Page 11 of My Italian Roommate

“I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before. I’m not important like you…”

“Not important? Who’s more important than you?” he says, kissing my cheek.

“You know what I mean. You’re used to this sort of thing.”

“You don’t ever really get used to it, but if you’re planning to spend time with me, you should expect it to happen every now and again. They’ll be respectful, but if they cross the line, I’ll take care of it. Now, take a deep breath and we’ll get this over with.”

He gets out of the car and opens my door for me. I hold onto his hand and watch as the light through the exit comes closer. With each step, I find myself becoming more nervous, imagining the most unflattering picture of me showing up on the front page of some national newspaper.

“Mario. Mario!” someone screams and cameras start clicking.

“Mario, who’s your friend? Smile for us, sweetie,” more cameras click.

“Mario, how are you feeling about today? Your test run yesterday was a little rocky. Are you ready to go?”

Mario stops abruptly and squeezes my hand. He gives the reporter a stern glare then says, “We’re ready to win today. I’m always ready to win.” He pauses for a photo then we begin walking again.

“That was it. It’s over now,” he mutters and I breathe a long sigh of relief but it’s very short-lived.

“Mario Marcetti bringing a girl to the track? I can’t believe my eyes,” a tall, thin man in a red racing suit calls out to us.

Mario audibly groans and says, “Fuck.”

“What is it? Who is he?” I ask as the man approaches.

“Dylan McGee. A real piece of trash,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Hello, I’m Dylan. You are…you are very hot. What’s your name?” the man says. I feel Mario instinctively tighten his hold on me.

“Mallory,” I shout over the sound of revving engines.

“No accent. Sad. I was hoping she was your sister. Can you imagine me dating your sister? You and me sitting across from each other at the dinner table on Christmas. Boy, that would be a pretty picture,” Dylan says

I turn to see Mario smirk, but a vein pulses on his forehead and there’s murder in his eyes. He’s holding back because of me.

“You want something, McGee?”

“Just being social. I would tell you to try it but it looks like you already did. Boy, did you get lucky,” Dylan says and Mario lets go of my hand. With lightning speed and precision, he grabs Dylan by the throat and lifts him off his feet.

“Don’t talk about her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even look in her direction or…”

Several men rush over and get between them, trying to pry Mario’s hand from the other man’s neck. The reporters spot the commotion and come running toward us.

“Mario, the press, stop it. Let him go,” an older man shouts in his ear.

Mario looks toward the crowd of reporters and drops Dylan who grabs his throat and bends at the waist. When he regains his breath, he shouts, “Touch me again and I’ll have you disqualified,” as another man drags him away.

“What the hell was that? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?” the old man asks.

“It’s alright. I’m good. Let’s just get to the pit. Mallory, this is my manager, Tony.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say. The man, Tony, looks me up and down and then nods.

Mario is a big man and can be a little intimidating, but I never expected to see this kind of fury come from him. I know that I should be alarmed by his behavior, but the truth is, I find it rather hot. No man, not even my brother, has ever stood up for me like that. Maybe if I’d had a father, he would have been this protective of me, but I missed out on that family bond. No, Mario’s behavior just now was possessive and passionate. Yes, very hot, indeed.

Steve’s wrong about him. The safest place for me is beside Mario.

He leads me into the pit and introduces me to his car. It’s such a tiny thing I wonder how he fits inside. It’s slick and white with sponsor stickers all over the body and big tires. There’s only one seat and a gear shifter inside. It doesn’t even look like a real car.

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