I want to roar like a fucking lion after a kill because I was right. I gambled, yes, but only because I know the sport. I know what the fuck I’m doing. Dario is stewing so hard I’m surprised there isn’t steam coming off him. Joaquin and the rest of the pit are smiling and clapping at the coup I pulled off.
“Rocco, what the fuck is happening?” Antonio growls over the radio.
I don’t even bother to respond.
Fuck that little bitch.
* * *
Billy wins the race.Antonio finishes seventh. That’s good overall points for Mirabella and great points for Billy. I walk over and congratulate him, and he hugs me, lifting me off my feet. It makes me blush, and so I walk away as soon as my feet hit the ground. He hugged my dad after every race he won when Dad was Team Principal too. You are not special, I tell myself, but… it felt special. Fucking oxytocin is getting reactivated every time he touches me. And I realize as I stand in front of the podium and watch him and Joaquin accept the team and driver trophies, and his eyes lock with mine while they play his national anthem, that the post-coital hormone floods my system when he just looks at me now.
I wish they made a pill I could take to suppress that. Jesus, how has that not been invented yet, I wonder as I make my way back to our paddock. Of course, I get stopped by media. Sky Sports wants to know where Rocco Conti disappeared to halfway through the race. “He had something to take care of.”
I don’t let them press me into any more of an answer, side-stepping any more questions about my disobedient Track Engineer. Then they ask me why there was confusion with Antonio’s pit stop. “It seemed like the team wasn’t expecting De Luca to pit under that yellow flag. Why did he pit and Billy stayed out?”
“They weren’t ready because I had specifically told both drivers to stay out,” I reply honestly. “Perhaps Tony was more panicked about his tires than I was or didn’t trust my judgement that there would be a red flag shortly. I’m not clear on his motivation. You would have to ask him.”
“So, you’re having trust issues with your drivers? That must be making for a difficult season,” the reporter prompts.
“I think a new Principal on any team will always have an adjustment period,” I reply coolly and take a slow, long breath. “Billy trusted me, and he was rewarded with a win and points. There’s a lesson here. I hope everyone learns it.”
I make my way back to the paddock and am not surprised my father is waiting for me at the entrance doors. He looks concerned. Dario, standing behind him, looks like a bomb about to explode. “Frankie, you can’t fire Rocco.”
“I didn’t fire him. I relieved him from his duties for the rest of this race,” I clarify, refusing to look either man in the eye. I don’t want to bear the brunt of their anger. I’m emotionally exhausted at this point. “He and Antonio defied my orders. I am the person in charge out there, and I’m done with their bullshit.”
“My son deserves her job, Bash, and if you won’t let him have it after all these years of loyalty to Mirabella, the least you can do is make sure she doesn’t fuck up the position he does have,” Dario snarls.
I spin toward him so fast I almost make myself dizzy. “Dario, he undermined my ability to do my job and he paid a price for that. I am not going to apologize. I am going to have a frank, professional discussion with Rocco, not you. Your position in this race team is not related to this dispute, and your input is not required.”
I storm toward the staircase and stomp my way up them. Lucia is at the top of them. She’s changed from her race gear into a pair of jeans and a Mirabella T-shirt. Her hair is still slicked back in a pony. She’s beaming down at me with pride. Good, at least someone is happy with me.
