Page 3 of Off the Grid

My smile is automatic thinking about him. The man who started this empire for our family. I bet he never would have thought his father, my great-grand nonno, making a fortune selling off his olive oil businesses would result in starting and owning an F1 race team that has stood the test of time.

Just barely.

So many years. So many memories.

And then I approach the pictures of the year that I stopped caring about racing. The summer that made me never want to be around F1 again.

My feet falter as I stare at the pictures. I fight the memories from coming. Memories I’ve buried but that still exist under all the hardened scar tissue.

“That was such a great summer, wasn’t it?” My father’s voice booms down the hallway as he slowly makes his way toward me. The cane in his hand is new and something I try not to focus on too long despite how hard it is for me to see.

I glance back to the photo he’s looking and smiling at as he approaches. “It was your last summer before leaving me for university in the States. We took eight podiums that year. Had a run at the championship. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

So do I. And so wish I could forget.

“I don’t remember all of it,” I say truthfully but lie about the reasons why. “I was overwhelmed, settling into university life, fighting being homesick, adjusting to the American way of doing things”—dealing with everything else that happened—“that I have to be honest, following the team that year wasn’t a top priority.”

“Or any year after that for that matter,” he says, the comment made without malice, before finally stepping up beside me, placing his free arm over my shoulder, and pulling me against him. He presses a kiss to the crown of my head like he used to when I was little. I focus on that, on the feeling of him being there—my hero—and not the fact that he needs a cane now. Not the fact that his physical body feels weaker than I remember the last time he hugged me.

“Isn’t that what kids are supposed to do?” I ask.

He nods. “Yep. Going off to conquer the world is the natural evolution of things, but that doesn’t make it any easier on a parent when you do. I could tell you a thousand times how proud I am of you, but it will never quantify just how much.”

I let his words resonate but then shake off the melancholy that comes with them. I smile and sink into the feel of him, so happy that I can. “Hell, I know where to come when I need an ego boost.”

“Always.” He steps aside and winks. “Now, come on. I want to talk to you about a few things.”

“Should I worry about what these things are?” I tease.

“Nope,” he says with a hint of a smile in his voice as we head toward his office.

“Nope? That definitive, huh?”

“That definitive.”

We enter his office and its glass wall of windows that overlooks the depths of Moretti Motorsports. The center area of the building is open with each floor visible. Engineering. Marketing. Training. Publicity. Logistics. The dozens of things that must be done daily to make this team work at the top of its game.

“Things look . . . busy,” I say as I turn my back on the whole army of people working beyond and take a seat on the opposite side of his desk as he does. I notice the slight tremor to his hand again but don’t comment on it.

“Things are busy. Very, in fact. It’s looking to be a promising year if the first few races are any indication.” He smiles. “Then again, every season starts out that way, huh?”

“What did Nonno used to say? Fresh tires, untouched walls, and skilled drivers are all we need.”

“True. Very true.” He smiles softly as we both think of my grandfather. The giant in our lives and in the sport. “Let’s hope to the race gods that we can have luck with all three of those for the entire circuit this year.”

“So . . .” I prompt. I wasn’t nervous when he asked me to come see him. He’s an extremely busy man so I didn’t think twice of his invite. It’s just a dad asking to see his daughter while she’s in town. But now that I’m here, to say I’m cautiously curious is an understatement. “You wanted to see me?”

“Always all business. Always keen to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.” He smiles. “I’m hoping to change that.”

“Meaning?”

He stares at me for a beat and then drops the bombshell. “I want you to come home. Here. To work at Moretti.”

“Oh.” That was not what I was expecting him to say. “But I do work at home. In Italy,” I say reflexively, talking about my position at the original family company—Moretti Olive Oil.

But before I can properly process the magnitude of what he’s just asked me, he disregards my comment and drops an even bigger bomb.

“More specifically, I want to start teaching you the ropes so you can take the helm from me . . . and run Moretti Motorsports yourself in the near future.”