The front wing had been removed, exposing the intricate carbon fiber and the delicate sliver of the brake duct assembly. I leaned in, my fingers itching to touch the metal. The flap angles were adjusted for maximum downforce—a desperate move to find grip where there wasn't any—but as I traced the wear patterns on the discarded front tires, I frowned.
“He took turn eight too fast, didn’t he?” I asked quietly, not looking back. “The graining on the inside shoulder… he’s leaning on the fronts way too hard. He's overdriving the car to compensate for a nervous rear end.”
The head mechanic blinked, looking from the car at me in stunned silence. “How did you—?”
“She’s her father’s daughter,” Dad said, his voice a mix of pride and a silent warning for me to play nice.
Mr. Valerio’s eyes sharpened, reassessing me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t realized had teeth. He nodded once, approving or calculating—it was hard to tell with men who bought and sold people for breakfast.
“You’ll be attending the university, yes? It’s a short drive. Classes start Monday, and we’ll ensure you have a vehicle at your disposal.” He turned back to the mechanic, his tone cooling. “Where is my son, Marco?”
The mechanic suddenly found his scuffed boots fascinating. “Uh… he said he wasn’t feeling the 'meet and greet' vibe today, sir.”
So, the superstar driver was a ghost. Consequences optional, ego mandatory.
Awesome.
“Don’t let the quiet fool you,” Mr. Valerio said, his voice echoing off the polished garage walls as he began to lead us back toward the main house. “This is just the private collection—the personal playground. We use the private testing facility and garage twenty minutes north for the real work on the track. The data from Dominic’s last three races is already waiting in your office there. I expect a full diagnostic of his technical failings by the time your settled in.”
Dad nodded, his expression turning solemn, the polished version of himself returning on instinct. “I’ve already started reviewing the footage from Monaco, trying to get ahead before the new season starts. There’s a hesitation in his downshifts that wasn't there last season.”
“He’s losing his nerve,” Mr. Valerio said flatly, not even pausing as we stepped into a glass-walled elevator. “And in this sport, a driver without a nerve is just an expensive liability. I’m paying for you to find it and put it back.”
I felt something sharp flare in my chest. My dad wasn’t a lost-and-found bin for spoiled athletes. He was the person who had taught me how to listen to an engine’s heartbeat before I could even ride a bike.
“He’s lucky to have the best in the business, then,” I piped up, my tone just a fraction too sharp.
Mr. Valerio’s eyes drifted to mine in the reflection of the glass. He didn't look annoyed; he looked bored, as if my loyalty was a predictable, uninteresting variable. “We shall see. Now, I’ve had a meal prepared. I’m sure you’re both famished after such a… colorful journey.”
Dinner was a masterclass in architectural loneliness.
We sat at a long table in a dining room that belonged in a high-end editorial, with towering windows overlooking a pool lit up like a blue-tinted runway. There was an extra place setting at the far end—napkin folded, silverware gleaming—that stayed untouched the entire night. It sat there like an accusation, a reminder that the star of this show couldn't be bothered to show up for the people hired to save his career.
“Is it always this quiet?” I asked, the clink of my fork against the fine china sounding like a gunshot in the silence.
“Dominic prefers elsewhere when he’s in one of his… moods,” Mr. Valerio replied, barely touching his wine. “He finds the main house restrictive. I find his lack of discipline exhausting. It’s a stalemate.”
“Sounds like a healthy dynamic,” I muttered under my breath.
Dad gave my foot a firm nudge under the table.
“What?” I looked at him, seeing the dark circles under his eyes that a week of sleep wouldn't fix. “It’s a big house, Dad. Just wondering where all the life is. No photos of the family? No… anyone else?”
Mr. Valerio’s gaze didn’t flicker. “The walls are for achievements. Sentimentality doesn’t win championships. Your father knows that better than anyone.”
The air in the room turned arctic. It was a direct hit—a reminder of the night Dad’s career had vanished in a cloud of smoke and twisted metal. It hadn't been a mechanical failure or a team error that cost him his seat and our lifestyle. It had been his own hands on the wheel, his own recklessness that drove him into a corner he couldn't take. In this world, you were only as good as your last lap, and Dad’s last lap had been a masterclass in self-destruction. Mr. Valerio wasn't just offering a job; he was reminding us that he owned the only person desperate enough to say yes.
While the men returned to reliving the "glory days"—the podiums, the near-misses, the season he was supposed to become a legend— I watched the parts of the room that never joined the laughter.
I noticed how they danced around the truth, carefully pruning the conversation to keep the thorns out. There was no mention of the wreckage, the lawsuits, or the day the FIA pulled his super license. They spoke in highlights, a curated reel of high-speed wins that made my father look like a hero rather than a cautionary tale. In this room, the crash was a stain everyone could see but no one was allowed to name.
I played with my dessert, a decadent chocolate thing that tasted like sand, until we were finally shown to our quarters.
Calling it a pool house was a joke. The only reason this place looked small was because the main house behind it looked like something built for royalty.
It was a three-thousand-square-foot glass palace perched beside the water. Inside, the decor was effortlessly perfect—until I spotted a bra. It was lacy, glittery, and half-stuffed between a pillow and the couch. I plucked it up with two fingers, dangling it like a biohazard, at the exact moment Mr. Valerio walked in behind us.
He snatched it from my hand, his mouth flattening into a line so severe it looked carved there. “Dominic stays here when he wants… privacy,” he explained, smoothing the fabric with a practiced hand as if that erased the visual of his son’s revolving door of guests. “But I’ve made it clear this is your space now. He should be back in the main house. I hope this… suffices.”
