Page 71 of Out of Control

He shrugs. “My loyalty is to my teammate over your father. Like all of us, Cruz needs his head in the right place before he gets in the car. Your dad’s comments could jeopardize that. I was just trying to . . . try. I don’t know. That’s not a common thing for me so don’t get used to it.”

But he did do it. He did intervene in a situation most would have backed down from because it was the revered Dominic Navarro.

“I noticed. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Is this . . . never mind.”

“No. No never minds, remember? Say what you’re going to say.”

His sigh is heavy, foreboding. “If Cruz is the golden child and your dad treats him like that, how does he treat you?”

His question creates a bitter taste on my tongue. “Cruz is the prodigal son. It’s his job to bring glory back to the Navarro name in the sport.”

“That’s how you treat your prodigal son? Huh.”

I can hear the judgment, can feel it. And while he’s absolutely right, it still makes me defensive of my family. They are fucked up for sure, but they are my fucked-up family.

“It’s . . . yeah,” I finally admit.

“And you? The non-prodigal son? How are you treated?”

I twist my lips and stare at my half-painted gallery as I sit beside a man my family would never allow me to be with. What do I say?

“There are different rules for me,” I say softly. “El partriarca. My parents. It’s . . . complicated.”

“And these rules are what prevent you from shouting out about this place from the rooftops? Because if so, that’s total bullshit.”

“I don’t pretend that my family makes sense to anybody else, but it’s still my family.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” he mutters. I don’t understand why he sounds so angry. “You’re good enough to babysit your father, make sure your brother has what he needs to succeed, and who the hell else knows what, but no one gives a fuck what you need, right? Who’s taking care of you, Sofia?”

His words hit me straight in the heart. The way he frames the truth has a way of doing that more often than not, and an even greater way of making me feel like an absolute idiot for being part of it.

“What about you, Rossi?” I ask, definitely on the defensive. It’s so much easier to punch back than it is to admit he’s right. “You’re a world-famous driver, where are your parents at?”

He turns to level me with a look. It’s one of nonchalance with a good dose of fuck you edging it. “Where they’ve always been. At home in Italy. Outside of this chaotic world I live in. Proud of me from afar but too goddamn busy to get up close. Is that what you wanted to hear? You happy to know your family isn’t the only fucked-up one around?”

“Oliver. I’m . . . sorry.” Jesus. The hurt in his words own me and make me feel like there’s so much more here. Deep down I know even if I asked, he’d do what he always does—divert and deflect. Maybe even be on the defensive.

I might know a little something about doing that myself.

“You asked. I answered. I don’t need your pity.”

“I wasn’t giving it to you.”

“Bullshit, but you keep thinking that.”

“Why are you being so difficult?” We went from good to bad in a matter of minutes. I shove up off the floor, throw my panties and T-shirt on, and move around the space, pouring more paint in the tray and adjusting the rollers, needing something to do with my hands. Anything other than hearing the dejected, little-boy tone in his voice when talking about his parents.

I glance back his way and he’s leaning his head back again, looking at the ceiling. He emits a huff. “Are we having our first fight?” he asks.

“No.”

“Yes,” he says resolutely.

“Whatever it is, it’s stupid. How fucked up our families are or are not, isn’t a competition. Especially because . . .”

“Especially because what?” he asks.