“The rest of the Italian mafia fashion corporations having connections with them,” I finish his sentence for him.
“Exactly. Apparently, the mafia made his family’s lives a living hell. So, they kind of want revenge of some sort. During his engagement, he saw a deal breaker in Adele. No one knows what it was even to this day. But eventually, he was forced into a marriage with her in order to get his family leverage,” he sighs.
“How do you know so much about this?”
“People in F1 have known him for a long time and it’s come down through the grapevine, I guess. When he was announced as team principal, it became a big thing around here.” My eyebrows furrow as I think for a second.
“I personally don’t see it as a problem. He’s a legend, and he knows how to drive better than any other team principal in the sport. We have a lot to learn from him,” he finishes off before he turns around and hits the power button on his computer.
Swiveling away from him in my chair, I can’t help but think about the endless situations that can occur from this recent information.
In light of my thoughts, Mr. Donatello walks through the door with his other engineers. All of our colleagues rush to take their seats. Once everyone is settled, he claps his hands together and announces, “what a great team result today. Everyone in here has done a wonderful job. But right now, it’s time to focus on the things we can fix and what the other cars are doing out there.” He walks over to the computer right across from Xavier and starts sharing his screen with the others.
I can’t pay attention to what he is saying right now, let alone pitch into the conversation. After zoning out for a few minutes, I hear Mr. Donatello say my name.
“Miss Castillo, did you hear anything that I’ve been saying for the last twenty minutes?” he grimaces.
“Sorry, what?” He gives me a dirty look, telling me to pay attention without even saying a word. “I said that you need to get more speed around the corners. You’re losing traction and tire longevity by hitting the curve slower than Xavier.” I nod.
“Yeah, I agree. I was feeling a little more force than usual. I can fix it by the next race.” He nods with shock evident in his expression.
All I can think about are two things.
One: Did I just agree with the words that came out of Mr. Donatello’s mouth?
Two: I can’t let him ever know that I was born into the biggest organized crime family in Mexico, because if he finds out . . .
I’m fucked.
ChapterTwelve
Luca Donatello
Imola is one of my two home races of the season, and I don’t know how to feel about it. Not being a driver anymore means that I can’t do anything out there to deliver a good result. That’s what makes me feel out of control.
I hate it.
Being in control is one of the things that I pride myself most in. No good comes out of losing control.
When I was in my early days of F1, I always lost control and had a bad temper. But now I have more authority over my actions, which I’m grateful for.
But the temper, that still needs a little work.
I play with the rings on my fingers, attempting to maintain control over my anxiousness. Cheering erupts outside of the car and I realize that we’re arriving at the grid. I see some fans cheering as we drive by.
We head to the entrance of the paddock, and I make sure everything is in order before I get out of the car. Taking my sensor card out of my pocket, I open the car door, waving at the shouting fans. I stride through the security detector while scanning my ID on the barcode sensor. I keep walking until I greet some officials, FODA directors and such.
Looking to my left, I notice Xavier talking to Amir Zikraan. The classic black look that he wears tries to give the bad boy motorcycle vibe. His tattoos spread everywhere across his skin, from his neck all the way down to his ankles.
The man can drive, and I know that everyone is rooting for him, including me, to a certain extent. I know the story of his journey to F1 and it’s impressive. Coming all the way from Egypt and driving for an Arab F1 team doesn’t really give him a good first impression with Formula One executives—Considering Formula One’s years of racist commentators and fans. Younger audiences are attracted to the sport now that it’s owned by an American company. Which means, as a whole, the sport is moving in the right direction. The boy drives fast, and that’s all that should matter.
Seeing them both wave at me from across the walkway, I nod my head at them in acknowledgement, finally arriving at the building. Walking in, I mentally prepare myself to give an extensive speech to both drivers about how important this Grand Prix is.
Especially a certain girl who needs to get back in her lane.
Neither of them got a podium.
“You know we did our best right? You can’t just walk away from us in anger,” I hear her aggravating Spanish accent from behind me.