Page 7 of Formula Dreams
“Drunk, high… what does it matter?”he snaps at me.
My father has a point.“Where is she now?”
“Hospital.Nothing serious, apparently.No one else was hurt.I’m in Vienna for the week.”
“So you called me in Japan.”
“She asked for you,” he says irritably.“I figured you’d want to know.”
I let that sit.I don’t fill the silence.
“You’ve got the resources,” he continues.“Handle it.”
I grit my teeth.“Do you even know what facility she’s in?”
“She mentioned it once.Something with gardens.Or horses.I don’t know, Ronan.Jesus.”
My throat feels tight.I glance down the hallway, see a junior mechanic roll past with a tire trolley.“I’ll make some calls, but obviously I can’t fly back.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
No, you never do.You just drop the grenade and walk away.
The line goes dead and I stare at the phone a moment longer before sliding it back into my pocket.
There’s still the post-qualifying debrief.Data to review.Tires to analyze and compound degradation to assess.
But right now, I need to figure out where my mother is and try to get her some help.
CHAPTER 3
Francesca
The restaurant smellslike home.Garlic warming in olive oil, seared meat just catching on the edges, and a whisper of toasted rosemary.The scent captivates my mother, Giulia, first.She lifts her chin slightly, eyes half-lidded in approval as a waiter glides past with a tray of orecchiette smothered in ragù.
We’ve done this all over the world.Tokyo.São Paulo.London.Wherever racing or my father’s business takes us, we make a point to find a good Italian restaurant.It’s part tradition, part competitive sport.My family is from the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy, and we don’t just eat Italian food.
We judge it and we judge it ruthlessly.
My father’s already squinting at the wine list like it’s trying to pull one over on him.“They have a Chianti Classico listed under the Super Tuscans.That’s a red flag.”
My mother hums, scanning the open kitchen like a general assessing her battlefield.“The rosemary smells imported.Dry.Not terrible, but also not fresh.”
Which is ridiculous… her nose isn’t that good.
Alessio leans across the table and smirks.“Bet they serve carbonara with cream.”
That is a legitimate mistake we have found in many Italian restaurants around the world.
My father groans as if someone just insulted his grandmother.“If they do, we leave.”
I can’t help but laugh.This is the good stuff—the rhythm of our family.The sass, the faux snobbery, the strange comfort of knowing that no matter where in the world we are, we can always argue about olive oil.
The restaurant is loud, but not annoyingly so.Probably because I come from a loud family.The place is mostly tourists, and the bar area is packed.We’re tucked into a booth near the windows, candlelight flickering off the glass.We’ve already demolished the plate of olives and crusty bread.I take a breath because tonight, I’m not a formula race car driver.
I’m just a young Italian woman out with her parents and brother for an early dinner.In fact, I’m practically incognito.No team gear, no makeup, hair in a high ponytail making me look like a teenager.It’s nice to be out of the paddock.Nice to be away from the cameras and commentary.Nice to relax for tomorrow, the biggest and most important moment of my life.
Race day.
