Volkov entered first, flanked by an Obsidian press officer. His usual ice-mask was firmly in place, hair immaculate, posture military straight. He took the far left end of the crisp, white sofa, nodded once to the room, and folded his hands in his lap. Not a flicker of emotion.
Moretti arrived a minute later—black sunglasses, leather jacket over his racing green team polo, casual as ever except for the tension in his jaw. He took the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a safe distance and two other drivers—Jax Rivers and Tempest rookie Riley Chen—sandwiched between them like sacrificial lambs.
Jax looked like he was just missing a bucket of popcorn.
Riley was too new to know better—he waved cheerily at the cameras.
I leaned forward in my seat, phone ready to record, notebook balanced on my thigh.
Richard Haversham was seated in the armchair to the right, mic in hand and a smile pulled so tight it looked painful. He cleared his throat into the mic.
“Let’s begin with the obvious. Mr Moretti, the FIA has issued a formal reprimand and fine for your conduct track-side in Shanghai. As part of your penalty, you're required to offer a public statement of apology.”
Moretti removed his sunglasses and lifted his mic.
Here it came.
He looked straight ahead, not at Volkov. His tone was flat. “I regret my reaction after the crash. Emotions were running high. I allowed frustration to take over and I acted in a way that doesn’t reflect the standards of the sport or my team. I apologise to my fans, my sponsors, and the FIA.”
A pause.
Then, like he’d just remembered the final item on a shopping list:
“And to Aleksandr Volkov.”
Aleks’s expression didn’t shift. Not one muscle.
There was an audible exhale from the Hawthorn handler in the corner who’d entered with Moretti. I didn’t recognise her and wondered if she’d been brought in to fix this PR disaster.She was tall, slender, olive-skinned and had immaculate, dark hair tied in a tight bun. Glasses were perched on her nose but she looked more like she belonged on a fashion runway than in motorsport.
Richard nodded tightly. “Thank you, Luca. We’ll open the floor to questions now. Please keep your questions respectful, relevant, and limited to one per outlet.”
Hands flew up. The mic was passed around like a hot grenade.
Softball questions came first—Jax’s strategy, Riley’s rookie season, Aleks’s focus moving forward. He answered in clipped, professional tones. Controlled.
And then the mic reached me.
I didn’t stand. Just angled forward enough to let my voice carry.
“Elena Archer, International Motorsport Review. My question’s for both Mr Volkov and Mr Moretti. Given your very public altercation in Shanghai, what measures have you put in place—personally or with your teams—to ensure your rivalry doesn’t compromise driver safety on track again?”
The silence was deafening.
Moretti’s jaw ticked.
Volkov’s gaze finally lifted—to me.
Not cold. Not angry. Just… steady. Unflinching.
Moretti got there first.
He raised his mic, flashed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re professionals. We know where the line is.”
I arched a brow. “Do you?”
A ripple of snickers moved through the press seats.
Moretti’s smile vanished. “Maybe you should ask the stewards, cara mia.”
