. I was more like a dark cloud;my resting bitch face and dark hair really solidified the fact. Lucia said we were like the sun and the moon: one light, one dark, both bright. The downside was more time with the other DeLuca. Regardless, life on the road has been a bright new experience.
This season felt like it had flown by. I’d been helping with odds and ends jobs around the paddock: shooting content for the marketing team, helping organize events and meetings, and occasionally being a liaison for the drivers and the upper management. My father was letting me figure out what side spoke to me the most. Tonight, we were on our way to a charity gala thrown by the Moretti Foundation. I had grown rather fondof the philanthropic side of the Moretti business over the first half of the season, helping out as much as I could. I loved it all – the rush of it, how many moving parts contributed to make the team function and thrive.
There were two Moretti drivers. Carlos, who I had known for years, his family always in the same circles as my own. Then the other one, the overly irritating one who’d just plucked my phone out of my hands.
“Matteo, give it back,” I seethed, trying to keep my voice down. I was wearing a glittering black gown, one that hugged my every curve and ended in a flare of black, sparkling gauzy fabric. I had sky-high silver heels to match, little bows on the back that made me deliriously happy when I found them while shopping with Lucia. A pair of sheer black gloves that Lucia had insisted would be perfect for tonight trailed from my palm to the middle of my upper arm, small pearls scattered along them. The Moretti Racing team had a longstanding sponsorship with Terra Mia, a diamond jeweler, so my neck, wrists, and ears were adorned with sparkling diamonds. I felt amazing, and I looked damn good too.
But here to ruin it was my least favorite Moretti driver. Matteo’s espresso eyes narrowed on me, his gaze heavy as it always was. Unfortunately, he looked downright edible in his tailored Armani suit. For Christ’s sake, he matched me, down to the glimmering threads on his suit jacket that lined the inside and sparkled as he shifted in his seat. His thigh was flush with my own. Regardless of the fabric between us, it felt like an inordinate amount of heat coming from the contact. Irritation bloomed as he dangled the phone out of my reach like he wanted me to press up against him.Infuriating.
