Jesus, warn a man. My phone was on full brightness and Carlos was right next to me.
I laughed out loud, a full-body kind of laugh.
Nicola:
Oops. Tell Carlos he’s welcome.
Matteo:
Menace.
Nicola:
And you love it.
No reply for a second.
Then:
Matteo:
Yeah. I do.
I stared at the screen for a long beat, something soft catching in my chest. I hadn’t expected to fall this fast. Not after everything. But somehow, even with oceans and circuits and insane schedules between us, he made it feel easy. I rolled onto my back, phone on my stomach, heart somewhere up near the chandelier.
I sorted all my things, hid my suitcase in the closet, then slid on the trousers I had formerly borrowed from Lucia. After she saw them on me in a more awake state, she waved a hand and said, “Those are yours now.” I tried to argue but she smiled and mentioned how Alexander loved an excuse to take her shopping.
I decided to head to the track. Might as well stay busy while Matteo was off doing his thing. Practice sessions, team meetings, sponsor obligations—whatever it was, he’d be buried in it. And if I stayed in the hotel room any longer, I’d spiral. The driver opened the town car door just as my phone buzzed in my hand. My father’s name lit up the screen. I answered immediately, already smiling.
“Ciao,Papà,” I said, leaning back against the cool leather seat.
“Ciao,Tesoro.Are you busy today?” His voice was calm and warm—unhurried in the way that always soothed my racing thoughts.
“Heading to the track now. Why? What’s up?”
“I have a full slate of meetings,” he said with a dramatic sigh, “And Monty is sulking at the door like I’ve abandoned him. Could you take him off my hands for the day?”
I laughed. “Monty needs constant attention or he’s rather dramatic.”
“He gets it from you.”
“I’ll pretend that wasn’t an insult,” I teased, “Of course I’ll take him. I’ll swing by. Do you have time for a quick coffee before your meetings?”
“For you? Always. Meet me in the executive lounge. Ten minutes?”
“Done. See you soon.”
I hung up and smiled to myself. No matter what chaos the team or the world was throwing at him, he always made time for me. And not in the obligatoryI’m-your-dadway. It was intentional. He wanted to. Maybe that was the reason for my belief in love, albeit a bit dreary. But who could ever achieve the level of love my parents had for each other? It was impossible. Who would drop anything at any time for his family?
The corner of my mind chanted at me a name I tried to ignore. What if he couldn’t show up for me when I needed him most? What if I was heartbroken and disappointed just like every other time?
But when I asked my inner self that, I was only met with one thought:he would show up for me. He always has.
The executive lounge was quiet early in the day. Mostly staff, a few drivers, some executives in suits murmuring overpastries and espresso. I spotted my father immediately—perfect posture, Moretti Racing polo, leather notebook in front of him, and Monty, his ridiculously pampered boy, curled at his feet like royalty.
“Hey,” I said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He smelled like espresso, cologne, and motor oil. The classic cocktail of the Moretti men.
“Nicola,” he said with a proud smile, standing to give me a real hug. “You look rested. Is that…happiness I detect?”
