Dad sighs. Hard. “Frankie when are you going to stop lying to yourself? You are still at every race,ma louloutte.”
I snort. It’s a highly annoying, dismissive sound that I know he hates and that I haven’t done since I was a teen. “I watch when I have time in between my work. Because I have my own career, Dad. And now you’re trying to force me to give it up, my career and my life, for the one thing I decided I definitely don’t want?”
“Taking pictures all around the globe in bikinis on boats and at clubs holding bottles of booze is not a career,” he shoots back. Bash Castera is not a fan of social media. He sees it as an annoying, lowbrow thing that has infiltrated his company and his life. And his kids.
“It actuallyisa career when companies pay you to wear, drink, and use their products,” I snap back because this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, and I’m sick of it. “I made a hundred grand last year from endorsement deals. I’m a brand Dad, and I’ve got that shoe line coming out. It’s important to me.”
“Well, it’s your own fault that I’m giving the job to you,” Dad replies with an unsympathetic shrug. “You’re a brand, and you bring power and a face people want to see to our team. You bring glamor and youth, and those brands that gravitate to you will want to pay Mirabella Racing because you will beourbrand.”
“You’re not making me a spokesperson. I’ll be Team Principal. I’ll be responsible for the safety and legality of the team’s every move on and off the track. I’ll be expected to soothe egos and boost them and woo sponsors and study race footage and know tracks so well I could drive them blindfolded.” My voice is inching up an octave with every sentence, and I know I sound unhinged. I feel unhinged. Yeah, four-year-old me or even twelve-year-old me would be squealing with joy at this job but not twenty-eight year-old me. No. Not at all. Well, maybe a little, but I know it will be a nightmare, and I’m done living those. “I’ll have to make staffing decisions and race day decisions and work with those… assholes.”
Dad lets loose one of his trademark laughs. It’s deep and loud. His head tilts back, and his hand clutches his heart, like always. People walking by can’t help but glance over. And some recognize us. I can tell by the way their eyes flare and their mouths drop. Damnit. Attention is the last thing I want right now. I turn back toward the ocean so people can’t see my face.
“Those assholes, as you call them, are very talented drivers. But if you don’t want them, fire them. Find new ones. Move your sister up.”
I frown and slide my eyes left to look at him. “You would disown me if I fired your golden boy Billy James. And besides, Lucia’s not ready. The misogynistic sport isn’t either. And they’re not ready for a twenty-something female Principal either.”
Dad nods but says, “Since when have you ever waited for anyone or anything to catch up? You’ve always just marched in and been the force you are without apology or hesitation. Just like your mother.”
I smile. There is no bigger compliment to me than telling me I’m like Mirabella Castera. I feel his arm across my shoulders. It’s warm, strong and safe, like it’s always been. “Francesca, you are the one – the only one – who I want to succeed me in this role. I know anyone else will run this team into oblivion. It happens far too easily in this business. We need new blood. I am bowing out gracefully. Don’t make me do it the other way.”
He’s being dramatic. Mirabella Racing has won three Constructors’ Championships. Yes, the last won was seven years ago, which is a long time ago in the race world. But a driver who shall remain nameless has won the World Championship three times in a Mirabella car, the last time only four years ago. Mirabella – the team and drivers - have been middle of the pack ever since.
“If I don’t name my replacement, Dario will and he’ll appoint Rocco. They’ll change the name. Mirabella Racing, your mother’s namesake, will become Conti-Castera. He’s wanted to name it that since day one.” My father’s words make something cold and nauseating swirl in my belly. “I named this after your mother because I wanted you to be the one running it one day, keeping her memory alive through the team. She loved racing as much as I did. And she loved that you and Lucia loved it. She would be so happy to see you replace me.”
“Don’t…” I whisper, my voice suddenly choked. I close my eyes and concentrate on the ocean air blowing around me, the way it caresses my cheek and plays with my hair. When I am calmer and not on the verge of tears I inhale. “That’s not playing fair.”
“Life isn’t fair. We both learned that the hard way when we lost her,” Dad says and squeezes me to him with the arm still around my shoulders. “Look, I don’t have to leave, but I want to leave. And I know you’re ready and you want this, even if you don’t want to admit it.”
“No one will approve,” I mutter, and maybe that’s one of the biggest problems I have with his idea. The complaints. The nasty articles and comments and passive aggressive male bullshit that will cloud my life if I take this job. Oh, and the drivers and race team members I will have to stare at every single day and work alongside—the ones I’ve known since I was a kid. The ones who were there when I was drugged. The suspects.
“Louloutte, no one needs to approve but me,” he informs me with a flash of an arrogant smile. Those smiles, the cocky ones, are rare but also still charming somehow. It’s the smile my mom once confessed to me, in her last year of life, that made her fall in love with him.
“Dario and Rocco—”
He drops his arm from my shoulders and puts a hand on top of mine on the railing and squeezes. “I have fifty-five percent. I bought some of Dario’s shares years ago with the caveat that if I retire without appointing a successor, it defaults to Rocco and so do ten percent of my shares.”
My eyes grow two sizes. “When and how did that happen?’
“Years ago Dario needed to liquidate some assets to help his brother. I only agreed to the caveat because I was sure you would take the job as Principal. So if you don’t, the Contis will control everything,” Dad says without hesitation. “Let me announce you as my replacement at my birthday party tonight, then Dario and Rocco won’t have to like it, but they’ll have to accept it.”
Before he can argue further, Adelaide interrupts in her posh British accent. “Bash, my love?”
We turn and there she is, long, flowy, but lowcut dress billowing in the ocean breeze. Ankles covered, tits out. I shouldn’t be such a bitch. I have a very similar dress. Hell, I have about sixty that are way more revealing. But I didn’t elope with someone’s dad so… Man, I wish I didn’t feel bad when I had these thoughts. I wish I hated her. I don’t. We actually worked together a few times on modeling jobs, which is how she met my dad. I modeled in a show with her in Paris Fashion Week and introduced them at the after party. Ugh. I sigh, and her eyes slide to me. “Frankie we both know Rocco and Dario don’t deserve this. You do.”
“True,” I reply and give her a small smile.
“So?” Adelaide prompts.
I want to scream no at the top of my lungs, but instead I say in a resigned tone, “You’re looking at the next Team Principal for Mirabella Racing.”
“I’m so proud of you!” Dad pulls me into a hug as Adelaide claps like a cheerleader.
“So, birthday party. Eight. At the Maria Cristina. Key team members and investors will be there, so it’s the perfect place to announce.”
Dad kisses my cheek before stepping away from me and the beach to stand next to his wife, who anyone watching would think is my sister if they didn’t know better. He turns with his child bride and saunters back to the hotel while I turn back to the ocean and contemplate walking into the surf and swimming away from this place and my life. It might be easier than being Team Principal at Mirabella Racing.
