I glance at the other man who doesn’t move before striding to the chair opposite him and taking a seat.
“I’m Ciro Russo, Luciano’s health advocate and legal counsel. I’m here just in case he needs help explaining.”
I nod and look at Luciano. “You wanted to speak with me.”
He frowns as he looks around this small space. “This is my room.”
A far cry from the star-studded life he lived in Monte-Carlo.
“Huntington’s disease,” he says.
The confusion must show on my face, because without me asking he elaborates, “Diagnosed more than two years ago.”
“Wait …” Two years ago, Farina was still on the grid, racing.
He nods.
“Explain.”
His eyes drift toward the window again. I don’t know much about Huntington’s disease, but I wonder if he’s having difficulty putting his thoughts into words.
“I started having symptoms a while ago. Shaking hands.” He holds up his trembling hands for me to see. “When I couldn’t ignore it anymore, I went to a private doctor. He diagnosed me.”
He pauses for a long time, looking back out of the window.
“He has difficulty speaking,” Russo says. “I’ll take it from here.” He squeezes Farina’s shoulder.
“He never told anyone,” he explains. “If he would’ve told anyone at Maxim …”
“He would’ve been out.”
Farina drops his head when I look back at him.
“Luciano hid it for as long as he could, telling only his doctors who gave him medications to help deal with the symptoms. It worked for a while, but as the stress of the season continued, the disease worsened.”
“You put your life on the line,” I say to Luciano. “You put our lives on the line. It wasn’t just you on that damn track.”
He flinches as he faces me.
There’s a hollowness in his eyes. The stars of that championship win are long gone. The thrill of racing looks to have never even passed his way.
I should feel some sympathy for him given his current state, but I think about Alyssia and what she suffered. The selfishness of others cost her parents their lives, almost hers, and a lifetime of trauma and grief. Luciano’s self-centered behavior could’ve cost any of the other drivers the same type of pain.
“It was my last season,” he suddenly says. “Ten years in the sport, I wanted a championship.” His voice wobbles, and I think the cause is part emotion and part illness.
“How did you win?” I ask, my voice coming out harsh.
His cloudy eyes drop away.
“The officiant,” Russo picks up for him. “Luciano told me that the officiant that made the call in the last race of the season owed a few debts. In exchange for money, throughout the season he was able to …” he clears his throat, “overlook a few of the regulations.”
“Which is why he was able to stay tied with me throughout the season,” I say, not ask. Luciano had always been a top contender, but he’d performed better than ever in his final season, which is unusual in this sport.
He also didn’t have a better car than mine.
Cheating his how he made his victory possible. My stomach rumbles in disgust.
“After he retired, he fell into a deep depression which made his illness worse,” Russo continues. “None of his exes or his kids want anything to do with him. He has no other family.”
