The photoshoot is being held just a few blocks away from the grid in Barcelona. When I walked into this gray concrete building, I was concerned my publicist had led me to a place where I might be kidnapped. But that wasn’t the case when Abigail, Elektra’s social media manager, walked in to greet me.
Saying our hellos, she proceeds to lead me down a long hallway and into a big space with five large triangle windows up ahead. A white backdrop is hung up on a rod that sits in the middle of the room. A camera is facing right in the center of the backdrop, which is surrounded by big blinding white lights facing the same direction as the lens.
So here I am sitting in a makeup chair being assaulted by makeup brushes that aggressively caress my face with basic, muted tones. I stare at my reflection wanting to tear the makeup brush out of the artist’s hand and apply some real ass pigment.
I stop myself. Everything about this photoshoot is planned. The makeup, the racing suits, and the backdrop have been meticulously chosen by the F1 PR team to convey the image of the sport. I can’t always be in control of everything. Especially when I’m an underdog in all departments, except driving.
That I’m good at, but driving isn’t all that Formula One is about.
Even though I would love to tell this girl to put a real ass lash on my face while contouring the fuck out of my cheek bones. I don’t think the F1 crowd would take nicely to a full beat. I’ll just keep my bomb makeup skills to myself so I can annoy the FODA even more later.
Just when she’s finished fixing my complexion, I hear laughter coming from the hallways leading up to this room. It’s none other than my teammate Xavier Valente who walks in with his quirky and colorful signature street style. His hands are in his pockets with his face tilted back from the laughter echoing out of his mouth.
To his right, the devil, doing the unthinkable.
Laughing.
Swearing to all things holy, Luca Donatello, the arrogant stoic faced asshole, is laughing. Am I in a different dimension? Did I transport myself to the multiverse? Because right in front of me, I’m literally witnessing the impossible.
I must admit, after my first encounter with Mr. Donatello, I googled him.
I know, I know. I hate the guy but knowing more information about someone you don’t like gives you leverage. I love leverage in all situations.
Anyways, the moral of the story is curiosity killed the cat.While sitting at my computer for hours searching things like:
Photos of Luca Donatello’s World Championship Podium.
Why was Luca Donatello Elektra Motorsports first choice for team principal?
Why is Luca Donatello such a dick? (Showed me way too many dick pics).
And last, but certainly not least:
Photos of Luca Donatello’s wedding.
It’s not a surprise that there are hardly any photos considering he completely went off the grid just months after his wedding. But the weird thing I noticed about all of his pictures is that he never smiled. This man never fucking smiles, he just smirks. A goddamn annoying smirk.
The only recorded photo of Luca Donatello smiling is when he won his world championship. His smile is so apparent throughout the whole ceremony, there’s not one picture where he wasn’t. But on the other hand, you can’t find a single picture where he’s smiling at his wedding. Not like there were many photos to go off of, but it was a grand wedding. One made for kings and queens.
I don’t think anything makes him happier than F1 does. I’m not one to judge. Racing is my drug, and it appears to be his too.
While falling into the rabbit hole that is google, I ended up seeing how nasty his divorce with his ex-wife was. Adèle Manon is a supermodel and the daughter of world-renowned fashion designer and owner of Adèle fashion houseAndré Manon.
Obviously, it was named after her. She’s her father’s pride and joy. Her beautiful, long silky blonde hair and signature tooth gap are the poster child for the brand. As a socialite, her luxurious and glamorous lifestyle started at the young age of sixteen years old, which led her to marry Luca Donatello at the age of twenty-eight.
That’s what male F1 drivers typically go for, the model or the heiress. Mr. Donatello went for both. Not that I can blame him, most male F1 drivers are surrounded by the best looking women in the world.
Luca and Adèle were married for two years and ended up divorcing in 2018. She sued him for over 6.3 million euros and claimed she was pregnant throughout the whole trial. She was, but not with Mr. Donatello’s baby. That’s the only public thing about his entire relationship with Adèle and the fallout of their divorce.
I’ve always said to myself that if I ever married or dated someone in F1, it would never be anyone who saw the sport as more important than me. I know it’s selfish because for years I’ve been doing that to my family. But even if this sport is my life right now, it won’t be forever.
As the laughter dissipates, both men look in my direction. I just stare, not initiating any conversation.
My teammate smiles when he notices my presence. This one is just going to be a ball of sunshine—I already like him.
“It’s the rookie!” he announces while looking at me, his smile taking over his face.
“Well, hello there to you, Mr. Valente.” I get out of my chair and walk up to him. I stretch my hand out and he takes it. “It’s nice to meet you, Ale, just call me Xavier so I can give you a nickname. It’s a thing I do with the team, right Luc?” He looks over at him and Mr. Donatello, or should I say Luc, gives a brief nod with visible annoyance. I like it.