Chapter 20 Matteo
MATTEO
Vegas was madness. The media circus leading up to the Grand Prix had been next-level—cameras in your face, microphones shoved at your mouth, fans screaming your name from behind velvet ropes.
They paraded us around like prize ponies.
Eighty percent racing, twenty percent doing whatever contractual nonsense they threw our way.
Didn’t mean I hated it.
I actually kind of liked it—the roar of the crowd, the buzz in the air like static before a storm. I fed off it. That electric anticipation, the way fans lit up just seeing us—it reminded me why I loved this sport in the first place.
Carlos was grinning ear to ear beside me as we stepped onto the outdoor stage. We fielded a few half-serious questions, goofed off in the bedazzled suit jackets someone from PR thought would be funny. We played along. That was part of the job too—making it look effortless.
Behind us, the Kaz Energy team waited their turn—Theo Bauer stood stiffly next to his new teammate, Austin Rhodes.
British and American. Fire and water. Austin was still green, but friendly as hell.
Theo, on the other hand, had the charm of a wet towel and a large ego.
While the guy was known as a bit of a total douchebag, no one could deny he was a damn good racer.
“This is so fucking stupid,” Theo muttered under his breath as we passed each other on the stairs.
Carlos chuckled, “He’s a joy, isn’t he?”
The crowd roared louder when Kaz Energy took the stage.
No surprise. They were the team to beat, neck and neck with Belen Racing in the Constructors’ Championship, the final scoring for team points.
Moretti Racing was clawing its way back to relevance—year after year, a noncompetitive car had left the team languishing near the bottom of the top ten.
Still point-scoring, sure. But not enough.
It wasn’t until my rookie year that we started scoring some fighting points, but the team still had work to do.
Carlos and I had scored some big points this year—it was only a matter of time till we were competing with the top two.
Every race, every sprint, every single point counted.
High scores meant bigger sponsorships and more opportunities for the team in the coming years.
That’s where I came in. Today, it was up to me to put numbers on the board. Big ones.
Carlos bumped my shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m good, man.”
He gave me a look—like he half believed me—and then we split off to join our respective crews.
Vegas was a night race, which just added to the thrill.
The city was already wild on a normal night, but on race weekend?
It was a live wire. Every inch of the Strip pulsed with energy, adrenaline, and the scent of gasoline.
After a string of quick meetings, a strategy debrief, and a brutal cooldown session in what could only be described as the ice bath from hell, I was toweling off in the training room when Anna walked in.
“Hey,” she said, tablet in hand, always too composed, “There are a couple social matters I wanted to run by you.”
I straightened, heart ticking up a beat. Anna didn’t interrupt pre-race prep unless she had to. My last manager would’ve dumped the whole media pile on me mid-warmup just to cover his own ass or be a petty asshole. But Anna? She knew timing.
“I know how important this race is,” she continued, “So I wanted to give you the option—either we debrief after the race, or I can give you the gist now.”
My chest tightened. That itch of curiosity scraped at the back of my neck—but not enough to risk shaking my focus.
I dragged a hand through my damp hair. “If it can wait, tell me after.”
Anna hesitated. Just a flicker of it. “It can wait,” she said, though not without effort, “I’ll handle everything until then. You focus. I just didn’t want to take the choice away from you.”
My shoulders eased, a small pang in my chest at her words. “I appreciate that.”
And I did. It was why we worked so well together.
She respected that I needed control where I could get it.
This sport—this season—was chaotic. But in our partnership, there was trust. Especially today.
The points were on me. Carlos had qualified farther back meaning if he managed to score points, they would be miniscule.
It was up to me to keep us in the fight.
And with the pressure of the team, the championship battle, and a certain sharp-tongued brunette haunting the corners of my mind—I couldn’t afford any more distractions.
Besides, if I didn’t bring home some major points tonight?
All five feet and one inch of Nicola Moretti would have plenty to say about it.
I wasn’t sure if that was more terrifying…or motivating.
By the time we lined up on the grid, my world had gone still.
Engines were ready and waiting. Mechanics moved in a choreographed blur around the cars, holding tire covers and doing all the things they needed to do before they pulled away and left it to us.
Everything else—media noise, social obligations, even Anna’s maybe-worrying news—faded into background static.
Helmet on. Gloves tight. Harness strapped.
I was dialed in.
Night hung heavy over the Strip, but the lights were blinding—spotlights, strobes, billboards towering over the barriers like electric gods. But the moment I slid into the cockpit, it all melted away. The chaos, the glitz, the spectacle that was Vegas—it couldn’t touch me in here.
This was mine. This car. This track. These next two hours.
“Alright, Matteo,” came the voice of my race engineer in my ear, crisp and cool as ever. “Standard start today. Long stint. Let the chaos play out up front.”
“Copy,” I replied, steady.
And then the lights came on.
Five red.
My fingers twitched on the paddle. Heart rate even. Every nerve on high alert, every sense tuned like a violin string. No thoughts now—just instincts. Muscle memory. A lifetime of racing wired into every reaction.
Slowly the lights blinked out one by one. Five lights, then the racing began.
I launched clean. The car in front did not.
Sluggish off the line, a fraction too slow, and that was all I needed.
I darted left, threading the needle between him and the wall, knowing exactly how much space I had down to the millimeter.
Years of karting taught me the lines. Years of F2 taught me the grit. And now? Now I was a damn predator.
By Turn 1, I was already up a position.
By Turn 3, I was side by side with P3.
Breathe. Brake late. Trust the grip.
We danced through the corners, neither of us blinking. But this was where I thrived—wheel to wheel, that razor-thin line between brilliance and disaster. I nudged the car just wide enough to own the corner, and the other driver blinked first. He lifted.
I didn’t.
Coming out of Sector 1, I had secured third.
“Beautiful move,” my engineer said, voice laced with calm satisfaction. “You’ve got clean air ahead.”
I could see it—Theo Bauer up front in his smug Kaz Energy rocket ship, already thinking he had the win in the bag.
But the race was long. And Vegas…Vegas had a funny way of shaking things up.
Alexander had qualified mid-field in twelfth, but I knew he would claw his way back up.
So I locked in and focused all my energy on the road ahead and the bright blue car ahead of me.
Still, I didn’t rush it.
I stayed within DRS range, conserving tires, managing fuel, letting the laps roll down like seconds on a stopwatch. It was only lap nine. No one won a race in lap nine—there was plenty of fight left—but holding onto P3 seemed unreal, let alone scoring a podium.
Theo made a mistake on lap eleven. Tiny.
Barely noticeable. A lock-up going into the tight left-hander near the Sphere.
But I saw it. Felt it in the timing delta.
I closed the gap, waited two more laps, then made my move down the straight.
He defended the inside—I went wide, holding it around the outside with barely enough grip to stick.
We were inches apart at 180 miles per hour.
But I didn’t flinch.
I took the lead on lap thirteen, fighting with all I had.
Vegas blurred past me in streaks of light and shadow, the whole city screaming with sound. My world narrowed to corners and apexes and tire temps. Then someone was on my ass in the final laps. I clicked to speak to my engineer through our radio.
“Is that a Belen on me?”
“Yeah mate, Wright is coming for the front.” The radio crackled through my headphones with the response. I grinned wide. A Moretti car was no match for a Belen this year. His tires were fresh, and he easily outpaced me with the next lap, but I made him work for it.
“Stay focused, DeLuca. Hold down third.”
And I did just that, crossing the finish line in third place. On the cool down lap, I thumped my fist into the air.
“Good job, DeLuca,” the radio crackled.
“Fucking brilliant, Matteo!” The team principal’s voice crackled through the radio.
It filled me with pride; it was rare he got on the radio, but Moretti was on the up and up.
And it had been too far between podium finishes lately.
But here I was clawing our way back. Securing fifteen points toward the championship final.
Moretti was looking like it just might sit in third for the Constructor’s Championship after all, which felt like a huge win.
The moment I pulled in behind the P3 marker, I punched the air, helmet still on, adrenaline surging like wildfire through my veins. The team was screaming in my ears, my engineer half-laughing, half-cheering.
I shut my eyes for half a second, just breathing it in.
Third place. After the season we’d had—after everything—this wasn’t just a trophy. It was proof. That the car was back. That I was back. That we could still fight.
I killed the engine, unclipped my belts, and climbed out of the cockpit to a sea of noise—cheering, roaring, music already pumping from the speakers around the finish line. The Vegas lights painted the tarmac in gold and neon, making everything look surreal.
“Matteo!”
I turned just in time to catch Alexander as he barreled toward me, still in his race suit, grinning like a maniac.
He pulled me into a hug so tight I nearly dropped my helmet.
“Fucking proud of you,” he said, voice rough in my ear. “That was a masterclass.”
I laughed, clapping him on the back. “You didn’t think I could do it, huh?”
“I always thought you could,” he said, pulling back to squeeze my shoulders. “You just needed the right moment.”
This was it. This was the moment.
The Moretti crew had pushed up to the barriers, red flooding the fence line—mechanics, engineers, pit wall, all cheering their hearts out. I jogged over and threw myself into their arms. Arms slung around me. Someone handed me a team flag. There were shouts of “Matteo! Matteo!”
I looked up at the crowd, eyes scanning for my familiar faces. My sister, Gianna, and Nicola.
Alexander had slipped away from the celebration—just for a second—but it was enough. He was walking over to my sister.
She was cheering and smiling brightly. Her eyes bright and wide as she watched him come toward her like nothing else existed.
He didn’t hesitate.
He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her like the whole damn world had gone quiet.
The crowd around them cheered even louder—Belen crew who had put the pieces together, fans who lived for that kind of ‘love story in real time’ moment. But all I saw was the way her hands found his jacket, tugging him closer like she couldn’t help it.
My chest squeezed. I was so fucking happy for them. For the way Alexander looked at her like she was gravity itself. For the way she softened around him, like he’d carved out a space in her armor only he could reach.
I wanted that.