“Your cousin?” I asked. “Can I talk to him?”
“He is not gay. But he believes in what is right.” He pulled his phone from the pocket of his apron and dialed a number. He turned away and spoke rapidly in Italian, ending with “Si, Grazie.”
“He will be here in the parking lot. Twenty minutes. I told him what you look like.”
“Thank you, Gianluca,” I said.
Jonathan had begun carrying autographed publicity photos, and I had a couple of them in my folder. I pulled one out. “If you’d like this…” I said.
His eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you! I will post it on my wall.”
He took my credit card and returned to the kitchen, and I considered what this would mean for Jonathan and my article. I’d have to tell him, and then his father. I’d see what Michael Hirsch would do with the information. I hated to ruin Thompson’s reputation, but my loyalty was to the truth. And to my boyfriend.
Gianluca’s cousin found me in the parking lot. “I make copy of arrest record, for proof,” he said. His accent was a lot stronger than his cousin’s. He handed me a clear copy of the record. It was all in Italian, but Adrian Thompson’s name jumped out.
“Thank you,” I said. He nodded and hurried away.
I headed back toward the hotel, the photocopy burning a hole in my folder like a live coal. The corridors were quiet now, crew members long gone to bed or drowning their stress at the bar, and the only sound was the dull buzz of fluorescent lights and my own heartbeat in my ears.
Jonathan was already in our room when I opened the door. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in jeans anda Meridian polo, scrolling absently through something on his phone.
He looked up the second the door clicked shut. “How did your dinner with Dr. Brackett go?” I asked.
“What he said wasn’t important. It was what the waiter said.”
I flipped the security lock and sat beside him. Jonathan straightened, sensing the change in my tone. “What did he say?”
We were close enough that our knees touched. “He said Thompson isn’t just arrogant, he’s dangerous. There was a drunk driving crash here in Maranello last year, after a McLaren sponsor party. He totaled the car, got arrested. It got buried before it hit the press.”
Jonathan blinked. “What?”
“I thought it sounded like gossip. Then his cousin, the cop who made the arrest, met me in the parking lot.” I opened the folder with a trembling hand and handed him the photocopy. “It’s real, Jon.”
He took it, mouthing the Italian words. “My father’s Italian is better than mine, because he uses it in business frequently. But even I can understand this.”
His jaw tightened. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
“And the team covered it up,” I said. “No charges. No press. Donations, lawyers, whatever it took to make it disappear.”
He looked up at me slowly. Something raw was in his eyes, anger, betrayal, and something like shame. “My father knew.” It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “But if he didn’t, he will now.”
Jonathan stood, pacing the narrow room. He ran a hand through his hair. “If this gets out…”
“I know,” I said quietly. “Sponsors. Press. FIA. It would explode.”
He stopped pacing and turned to me. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Tell the truth,” I said. “But I’m not printing a word until we give your father a chance to do the right thing.”
He stared at me like he was seeing me clearly for the first time, every part, even the part that could bring down his family’s team.
He nodded once. Sharp. Decisive. “We go to him tonight.”
“I’m not doing it without you.”
A humorless smile tugged at his mouth. “You think I’d let you take him on alone?”
