Across the restaurant, my eye catches on a very handsome man walking our way.I wave to get his attention and upon seeing me, he weaves through the tables to reach us.
Carlos Moreno, driver for Union Jack Motorsports and probably the driver I know the best on the circuit.We’ve been friends since we were kids, both of us coming up through karting at the same time.He was one of the few who didn’t seem to mind that I was a girl and always made me feel welcome in the club.That was never more apparent than after he reached out when I arrived in Suzuka and invited me to join him for breakfast.He wanted to “officially” welcome me to Formula International and pledge his help should I need it.
In a sport that’s so competitive you could die trying to get the upper hand out on the track, I was very touched by the offer.I wanted to return the favor, so I invited him to eat with me and my family tonight, as I know he doesn’t have anyone here in Suzuka for this race.
I watch others in the restaurant watching Carlos.There’s an ease in the way he moves, confident but never showy.His hair is longish, dark and wavy and pushed back like he ran a hand through it right before walking in.His eyes—warm brown and always alert—are filled with amusement.His close-cropped goatee sharpens the edges of his cheekbones under the amber lighting, his skin carries a rich bronze sheen.
I rise to meet him, my grin already in place.“You made it,” I say, leaning in for a quick air-kiss.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, brushing his fingers through his curls.“My driver got lost.He apparently couldn’t believe that I was looking for an Italian restaurant in Japan.”
I laugh and gesture toward the open seat between me and my brother.“You found it.Come sit.”
Carlos slides in, offering a warm, polite smile to the rest of the table.“Thank you for having me.”
“My pleasure,” my father says, extending a hand in greeting.He’s met Carlos on a few occasions over the years.“We’re glad you could join us.”
Carlos shakes his hand.“It’s good to see you again, Luca.”
“And you remember my mamma, Giulia,” I say, watching as she leans forward with her usual grace and appraising eyes.
“Of course,” Carlos says with an incline of his head.“A pleasure.”
“And I don’t think you’ve met my brother, Alessio,” I add, and the two men shake hands.“He runs logistics for the family business.”
Alessio gives a modest shrug.“Only because Papà keeps trying to retire.”
My father scoffs.“I said slow down.I never said stop.”
Carlos’s smile shifts toward curious.“Remind me what the business is?”
“We manufacture precision instrumentation,” my father says.“Medical, aviation, industrial—you name it.”
“Grew it from a one-room shop in Bologna,” Alessio adds.“Now it has offices in eight countries, two of which I’m never allowed to visit without supervision.”
My mother rolls her eyes with a fond sigh.“Because you try to expense nightclubs you visit.”
“Only the ones that offer cultural enrichment,” he quips straight-faced, and we all laugh.
I turn to Carlos, ignoring my imp of an older brother who often displays the emotional maturity of a grapefruit.“We’re from Imola, but Bologna’s where the company was born—and where most of the headaches still live.”
“Motorsport, machines and mortadella,” Alessio adds, gesturing loosely with his water glass.“We’re very serious about all three.”
Carlos quirks a brow.“What’s mortadella?”
“It’s like bologna,” I say, “but if bologna had an Italian passport, a higher education, and better seasoning.Smooth, rich, a little nutty if you get the kind with pistachios.”
Carlos grins.“You had me at better seasoning.”
My mother nods approvingly.“Served properly with warm bread and a glass of Lambrusco, it’s a meal.”
Alessio smirks.“Or a religion, depending on who you ask.”
The rhythm settles in quickly.Carlos is first and foremost a rival, but tonight he’s just a friend, the kind you’re not indebted to but for whom you’d punch someone if they said the wrong thing.
Talk drifts toward the track once the bread basket’s been pillaged and the wineglasses refilled.Carlos leans back, one arm slung over the back of a chair, a mischievous spark already warming his eyes.
“Okay,” he says, “Bahrain last year—FP2—I come out of the garage behind Kai Williams at Brittania Performance.He’s weaving like crazy, tires barely warm, and I’m trying to get my first flyer in.I radio the team like, ‘What is he doing?’”
