I turned away before I could do something foolish like kiss him in the middle of the paddock. “Go do your job, DeLuca.”
“You got it, boss,” his voice was teasing.
I didn’t look back.
Didn’t have to.
I could feel the grin on my face long after he was gone.
It was nice to be back on the circuit. While vacations were nice and all, especially the one that came back to me every time I closed my eyes, I loved working in Formula One. I loved making a name for myself other than being a Moretti. People assumed I had just been given a job without any effort because of my family. I wanted to prove that, while I was a Moretti, I loved this world, and I wanted to use my name to make a difference. I was slowly being given more responsibility in terms of planning for the Moretti Foundation. I hadn’t felt this motivated in a long time, felt this passionate about something. This was it; this was my spot in the empire my grandfather built. And I would make damn sure no one doubted my ability to thrive in it.
This weekend, I had three major to-do items on my list: general marketing for the Moretti Foundation, fundraising for the local children’s hospital, and perfecting my pitch to the board of the Foundation. Both needed precision, and both needed me. It was also one of the largest, most marketable weekends in Formula One: the Las Vegas Grand Prix.
By 10:00 a.m., I had already dealt with a catering truck arriving at the wrong gate, three sponsorship reps trying to weasel into VIP access they didn’t pay for, and someone from the hospitality team using the wrong branded champagne for the winner’s podium mock-up.
I took a sip from my second coffee of the morning and clipped my headset back in place as I moved down the paddock. My heels clicked against the pavement, a soothing melody. Myever-growing heels collection and the bright red lipstick I wore on track started as my shields, but I came to love them just for me, letting that false bravado turn to actual confidence. Fake it till you make it and all that. My phone rang with some admin team members reporting that our marketing graphics were on track for this race. It was an initiative that I proposed to the team then presented to my father and Moretti board members, to reserve marketing space for this race dedicated to the Moretti Foundation, which was fundraising for the local children’s hospital while we were here. When I had been researching our upcoming locations and any local charities we could potentially partner up with, The Children’s Hospital of Las Vegas was immediately the top contender—something I personally took on with the approval of Henrietta. Adding that on top of prepping to pitch the end-of-season gala was a little bit overwhelming, but honestly, I kind of loved it.
“Copy that. Let’s re-route the guest list and make sure Moretti Foundation banners are up around the General Access Gates,” I said, adjusting the tablet in my arm. “And tell Anna I owe her a drink if she pulls that merch restock off,” I relayed to the group call in my headphones.
“Nicola!”
The sound of my name inthatvoice froze me mid-step.
I turned around, and sure enough, there he stood:Nathaniel. Someone who I didn’t have the energy to deal with today. I hadn’t known he would be present at this race, but it was honestly unsurprising, especially at the Vegas Grand Prix. This would be the one he showed up at—the man loved a good show and a spotlight.
He wore a smug grin like he’d just walked out of a men’s cologne ad, hands tucked into his slim-cut blazer, hair too perfectly styled. Still working for one of the luxury sponsors, still slithering around the paddock like he deserved to be there.
“Nathaniel,” I said flatly.
He leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. I offered him a step back and a polite, clipped smile instead. No way in hell.
“You look good,” he said, eyeing me in a way that made my skin crawl, “I heard you’ve been working with the charity wing now. Making your daddy proud, huh?”
There it was. That familiar little dig. Masked as a compliment, barbed like a hook.
“I makemyselfproud,” I replied, feeling the anger boiling up, “The name might’ve opened the door, but I’m doing something good, something important.”
He raised a brow, amused like he always got when I bit back. “Feisty as ever.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Some of us have things to do, Nathaniel. Was there a point to this little reunion?”
He chuckled like I was a joke. “Relax, I just wanted to say hi. How’s it being DeLuca’s leg up in racing? Sleeping to the top sure is an interesting move.”
My stomach tightened, anger felt like it was boiling to the service at his insinuation. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged. “People talk. Didn’t take you for someone to be played like that. All that effort to be taken seriously, and now you’re what? Playing house with the grid’s favorite golden boy? The guy who takes nothing seriously? Who’s employed by yourfather?Just trying to look out for you, Nicky.”
That hit me square in the ribs. And he knew it.
“Don’t call me that; you lost any right to familiarity long ago. You’re just jealous that you’ve lost what you clearly don’t deserve. Matteo is the best damn driver, he’s dedicated on track and to the team and you know what—” I was out of breath from my rant, my heart rate skyrocketing with the adrenaline of saying what I always wanted to tell him: that he wasn’t shit. So I added the last blow with a shining smile. “His dick is huge.”Then I turned on my heels and left him standing there in the middle of the paddock, probably rehearsing what clever thing he should have said, hopefully feeling inadequate.
My phone buzzed again with a reminder alert: media tent, 11:00 a.m.
Right.
Back to business.
But as I stalked away, my pulse still buzzing in my throat, I couldn’t help but think about what Nathaniel said about Matteo. I’d worked so hard to build my reputation. To be taken seriously. To be more than just a Moretti with a pretty face. But I also found myself protective of him. He wasn’t some guy who didn’t take things seriously, fuck that.
