He gives a measured nod. “It is. I know. But then again, this”—he points to his own body, which will eventually ravish itself until it can’t survive anymore—“was never supposed to happen like this.”

  “Dad,” I repeat. The lone syllable is a mix of emotions. Resignation. Sadness. Despair. It’s easier for me to pretend it’s not real. That his diagnosis will end differently or that a medical breakthrough will prevent the unmitigable result of this disease.

  “I know.” His smile is soft. Bittersweet. More sad than anything because, as he’s explained to me before, he doesn’t want me to have to watch him decline—which will inevitably happen. “But it is what it is. We have time—hopefully lots of it, right?”

  I nod, hearing the hope in his voice and wanting to cling to it. “Yes. We have all the time in the world because you’re a stubborn man.” I shoot for a pie in the sky comment that we both know is a lie but that we cling to anyway. “So it’s a moot point that you’re asking me to step in.”

  “Let’s just say I’m doing the whole preparing for the worst, hoping for the best scenario, Cami.” He rises from his seat and makes his way slowly to the windows and his company beyond.

  I used to ride on those broad shoulders. I used to grab on to his hair with my little hands and sing silly songs with him while he walked through these halls shadowing his own father.

  The memories come out of nowhere. So many. So unique. So damn pure. I hold tight to them as he gathers his thoughts.

  “We’ve taken only five podiums in two years, Camilla. We haven’t won a race in four.” Both of those things weigh heavily on him as they should any team owner. But my dad isn’t any team owner. He’s the one running an iconic brand that has been known and respected worldwide since its insanely successful inception. “We’re underperforming. The chances we do have get blown for one reason or another. We’ve become the team people see but don’t notice. The team that’s beginning to be forgotten about or even worse, looked at with pity. We’re just there.”

  “It’s been a bad couple of years. Every team has those. But I don’t understand what the team’s success has to do with me. You know this business inside and out. Wouldn’t that make you and Uncle Luca the right men for the job to turn things around?”

  Not to mention the fact that I’m grossly unqualified to run this behemoth. Do I know a lot about the business due to years of exposure? Sure. Hell, it’s the only thing we talk about at most family functions. It’s what we take family trips around.

  Do I have an invested interest in the company to succeed? Absolutely.

  But neither of those things give me the skill set required to be able to run this place. They can help, sure, but they definitely aren’t what is needed to step in and lead.

  The last thing I want to do is to step into a role and fail the legacy left to me.

  “Dad, being a Moretti by name doesn’t mean I know what to do or that it’ll guarantee I’ll be good at it.”

  He gives a slow nod and then turns to face me, his hands now in his pants pockets. I’m not certain if that’s to control his shaking for my sake. He’s gotten rather good at hiding it as best he can. “You’re right. You could look at it that way. That Luca would be the natural choice or that there is a high probability of failure with nepotism. Or you could say that clearly what we’ve been doing—what Luca and I have been doing at the helm—isn’t working. Some might even say that we’re dinosaurs who are stuck in our ways.”

  “Then they’d be wrong.”

  He holds a finger up to make a point. “Or, you could look at it and think that we need a fresh pair of eyes. A new perspective. Someone who can come in here and not only learn the ropes but who can build a team while putting her master’s degree in marketing to good use.”

  “I’m twenty-five. Do you realize how ridiculous this sounds? Putting someone my age in control of all of this?” I hold my hands out to motion to everything beyond the glass.

  “That’s why we’d start the process now. I’m not naïve in thinking you could just step in on day one and be ready to go. It’ll take a few years for you to grow into this position. To learn the ins and outs. I want to be able to teach you while I’m still able to.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that,” I warn, because if we don’t acknowledge his illness, then it can’t be happening, right?

  “I must look toward the future, kiddo, and doing that means I know this place will be taken care of. Protected. Have a future.”

  My tongue feels thick in my mouth as I struggle with what to say to that.

  There’s absolutely nothing I can say, so I focus back on me. On dispelling this idea of his that equally terrifies and intrigues me, even though I’d never admit to either because both are polarizing.

  “Who in their right mind would take direction from me when they know more than I do?”

  “Since when do you care what people think?”

  “This is a little different than caring what people think. You can’t lead without being respected. You can’t—”

  “That’s exactly why we’d hire you as a special consultant to create an aggressive media overhaul campaign for Moretti. Branding. Social media. Stepping Moretti into the twenty-first century. Everyone knows you know marketing. Look what you did with the recent rebranding campaign you spearheaded.”

  “Yeah, but that has to do with olive oil. With the company product,” I say mentioning our family company, Moretti Olive Oil. “That doesn’t translate to racing.”

  “It doesn’t have to. I want you to rebrand us. You know us and our product and what we believe in better than any outside hire could. And while you’re doing that publicly, you’ll be learning the ropes of everything else behind the scenes. You’ll shadow me and become a utility player of sorts. A person who can step in at any position when it’s needed. That way the employees will see you learning, will see you in each role, and learn to trust that you understand the business and how to run it.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but don’t think anyone’s going to buy it.”

  “They will.”

  “How, Dad? What will I bring to the table that your huge marketing department hasn’t already?”

  “Youth. A different perspective. An outside viewpoint.”

  “You can hire anyone to do that.”

  “I don’t want anybody. I want you.” He shrugs unapologetically. “We’re old school here. We’ve been doing the same thing year in and year out. I can bring new people in all I want but it seems like they keep getting bogged down in the confinements of what we used to be. We need a reinvention. The race team is seen but not known. We exist but there is no excitement, no spark. I need a buzz created so even if we aren’t winning, people are still watching. That will bring in bigger sponsorships, more money so that we can make a leap in the constructors standings.”

  “That’s a huge supposition.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s just what this company needs. You’re just what it needs.”

  “A fresh perspective and a marketing campaign doesn’t guarantee success.”

  “It doesn’t. But it puts you before the employees. It makes your work ethic known and proven. That way, by the time this gets noticeable,” he says, motioning to his body and the Parkinson’s slowly trying to take over, “you’ll already be known, and people won’t be as concerned about you taking on a leadership position.”

  I stare at him and shake my head, knowing this point is moot but reiterating it anyway. It won’t be the first time I’ve brought it up. “I still don’t understand why you feel the need to keep the diagnosis a secret. It must be exhausting.”

  “It is, but let me keep my pride a little longer, Cami.” His voice is soft. His smile is reticent. “I don’t want to feel like a monkey in a zoo with everyone watching me in a cage and waiting for my body to show a sign of it. I don’t want to be coddled. I don’t want exceptions made. I don’t want to be the topic of articles so someone can use this as a way to say F1 is inclusive or the like. I just want to be me for as long as I can.”

  Tears burn the back of my throat, but I fight them off. It’s the first time he’s given me a reason for his secrecy.

  The first time I understand the why behind it.

  “Okay,” I say softly. “But how are you explaining the cane?”

  “Hip issues. Doctor’s orders.” He shrugs with an unapologetic grin. “I rarely need it so the excuse passes. Mostly only when I’m stressed, because stress exacerbates the symptoms. Another reason I need you on board. Knowing you’re here and will run this place with integrity and determination like our family has for generations will help with that.”

  “But what about my job? I can’t just up and leave.”

  “Sure you can. That’s the beauty of working for the family company,” he says and lifts his eyebrows in challenge.

  “You raised me to finish what I started. I’m as much of Moretti Olive Oil—probably more so—than I am this company.”

  “But I also told you that when opportunities arise, to not let them pass you by.”

  Jesus. He has an answer for everything.

  “Besides,” he says, “if I recall correctly, a few weeks ago, you were the one who said you felt stagnant. I’m offering you something different. Something new and challenging. There are only ten F1 teams in the world. We’re one of them. I’d think learning how to oversee one would intrigue you since glass ceilings are something you seem keen on smashing.”

  “It’s just . . . a lot.” I chuckle out the last word. Because it is. All of it. The ask. The abruptness of it. The possible upheaval of my life. Your diagnosis.

  The Moretti family started its empire in the late 1800s first growing olives and then learning to process them into olive oil. That’s been where my place has always been expected to be, at Moretti Olive Oil. Helping run that giant. Not this one.

  “It is. I know it is.” He twists his lips as our gazes hold, before a soft smile turns the corners of his lips up. “Part of this is me wanting to leave this sport better than I was born into it. We need more women in it. And not just so we can say you’re here but because you come at things differently. See other angles. Look at problems from a different viewpoint. Have opinions that are no doubt different than the owners—who are all men.”

  “And the other part?”

  His smile reaches his eyes. “Maybe I want that connection with you like we used to have. When you were little, then when you were a teenager and we’d sit in the paddock with our chests rumbling, our ears buzzing, and our hearts pounding during a race. Call me nostalgic, tell me I’m growing old, but I miss those days with you.”

  Jesus. Talk about grabbing hold of my heart and squeezing it. I’d run from the sport. My only focus had been on getting away. For my own sake. But selfishly, I never stopped to consider what he’d lost. How my abrupt absence, and the years that have followed, affected him. I’d been too busy reeling from . . . and well, running.

  Coping.

  Healing.

  “I miss that too.” And I do. They are some of the best memories. “It’s just . . . I don’t know, Dad.”

  He angles his head to the side and studies me. I feel nothing but love from him despite his scrutiny. “There hasn’t been a single moment where you said you think it’s a good idea or that you’re excited. Not even a smile over it. You want to tell me what’s really going on, Camilla? Why you don’t want this opportunity?” He stares at me with a look in his eyes that hints that he knows his words to be true. That there is so much more to the story about why I walked away.

  I open my mouth and close it. All those times I’d sit on his or Nonno’s shoulders and tell them I wanted to run this place rush back. This was my dream. My biggest hope.

  My eyes are drawn to the picture of my great grandfather on his credenza, my nonno, my uncle Luca, my dad, and me—four generations of Morettis. The past. The present. And what was supposed to be the future.

  Anyone could look at it and see we’re related. The dark hair. The olive skin. The light brown eyes. Our mannerisms.

  I’m proud to be part of this family, this legacy. I hate that I’m hesitating on his request.

  “Cami?” he prompts.

  “No reason,” I lie. “I found my thing with marketing. I’m good at it, that’s all.”

  He doesn’t respond and when I finally look over to him, he’s studying me. That’s never a good thing. The man can read me like a book.

  There’s a reason I had to put space between us—a whole ocean—until I could deal with the new reality the chain of events left me accepting.

  “You are good. That’s my point. The team needs you. The company needs you. I need you.”

  And the dagger twists with those last words.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, my own internal war being waged that he has no idea about.

  “I tell you what, kiddo. Give me a year. The rest of this season, actually. Come work with me and if after that time, I haven’t won you over and you still don’t want this, I’ll never ask again. You can go back to MOO and be done with racing,” he says, the name we fondly call Moretti Olive Oil.

  “You’re trying to reel me in because you know I won’t want to leave you, aren’t you?” I tease.

  “Can you blame me?” He laughs and his smile lights up his eyes.

  “Can I have some time to think about it?”

  “Of course. But, Cami, I need you on this. I really do.”

  “I know. I just need to think things through.”

  He turns back to the Moretti world beyond.

  “I’m here if you need to bounce things around. Just like always.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  But that isn’t true. He’s sick and, one day, sooner than we ever expected, he won’t be here.

  And that’s the day I’m dreading more than any other in the world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Riggs

  A blur of color in my periphery.

  Not individual fans. Not sponsor banners. Not the gray of the speedway walls.

  Just a moving wall of color as I fly over the starting grid and out to turn one.

  “Garcia is two point one behind,” Pierre says in my ear as I take the car to the limit, waiting to be told I’m pushing too hard.

  But it doesn’t come.

  Not a word over the radio.

  They know we need this win.

  Have to have it.

  I let up slightly on speed as I hit the apex of the turn—can practically feel Garcia bearing down on me as I slow—before hammering it back down again, my thumbs flying over the buttons on the steering wheel.

  Four laps to go.

  Four laps to hold this motherfucker off.

  “The tires,” I say as I fight the car out of the turn. I’ve been fighting it all fucking day to stay in the lead. “I think we—”

  “It can’t be undone.”

  I grimace as I hit the straight out of the turn—my hands tired and neck aching—trying to put as much distance between Garcia and me as possible.

  We should’ve changed the tires.

  I told Pierre before we boxed. He didn’t think it was necessary. He can look at all his fucking metrics—have the crew advise him—but I’m the one in this car. I feel them vibrate. Slip. Not command them how I should be able to.

  And right now my body is paying the damn price for the fuck up.

  Let’s just hope it doesn’t cost us the race too.

  We need a win.

  Hell, we need a fucking podium.

  Anything to gain some points. To earn some sponsorship bonuses.

  This circuit runs solely on money. And when you don’t have it, it’s nearly impossible to win.

  We might all have the same cars, but money makes the entire world around the cars go round.

  “Good job,” Pierre praises in his clipped but soothing tone. “Two point eight now. We need to push on this lap. Try to gain more space this sector.”

  “Understood,” I say, my voice a vibrated mess as the Gs hit me harder with each kilometer per hour I pick up.

  I’ve been around this loop thirteen times already, but I still replay what’s coming next in my head. I still map out what I need to do.

  Let up for the chicane coming soon. Then a sharp left. Then a sweeping left followed by a subtle S curve. Then the wall that calls to every car here to rub against it before heading into a narrow passage where it’s single file.

  If I can hit that with Garcia still behind me then I’ll be sitting pretty.

  “Push. Push. Push,” Pierre encourages, and I respond accordingly.

  He’s watching the car’s gauges. He knows what’s running hot and my split for each sector. He’s my eyes, my ears, my instructor.

  The conscience on the track that I don’t want but that I need.

  I grip the wheel and fight the turn, my tires hitting the rumble strip as I hit the S curve and come out of it.

  “He’s on your right. Closing in.”

  Fuck.

  C’mon, Riggs. C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.

  I focus on the tasks that are second nature. On the skills I’ve honed on the sim and with reaction drills. On the hours I’ve spent studying and feeling every fucking curve of this track.

  Another turn comes, a sharp right. My brakes lock up momentarily. The screech. The smoke. The shudder of the wheel.

  Shit. I fight through it as I slide off my line but gain control.

  “Point eight seconds.”

  “Got it.” I recover my control, my pulse racing and adrenaline pumping.

  I push the car into the next straight, needing to get more than a second ahead of Garcia to prevent him from using DRS. No way I’m going to let that fucker have a chance to slingshot past and overtake me.

  We go into the next turn and when I slow for it, he tries to take the outside. I fight him off and hold on, accelerating rapidly to put distance between us.

  “Push, Riggs.”

  Fuck off, Pierre, I’m busy.

  Thoughts I shouldn’t have but do as I force the car to its brink.

  “One point one.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m going to be able to hold on. I’m going to win this fucking race. I’m going to—