11. The Heat is On
The Heat is On
Elio
I open the door with a big smile. “Ciao, Bella .”
Lucy grins and shakes her head just a little. “Hi, Elio. How are you?”
“ Tutto bene. Ready to exercise.” My smile falters as I look her over. “Wait, is that what you’re wearing to work out, or did you bring a change of clothes?” I ask, glad for the excuse to trail my eyes over her body. She’s wearing a skintight pantsuit that complements her full figure.
“Funny,” she says as I let her in. I frown in confusion, and she lets out a snort. “Oh, you’re serious? No way. I’m not exercising. The only workout this body is capable of is an intense shopping session.”
That draws a laugh out of me. “Oh, come on. We’d have fun.”
“Yeah, sure. A girl who never exercises and a pro athlete training together. What could go wrong?”
I chuckle as the gate rings again, and I check the camera before letting Giacomo in. He jogs to the door, like usual.
“ Ciao ,” he says, flashing his expressive smile. “ Chi è questa belissima ragazza ?” He takes Lucy’s hand to kiss it, and my fists involuntarily ball at my sides.
“This is Lucy, an American journalist shadowing me until Monaco.”
“Oh, I see.” His sharp eyes sparkle. “Glad to have you with us. Are you ready to work out?”
“Absolutely not.” She smiles, glancing at me, and I huff a quiet laugh.
I gesture them both inside. “All right, let’s get going.”
We walk over to the large gym, and I instantly feel invigorated.
This room is my sanctuary, my space to recharge, refocus, and push my body to its limits.
The gym is spacious, with sunlight filtering through the large windows, casting a warm, natural glow on the equipment.
It’s a place where I can escape, but still be connected to the world outside.
Giacomo gets the equipment set up while I put on some music and prepare myself a bottle of water with electrolytes.
“Can I sit here?” Lucy asks, gesturing to the massive bench against the wall. “You’re not going to be lifting it or something?”
I burst out a laugh. “Really? All these weights and equipment, and I’d lift the bench?”
She chuckles, her cheeks tinged pink. “Right. Anyway, carry on as if I’m not here.”
As if that was even possible. She lights up the room so brightly, you can’t help but look her way.
Giacomo slaps my back, bringing me back to reality.
Right, I need to focus. This is important.
Having a weekend off between races is both a blessing and a curse, because if I don’t stay on top of my training, it could affect my performance in Monaco.
And that’s the last thing I need on the toughest circuit of the season.
“Okay,” Giacomo says. “Let’s start with the battle ropes.”
I get into position, and the ropes come alive in my hands, each wave a test of control and endurance. My shoulders burn, my lungs fight for air, but I welcome it—the sharp edge of effort that reminds me I’m alive, capable, ready.
I drop the ropes and take a deep breath before going at it again. “Maybe you can explain to Lucy why we’re doing all this?” I suggest to Giacomo.
“ Va bene ,” he says, pointing to the rest of the circuit, his way of telling me not to get distracted.
“Formula 1 athletes are some of the most complete athletes in the world,” he tells Lucy as blood starts pulsing in my ears. “They need to be extremely strong, especially in the lower body since the forces they subject themse lves to range from 2G to 6G when braking at the end of a straight line.”
“Wow,” Lucy says.
“They also need a high degree of fortitude and stability to manage the many turns at high speeds, as well as upper body strength just to hold the wheel.”
Lucy marvels at his words. “In other words, they need strength in every part of their bodies.”
“Basically, yes,” he chuckles. “It’s also crucial in case of a crash. Hey,” he barks, calling me out. “Push harder. You’re already slacking.”
I blow out a breath and ramp up the intensity.
He’s right. I was slacking, listening to what he was saying and awaiting Lucy’s reaction.
I bring myself back into focus, and just like I do during a race, I block out all distractions.
Giacomo’s voice lowers as he discusses the weight of our equipment during a race, and soon, it’s just me and my body.
I push it to the limit, as I always do. When it tells me it wants a break, I go even harder, knowing we can push through.
After all, this body has survived a lot over the years.
A little workout isn’t going to scare it.
And so I keep pushing. Harder and harder.
Lucy
Watching Elio work out might be one of my new favorite hobbies.
If ogling was a sport, I’d be world champion.
He’s been at it for about an hour and thirty now, beads of sweat glistening on his face and naked torso.
Yeah, that happened too. And let me tell you something, this guy is ripped .
I knew he was in shape, obviously, but I didn’t know he was Hershey’s-bar-abs in shape, or that his arms and shoulders were packed with so much lean muscle.
I’ve always had a thing for strong arms, so this isn’t helping with my very unprofessional attraction to him.
Still, I’m not mad I took a few pictures of the session—for work, of course.
He’s now smashing a training ball hard on the floor, and it’s my favorite routine yet.
His abs and arms contract, and there’s a focused, even angry expression on his face as he slams the ball with surprising strength.
It reveals another side of his personality, the determined athlete, when I’ve only ever seen the overconfident flirt.
Suddenly, I’m dying to watch the race from the garage with his team.
I want to feel that energy, the desire to win that Elio must have right before the race, not to mention the tension that must linger in the air.
An experience like that would be very exclusive for our readers.
“Still enjoying yourself, Bella ?” he asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
I shift in my seat, struggling to focus on his eyes. “You bet. This is very entertaining.” I nearly use my hand as a fan, but I catch myself just in time.
“Try ‘unfair,’” he says, blowing out a long breath before taking a swig of his drink.
I chuckle. “Well, I’m not a professional athlete.”
“Still. You want to shadow me? I demand you get on the floor with me next time.”
“I second that,” Giacomo says. “We’ll make it a fun workout.”
Elio is using everything in his toolbox to convince me—including one very unfair dimple—and because I’m the weakest person on the planet, I roll my eyes and relent. “Fine. Maybe next time.”
“Perfetto .” Elio clasps his hands. “Then it’s settled. We’ll train again tomorrow.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Hold on. I thought you didn’t make plans.”
“I do have to train, after all.” He flashes a coy smile, then turns back toward Giacomo for his next set of instructions.
Elio has just finished his workout and is cooling down when his phone rings. “Look at that,” he says, checking his phone. “More plans. You’re going to love this.” His dark eyes lock on me.
I cross my arms. “I will?”
“It appears that I’m shooting a commercial for a body spray this afternoon at the test track. It does mean we can’t do the sim today, but I have to visit HQ tomorrow anyway.”
I feel a spark of hope. “Sounds fun. Does that mean no training tomorrow?”
They both laugh. “There’s alw ays training, Bella . Every morning. Pat only schedules stuff for the afternoon.”
“Do you have time to do lunch?” Giacomo asks, putting the equipment away.
“I don’t think so. We’ll grab something on the way. We have to get going.”
While Elio takes a shower, I open the search engine of my phone and resume my research of the surname Marchesi in Portovino.
When I woke up this morning, I had an email from Elaine confirming that my mom did grow up here and giving me her maiden name.
This can’t be a coincidence. The odds that I’ve been sent to this small town in Italy, which turns out to be where my mom grew up before cutting ties with her family, are incredibly slim.
I’ve always believed in fate, and this tells me I need to investigate further.
Unfortunately, the research I started this morning is leading me nowhere.
Marchesi is an incredibly popular last name in Italy, and Elaine didn’t remember my grandparents’ first names or any other details that could help.
With no other leads, I’ve been forced to scroll through pages and pages of search results, but so far, nothing.
And since everything is in Italian, the search is slow going.
Let’s just say the online translator still has plenty of room for improvement.
I did scan the town’s online directory, but no luck there either.
Maybe I should just go to the town hall and ask if anyone in Portovino is named Marchesi, then take it from there. Hopefully, we won’t be at the trac k long, and I can try my luck later today. I have to try, because this is not a coincidence. It can’t be.
It takes roughly an hour to reach the RM test track where they’re shooting the commercial, even if you get there in a sports car driven by a professional F1 driver. Elio wasn’t joking. He really is a careful driver, and we were passed twice on the way here.
The test track is a private circuit Rossi uses to test their cars and drivers on.
Elio says it’s usually quiet, but not today.
There is a whole crew here with cameras and lighting equipment, and they’ve erected a white tent for makeup and wardrobe.
Elio’s race car is parked in the middle of the track, right in front of the camera, so I’m guessing they’ll be using it for the commercial.
“Elio, so nice to finally meet you,” a tall and skinny redhead says, sauntering toward us. She bats her eyelashes while offering her hand to him. “I’m Veronica, in charge of today’s campaign.”