I make a vow to myself right then. I don’t know how I’m going to convince him, but I’m not letting Arthur go to Leone.
If I can, I’m going to help him never feel like this again.
His eyes trail down to his hand. I’ve got it wrapped up in both of mine so he can’t take it away from its place over my heart, our chests rising and falling in sync.
“Feel that?” I say once the color has returned to his cheeks.
The corners of his mouth wobble, and he sets his jaw, bracing against the admiration in his eyes. “Still alive?”
“Still alive,” I answer.
Chapter Twenty-FiveItaly
“I’m smart. I’m capable. I’m okay,” I repeat to myself as I stare at the glass door separating me and Monza’s Paddock Club—the fanciest seating for the fanciest Formula 1 fans, above the garages with a view of the pit lane. After flying in with Arthur late last night, I’d looked up how much tickets to it cost. You know, just to see.
I’d tapped out of my internet browser before my heart gave out.
Confidence will be key today. Delaney and Sarah had volunteered to monitor the reaction online and spring the idea of “gently killing Black & Graywood’s documentary” to the marketing team. And as hard as it was to wake up to a new world I didn’t understand—and swallow the attention and phone calls and voicemails and texts and comments—Arthur and I are so close to pulling this off.
We just need to get him fired. Then I’ll talk to him and convince him that he can’t go to his meeting with Leone afterward. And then…
He won’t. This isn’t like my relationship with Max. Arthur wants me, he listens to me. When I speak to him, my words have weight.
I’ll be able to fix this.
When I spot Arthur seated next to Holmes on a low white chair near the balcony overlooking the Italian circuit, unmissable in his orange Ignition tracksuit and baseball cap, I wish for the hundredth time today that his life was easier, less busy. Today’s a media day. He has a meet-and-greet event this evening for local fans, and I don’t know how he can put on a brave face like that and show up for photos, when I feel like the world is on fire.
Arthur jumps up when he sees me. “Sorry, I would’ve met you outside and walked in with you, but I didn’t have my phone and—” He stops himself and frowns. “Sorry.”
He’s worried. I take his hand and lace our fingers together, only for a moment. It’s enough. He looks at our hands, then my wrist. I’m wearing the watch he’d given me, and he must have needed the visual confirmation that I’m still in, still on his side, because his shoulders slope with silent relief.
“It looks good on you,” he says with the tiniest smile.
“Matches my outfit?” I tease.
His lips curve. “Black with black and black.”
“Felt fitting.”
“Funeral attire?”
“More like ‘don’t fuck with me.’?”
Arthur lets out a surprised laugh. Then he says, “It’s not too late for you to turn around. You don’t need to be here when Holmes digs into me.”
“Sure I do.” I offer Arthur the crook of my elbow, ignoring my drumming heart. “Let’s go.”
The men stand before we can make it to the patio furniture. Even though Arthur’s dad is on the shorter side and much older than I expected, the similarities between father, son, and uncle are uncanny when they’re in front of me; the three have that old-money cut to their jawline that sucks all the air out of a room.
“Lilah, you obviously know my uncle, Holmes,” Arthur says. “And this is my father, Lorenzo.”
“Hi. I’m so happy to—oh.” His father pulls me into a double-sided air kiss, his whiskery mustache tickling my skin.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Bianco says. “Please, call me Renzo.”
I’m so not doing that. A stab of anger digs into my side as I politely nod toward Holmes. It’s probably obvious from the way I can’t meet his eyes that I know what’s coming, but I don’t particularly care anymore what he thinks of me.
Mr. Bianco clears his throat. “Shall we sit?”
