All lessons learned the hard way.

  What we were left, my mum held on to tightly.

  So we slept in our truck the night before a race to save money since hotels were so expensive. We played silly games to occupy ourselves while we lay in the bed of the truck under the camper shell and waited for the morning to come.

  At the time it embarrassed me. A former F1 driver’s son trying to step into his father’s oversized shoes but not having the money to do it. The comparison I could never live up to.

  I hold those times close like a badge of honor. Especially now. I made it without the money. With very few connections. With the grit of my mum and my own fierce goddamn determination.

  Then she sucked up every ounce of fear she had when I progressed to cars. I know she was terrified for me to follow in my father’s footsteps, but she let me follow the passion that took her husband from her. She let me be who I am and didn’t try to cast her fear onto me. Her unwavering support has both kept me grounded but allowed me to soar. She has been a silent pillar of strength when I failed and questioned if all this work was worth it.

  She’s been my rock—always, forever, and even when I didn’t deserve it.

  Of course, she’d be the first person I’d call.

  “Spence. I don’t even know what to say or who to tell or how to even celebrate.” She’s flustered, and it brings a smile to my face.

  “I know. I feel the same way.” I pound my fist against my steering wheel because it’s the only thing I can think to do.

  “So what’s next?” she asks and then I hear her muffled voice say to someone at her work, “My baby. He got the ride.” Then squealing.

  I smile. I can’t help it. “I’m waiting for instructions. On where to go. When to be there.”

  There is a pause. A deep breath. “Let me know where I need to be,” she says softly.

  I know how hard it is for her to say those words. The sacrifice she is making in doing so.

  She vowed to never step foot on an F1 track again after my father’s death. She saw me through my karting days but when I started racing cars, especially on circuits where my dad once raced, she couldn’t do it.

  She tried. Time and again. It didn’t matter the track though, the result was still the same—a panic attack of epic proportions.

  But still she showed up.

  Still, she tried to be there for me as I struggled my way through the emotions of walking in my father’s footsteps. And then there was the panic attack that was so violent and powerful that we all thought she was having a heart attack.

  That was the last time I allowed her to come to the track.

  I’d already lost one parent to racing. I sure as shit wasn’t going to lose another.

  I’m sure she felt a similar feeling. My dad was her one true love. She watched him die. I’m the only piece of him she has left.

  So we came to an understanding. I’d race. She’d watch from home. It’s almost as if the notion of being able to change the channel should something bad happen was enough. There was a mutual understanding as to why she couldn’t be present during race weekend.

  Hell, it’s hard enough as it is for me some days.

  It must be brutal for her.

  “We made a deal, Mum. You’re not allowed at the track,” I say even though I’d love for her to be there.

  “But this is different.”

  “No, it’s not. Let me get a few races under my belt first. That way I don’t have to worry about you and can focus on the track. On the car.”

  “Spencer.”

  “I’m serious. Why jinx it now? It obviously worked.”

  She exhales. “I should be there. I want to be there.”

  “Mum,” I say as she tells another person in the background who then whoops.

  “Everyone at work is going to be sick of hearing me announce it,” she says of the assisted living facility she works in. “But I don’t care. My baby finally made it,” she sings out loud and then whispers, “I can’t wait to see grumpy ol’ Maude’s face when I tell her. She thinks the only sport worth wasting your time on is cricket. She’s going to be pissed when I decorate the activity room with checkered flags every race day.”

  “Poor Maude,” I say.

  “Spencer Riggs,” she says softly, and I know she means business when she calls me by my full name. “I am so damn proud of you.” Pride brims in her voice and tugs at my heart in every way a child wants their parent to love them. “He would be too.”

  My chest aches in the way a child who yearns for their parent can.

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” And as if she can feel the need to break the tension herself, she laughs crazily. “This is so exciting. I have to go back to work. I’m sure you have to go too. I mean . . . yahoo!”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

  “Very true.”

  “I love you, son.”

  “I love you too, Mum.”

  I end the call, shaking my head and feeling sorry for the earfuls she’s about to give everyone. And no doubt, she will.

  I start the engine and begin to head home. The track’s silhouette is laid out before me, the sky and clouds slowly beginning to turn the colors of the sunset.

  But there is one stubborn cloud that hasn’t turned colors yet.

  One stubborn cloud that looks like a fluff of blue candy floss.

  I love you too, Dad.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Camilla

  I stare at the outside of Moretti Motorsports.

  It’s a monolith of glass and stone that stretches for what looks like forever with a huge man-made lake along its front. The lake is framed by rolling green grass with a replica of one of our original F1 cars placed on it.

  My nonno was determined to look out of his office and be reminded of where he grew up in Italy. His small house sat near a lake that he’d visit every day with his brothers.

  He brought the lake here with him to the town of Wellingshire when he decided to make Moretti’s headquarters here in the UK. It’s been that way ever since.

  I stood here a little over two weeks ago thinking I was just stopping by to have a casual lunch with my dad before heading back home to Rome. I thought he’d give me the usual, you should move here spiel. What I didn’t expect was for him to ask me to take the helm of the other family business. The Moretti passion project of sorts.

  Olive oil made our name a household one. It also gave my grandfather the capital to fund the one thing he loved almost as much as my grandmother—F1 racing.

  Fifteen days ago, I left this building confused and unsettled. Twelve days ago, I sat in a pub with Isabella and Gia, rejecting every possibility over this new glow-up plan before heading home to pack up my things to return for my “new adventure.”

  Now I return, my life in complete upheaval, my new apartment a mecca of unopened boxes and disarray, and my mind determined to make the best of this.

  Caution dances with anticipation before melding with the rumbling excitement of starting something new.

  But there’s something more to it than that as I stare at the symbol of a racing icon that once was the envy of the industry.

  There’s the list of promises I made to myself. The list I swore I’d work toward and accomplish when my feet stepped over that threshold for the first time as an employee.

  Professionally, I’m determined to make a difference here—revamp our image, create a buzz, and somehow contribute to winning a race, or at least take a podium—during my year tenure.

  Personally, the list is more profound. Once I step into the building, I have promised to rid myself of all the fear and insecurities I’ve let own me for too many years. I’m determined to conquer the ghost that I’ve let hold me back—including the power I unknowingly gave someone else in the process.

  New city. New job. New you.

  Here goes nothing, Camilla.

  I pull open the door and step foot into my new life.

  The morning goes by in a blur. I’m taken from department to department and introduced to the staff. I’m far from blind. I see the knowing glances being exchanged. No doubt there are a flurry of texts being sent across the office from cubicle to cubicle with the word nepotism being thrown around like candy.

  But I don’t let it bug me. Can’t. I’d probably feel the same way if I were in their shoes.

  Unfortunately—or fortunately for me—Maxim’s crash this past weekend and the concern for his recovery as well as how the team should move forward overshadows my arrival.

  “Introductions over?” my dad asks when I walk into the conference room where he’s arranged to have us work side by side today.

  Because that doesn’t scream nepotism either.

  “They are over. Yes.”

  “And? Thoughts? First impressions?” His smile is wide and his eyes alive. He looks happy and for now, that’s enough for me to make this upheaval worth it.

  “Once they realize I know what I’m talking about, they’ll come around.”

  “They will. I’m not worried in the least.” He shifts in his chair. “And we need you now more than ever after this weekend.”

  “How is Maxim doing?”

  His drawn-out sigh says it all. “Third-degree burns on his hands. A severe concussion. Brain swelling that they think they have under control but won’t know until they wake him up.” He shakes his head, concern etched in the lines of his face. “And who knows what he’ll struggle to overcome mentally.”

  “When will they reverse the coma?”

  “Not sure. They figure they’ll do the debridement of the burns while he’s under to save him some of the misery.” He puts his chin in his hand. “Fuck, Cam. I thought he was . . . I mean, if it weren’t for the HANS . . . I’d hate to think what this conversation would be like.”

  Every CEO fears having a death or the grave injury of one of their drivers on their watch. My dad is no exception. And he’s not wrong about the HANS. Since the introduction of the mandatory head restraint, there have been far fewer head injuries across the board of motorsports.

  Technology has most definitely been racing’s friend.

  “That’s better than what you feared forty-eight hours ago, right? So we have to take every positive we can.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I hate to sound crass, but what’s next? Who’s taking over for him in the meantime?” I ask, knowing the machine can’t stop.

  His sigh says it all. “Not like there’s ever a good time for a driver to get hurt, but this is especially a shitty time. We got caught with our pants down. Pashmi was picked up by—”

  “Our reserve driver, right?”

  He nods. “Yes. Good for him. He was picked up with a full-time contract. Bad for us though since it happened last week, and we hadn’t filled the spot yet.”

  “So you’ve had to go shopping,” I say in terms I can understand.

  “Correct.”

  “In F2 or one from the reserve drivers of other teams?” I ask. Since drivers can switch teams and teams can cancel contracts ad hoc, I’m curious what he’s thinking.

  “We’ve called up a driver from F2.”

  “Oh.” That isn’t what I was expecting him to say. “Isn’t that a huge transition? We don’t have that kind of time to wait for some rookie to get his Super Licence. To adjust. To learn the car.”

  “He knows F1 and has his Licence. Attends Friday practices on the regular with his current team.”

  Jesus. “So that means he’s not even a reserve driver?” If he’d won championships, he’d surely be a reserve driver somewhere.

  “I like him for us.”

  Great. I’m already not liking this decision.

  “And how does one just happen upon an F1 car to practice in randomly? Sounds a little desperate if you ask me.”

  “Or dedicated.”

  I eye my dad as he goes about his business, typing on his laptop as if this conversation holds zero relevance. “Dad.”

  “Hmm?”

  I wait for him to look up. “This is why we’re losing if we’re taking the first driver who’s available and moderately qualified.”

  His smile is slow and steady. His voice holds a hint of surprise. “Are we going to butt heads on our first day, Camilla?”

  “Isn’t this why you asked me here? To learn? To question? To improve what we have?”

  “It is. Yes.” He nods slowly. “But it’s also to sit back and listen. It’s hard to learn when you’re judging.”

  Okay, then. This whole working for him thing might be harder than I thought.

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “Spencer Riggs. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “Dad, I’ve barely had time to catch up on the drivers we have on our team in the past week that I’ve been packing up my life, let alone educate myself on the F2 drivers I never planned on having to know.”

  “Understood,” he says, his grin widening. “I think you’re going to like this guy.”

  “Why’s that? Because he’s a good driver or because he’s charmed you?” He gives me that look that says I need to watch my step. I hold my hands up in surrender. “It’s a valid question.”

  “He has raw talent, Camilla. He has the fastest lap times in F2 this year. Finishes well when his car does what it’s meant to. Heard he works well with his team.” He toggles his head from side to side as if he’s contemplating something. “Besides, I think you’re going to love him.”

  “Uh-huh. Why’s that?”

  “He doesn’t shy away from the camera. Loves attention.”

  “Well let’s hope he doesn’t shy away from the podium more.”

  “Funny,” he says, and I grin, the tension between us easing. “I’m serious. The camera loves him and there’s a certain charisma I think you’re going to like. He’s good-looking. Has a large social following that makes him easily marketable—at least that’s what Elise says.”

  Elise. I rack my brain to put a face with the name. My new right-hand. Yes. Elise Coddington.

  At least she has opinions she’s not afraid to share. I’m all for that.

  “Well, that’s a plus,” I say. “What’s his record in F2?”

  My dad twists his lips.

  “Dad?” I ask, his lack of an answer, answer enough. “This is the part where I tell you I think you’re losing your mind. Don’t you think that’s a major problem?”

  “Please. Speak candidly.” He chuckles.

  “I thought we covered that’s why you brought me on board. Fresh eyes. New takes. Blunt opinions.”

  “Very true.” He meets my eyes and pride brims in the air as he smiles. He leans back and laces his fingers behind his head. “Let’s see. Spencer Riggs. In the past two years has won the pole five times.”

  “How many wins?” I ask. Wins are everything in this sport. Wins earn points. And points are vital for money.

  But my dad just holds his finger up to quiet me so he can finish. “The guy was born into the sport. Knows every aspect of it like the back of his hand. He has strong engineering knowledge, superior reflexes, and surprising adaptability to different conditions. He’s the first to get to the track every weekend and the last to leave. He does sims after a race to study what he did wrong and how he can do better.”

  “You still haven’t answered me,” I say, but haven’t discounted the attributes my father has listed.

  “He’s professional on and off the track and knows that team comes first before self.”

  I clear my throat and lift an eyebrow. “Dad?”

  “He won three races last season, Cam.”

  “Last season? Not this one? And . . . that’s it?” I ask. Racers who are promoted to F1 dominate their division. They’re championship winners. They are known to the F1 crowd. Do people even know who this Riggs guy is?

  “He’s led many races, but things beyond his control have prevented more podiums.”

  “Like?”

  He gives an exasperated sigh. Clearly second-guessing bringing me on board right now. “Engine failures. Cautions at the wrong time. Being hit. He’s strong, tenacious—”

  “Sounds like bad luck to me.”

  “It happens. It’s racing. But the kid has talent, Cam. Raw talent like I haven’t seen in a long, long time. I think this is his time. I think he can be a strong addition to our team.”

  “Clearly no one else has seen it either or he’d already have a ride, right?” Should I be worried about the decisions he’s making now? I mean . . . “Why not pick up one of the reserve drivers of one of the other teams? Find a contract one of the other teams would let you buy out. Wouldn’t that be a safer bet?”

  He moves steadily to the window so he can look out at the offices beyond his, one hand on his hip. “It would be, yes, but nothing has changed here by taking the safer bet now, has it?” He turns to look at me and I love the mischief in his eyes. “I want to shake things up. I think Riggs might be our guy to do just that.”

  There is a very thin line between shaking things up and fucking things up. Let’s hope the former is what we get.

  “Riggs?”

  “That’s what everyone calls him.”

  Great. Who the hell goes by the name Riggs?

  “I’m reserving judgment.”

  He laughs. “Never one to be a follower.”

  “Never,” I say.

  “You’re going to like him. I promise.”

  “Mmm. A cocky driver just promoted, most likely riding high on the perks that come with that move—money, attitude, and women. Can’t wait to meet him.”

  “Sounds like it. You’ve been around this your whole life. You know how it goes. Some of it’s a show—”

  “Some of it’s not.” I chuckle.

  “Well, you’ll be able to see for yourself because he’s on his way in for everyone to meet him.”

  “Can’t wait,” I mutter wryly.

  “Make sure you act slightly more enthusiastic when you meet him. We want him to actually think we want him here.”