“I asked if he wanted the usual, and he noticed that I remembered his order, I told him it’s part of my job to do so. That’s it.”
“I did notice you asking Skye to serve him his order.”
I shrug.
“Why did you do that?”
“He just seemed...out of my league.” I notice Jolie’s expression changing when I say this, and my gaze narrows. “What is it?”
“I was at Fox Lodge earlier, and Damian was in a meeting with him.”
Since Damian is a billionaire and billionaires usually only do business with other billionaires...
“I did a little digging,” Jolie says as she hands me her phone, and my heart is just numb as I finally find myself reading his name for the first time.
Santino Aleotti.
He’s a professional racer apparently, and if the news reports are anything to go by, he’s really good at it, too.
Santino Aleotti claims victory at Monaco Grand Prix, continuing Elite Speed Inc's dominant season.
I look at the phone.
Then at Jolie.
Then at the phone again.
Then at Jolie again, because maybe if I look at her enough times, the answer will change.
But it doesn't.
So I start scrolling through more images. Him on a podium. Him in a tuxedo at some formal event. Him with his helmet off, hair messy, that same unreadable expression on his face.
"There's not a ton about his personal life online,” Jolie volunteers as I go on scrolling. “He's pretty private apparently. But racing? That's all public. He's been doing this for years. Started karting as a kid in Italy, worked his way up, got picked up by Elite Speed Inc when he was twenty-five. He's thirty-four now. Never been married. No public relationships that anyone knows about."
“Did you...did you read anything about where he lives?”
“Italy.” Jolie’s voice is awkward. “But that was from an article years ago, so things could have changed since then.”
Yes, I’m sure thingscouldhave changed since then.
But it alsocouldn’t.
And that means...
Maybe...he only has a temporary role to play in my life.
"I need air," I say suddenly.
"Thea—"
"I just—I need a minute."
I stand up too fast, and my chair scrapes against the floor, and I leave my latte half-finished on the table and push through the door into the February cold.
The shock of it helps. The cold air, the sting on my face, the way my breath comes out in white clouds. I lean against the brick wall of the building and try to steady myself.
Santino Aleotti.
