I wasn’t sure if that was a dig or a flex, but I made a note anyway.
“You raise a good point about the field…” Caroline said, her smile turning sly. “Obsidian Performance haven’t looked quite as untouchable lately. You think you’ve got a shot at taking down Volkov this weekend?”
Moretti’s grin sharpened.
“I always have a shot. Volkov’s a machine—but machines break. Especially when the pressure’s on.”
Oof.
That one landed like a punch.
Caroline arched a brow. “Strong words.”
“I have stronger ones,” he said. “But I’ll save them for the grid.”
The interview wrapped with a few standard questions, talk of set-up, strategy, tyre choice. He handled it all with flair, the consummate showman. But underneath the charm, there was steel.
Luca Moretti wasn’t just here to race.
He was here to win.
And if Volkov got caught in the crossfire, well… I didn’t get the sense he’d lose sleep over it.
As the crew started packing up, Moretti stepped off the platform and immediately zeroed in on me. I straightened instinctively, pen poised.
“Archer,” he said, like he was tasting the name. His accent wrapping around the ‘r’ with a caress. “Going to keep poking the bear until he bites?”
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He leaned one shoulder against a crate, easy and infuriating. “Volkov. You rattle him. I like it.”
“I’m not—” I began, but he held up a hand.
“Relax. I’m not judging. If you can get under his skin, you’re doing something right. Makes the rest of us look better by comparison.”
“I’m not here to make anyone look good,” I said.
His grin widened. “Shame. You’d be excellent at it.”
He pushed off the crate, flashing one last wink before strolling away towards his next interview.
And just like that, I had a whole new problem.
Because Luca Moretti might be smug, slick, and way too confident for his own good.
But I couldn’t deny it.
He was very, very good at making you want to listen.
It was the final panel of the day.
The media theatre at the Shanghai circuit was sleek and overlit, decked in matte black panels and sponsor logos that gleamed under the lights. At the centre of it all sat the now-familiar white sofa where the drivers gave their best PR smiles and answered questions they’d already fielded five times that day. A smaller armchair was set off to the side for the FIA-appointed moderator, Richard Haversham.
Richard was a staple of the paddock—silver hair, navy suit, impeccable posture. He used to run sponsorship operations fora mid-tier team back in the 90s before transitioning into F1 media full-time. These days, he was the voice of the official driver pressers: authoritative, dryly humorous, and just the right amount of smarmy. A velvet-gloved hand delivering the occasional steel-spined reprimand. Every driver respected him. Every journalist tried to stay on his good side.
Caroline leaned toward me and whispered, “Five quid says he calls Volkov ‘enigmatic’ before the session’s out.”
I smirked. “You’re on.”
