Monza (Formula Men #1)(8)
“I don’t understand your relationship with her.” It had always confused me. I mean, they had sexual tension and all, but they had settled being friends. Who the f*uk does that in this day and age?
Jacques instantly became guarded whenever Andrés and I grilled him about his odd relationship with the Hollywood bombshell. “I know it’s foreign to you, but it’s called friendship, in case you were wondering.”
“Men and women can’t simply be friends without wanting to f*uk each other.”
“She is beautiful, but we truly are friends. We met her when she was heartbroken, and I’m truly glad that she’s happy now.”
Andrés decided to quip in. “With that actor guy, right?”
“Bass Cole’s his name,” Jacques easily supplied.
“He’s an ass.”
For the first time today, I agreed with the Spaniard. I simply didn’t get a man who would let his woman gallivant around different men when it was blatantly obvious they still loved each other. I believed it was purely moronic.
“Enough about Emma. Let’s talk about a welcome home party the second I get out of this place. How does that sound?”
Andrés cleared his throat, looking rather pensive. “We were thinking that it might be best if you recuperate and stay out for the rest of the season.”
“What the f*uk are you talking about? I’m fine!” I tensed, incensed at the horrific suggestion. Worse yet, it was appalling that it had come out from my best friends. If they wanted me out of the competition because they felt threatened, then they could go f*uk themselves. If looks could kill, Andrés would have been pulverized already.
Jacques instantly tried to be the mediator between Andrés and myself.
“You haven’t been fine. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you haven’t been fine, Luca. Not for the past months, no, you haven’t.”
Aw, hell to the mother f*uking no.
“Is that why you both are here, to f*uking ambush me?” This was getting ridiculous. “Get the f*uk out, and don’t come back until you guys have something better to say!”
“Calm down, Luca, that wasn’t our intention.” Jacques tried to reason, but I was too exhausted from having too much of everything thrown at me all at once to even dare enjoy their company at the moment.
I shook my head. “I need to rest. This is far too absurd for me to deal with.”
Both men tried to argue their case before I finally booted them out of my room.
Retire for the season? Pft. They had truly lost their minds. I was perfectly fine. And for Jacques to insinuate that I hadn’t been doing well for the past months was truly ludicrous.
I was fine. There wasn’t a question about it. End of story.
Cinque
After the disastrous visit, I had refrained from allowing anyone in who wanted to see me. No one was exempted. It was already stressful to be bound to this place for a while, not to mention the aches and throbbing pains I was having sporadically. Top that with people misplacing their good will and concern on me, and I simply couldn’t deal with it.
Thankfully, I was discharged to go home to my villa in Milan four days later, accompanied by nurses to make rounds, making sure I wasn’t faint, overstressing my body, doing things I was prohibited to do, and most likely the possibility of being suicidal.
No one had said it out loud, but I got the inclination that the doctor thought it and, well, to the rest of the folks who were tuning in along with all the media spectacle, nitpicking every single “angle” they thought had been behind my accident. There wasn’t anything to analyze about the damn thing. My car slid and hit the wall. It went up in flames, and they had to smash the window glass to pull my unconscious body out, end of story.
I wasn’t psychologically challenged before it happened. I wasn’t an alcoholic as they reported, though I had something to drink before I went behind the wheel. I knew it was prohibited, but I f*uking needed it. I was sure, once the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile (FIA) got a whiff of this, they would suspend me for the rest of the season, but hell, I was taking my chances.
When a short rap came at the door, I yelled out a curt response to let them through. I had anticipated it was one of the nurses but was relieved to see that it was my assistant Gino. It was odd, but seeing him was the only thing normal in my life. It reminded me that I had a routine—I had a life—before the crash.
He carried what seemed to be a file of some sort. I wasn’t sure what it was. He always had paperwork and folders with him most times, but there was this odd inkling that this folder was about her and that my world was going to shift once more.
Porca troia, my heart felt like it was having contractions.
“I have the information you asked me for in the hospital,” Gino informed me as I uncomfortably shifted in my seat.
“Give me the rundown.” I gritted my teeth, anticipating the dread that was about to hit me once again. I loathed that I minded, that I cared enough to hate her to this extent. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t take action and let the hatred ruin me.
“She stopped going to school the moment she got married to the prominent lawyer Anton Gallo. She seems to be leading a quiet life. She only leaves their marital home in Via Margutta when she sees family. As far as we know, she doesn’t have that many friends in the city, so she socializes amongst Signore Anton’s circle. She also visits her father and brother on a daily basis and dines with them a few times a week.” Anton conveyed the facts as if he was reading a grocery list, nonchalant and expressionless.