Chapter 28 #2
“Many times.” Oscar smiles. “Senor Belmonte has been coming here since he was a boy. We have arrangements in place with the restaurant.” He speaks into his radio in rapid Spanish. The lead vehicle pulls out, followed by ours, with the third SUV close behind.
The convoy winds through Mexico City’s evening traffic, constantly moving. Stop-and-go traffic is where the danger lies. A vehicle trapped by traffic becomes an easy target for armed thieves, something F1 teams have learned the hard way.
“My father found this place,” Nico explains as we turn down an alley. “Back when he was managing WolfBett’s F3 team.” He smiles. “The owners are like family.”
All three SUVs pull up behind a carnicería. The first vehicle’s team emerges and takes position, followed by Oscar, Rodrigo, and our security detail. The third SUV’s team secures the perimeter. It’s a coordinated dance, with Rodrigo seamlessly integrated into the local operation.
The area is quickly locked down, with security personnel staged at every entrance and exit point. Rodrigo positions himself near the gate while someone speaks into a radio, and only then does Oscar approach our door.
“They’ll remain outside.” Nico guides me toward a gate set into a high white wall.
I’m thrilled to see more of this city than just the airport, hotel, and circuit.
WolfBett and PNW Nitro have reason to fear their drivers could be robbed or kidnapped, but I’ve always hated being shut away when we come here.
One of the things I love about being in F1, besides winning of course, is seeing the world and all its cultures.
Nico opens the wooden gate and a wave of delicious smells hits me—spices and grilled chicken, fresh hot tortillas.
Oh yes, I’m suddenly famished as we enter a small courtyard.
A huge bougainvillea vine spills hot pink blossoms across the wall.
An enormous colorful mural covers the other three courtyard walls.
It depicts everyday scenes of life in Mexico, except one panel that’s clearly an homage to Formula One and features Nico’s face.
Well, color me impressed.
A red and white awning shelters a handful of tables. The space feels worlds away from F1’s demands.
“?Mijo!” A small woman similar in age to Carlos and my dad emerges from the building, arms already open, Spanish spilling over us. “Roberto just told me you were coming tonight.” Her silver hair is cut short and she wears jeans and a turquoise blouse.
“Esmerelda.” Nico’s smile is huge as he returns her embrace. “I hope it’s alright that I brought someone special.”
Her hazel eyes light up when she sees me. “?Ay! La campeona!” She switches to English. “We watched your race Sunday. Your control of that compromised car was impressive.”
A man appears from the back of the building. He wears a white apron over his black shirt and jeans. “Ah, carino. I thought I heard Esme losing her mind.” They embrace, then Nico introduces me to Roberto, Esmerelda’s husband. He takes my hand between his and smiles. “Welcome to Bajo la bandera.”
“Thank you. Your restaurant is beautiful and the food smells amazing,” I reply in Spanish.
“Your racing speaks for itself.” Roberto nods approvingly at Nico. “We’re glad you wanted to share our food with someone important to you.”
“Sit, sit!” Esmerelda fusses over us like we’re underfed children. “I have your favorite, Nico. And for la campeona...” She studies me appraisingly. “My mole.” She waves a finger. “You won’t be disappointed.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” The warmth here feels like stepping into another world. One where championships and politics don’t exist.
Roberto brings cerveza in frosted glasses, waving off Nico’s protest about race weekend. “One beer. To celebrate!” He winks. “Besides, it’s Monday and you don’t drive for a few days.”
“How is Carlos?” Esmerelda sets down dishes that make my mouth water. “Tell him he owes me a visit. And you!” She points at Nico. “It’s about time you brought a girl here.”
“I had to wait for the right one, Esme.”
The way he says it, so matter-of-factly, makes my heart hop a kerb.
“Ah!” She clasps her hands. “Like your father. Carlos waited for the right one too.” She pats my hand. “Now eat! Champions need strength.”
The food is unbelievable, and I swear I taste love and family in every bite.
Despite the high stone walls of the courtyard and the small army of security personnel outside, a handful of customers drift in.
They greet Nico like he’s a family member.
He introduces me, and asks about their children and work.
There’s Senor Hernandez, who owns the local ferretería.
Two university professors, Inma and Pastor.
A family with two teenage boys, Antonio and Hectór, who excitedly exchange dap hugs with Nico and barely maintain their cool when he introduces me.
Each person greets Nico warmly, exchanging brief updates about family members or neighborhood news.
I’m bloody impressed and jealous as each person treats him like a nephew returning from college rather than a world champion. No one reaches for phones or cameras. No one asks about championships or rivalries.
Here, we’re just Nico and Petra, two people sharing a meal.
“?Papá!” A voice calls from inside. “Is Nico here?”
Roberto’s face lights up. His children appear—Mario and Lara—he explains as they join us. The siblings’ eyes go wide, but like the other teens, their excitement feels different from usual fan encounters.
“The suspension.” Mario gestures animatedly. “The way you controlled it through the hairpins ?que increíble! Like dancing with physics.”
“More like wrestling it.” I love their enthusiasm. These people understand racing at its core, the way Italy’s tifosi do. They appreciate the skill it takes for Nico and me to do what we do every week.
Lara leans forward. “Everyone in the neighborhood was screaming at the TV. Even Papá, and he usually only shouts during fútbol.”
“That race was better than any fútbol match I’ve seen in years,” Pastor declares from a neighboring table. “Though don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“The technical aspects alone.” Mario shakes his head and dives into a detailed analysis of differential settings that proves he knows his engineering.
“You should hear him during races.” Lara rolls her eyes. “He breaks down tire strategy better than the commentators.”
“Because I know what I’m talking about.” He turns back to us. “The way you both handled the safety car period? Perfect timing.”
He continues, and I catch Nico watching me. His gaze awakes that filthy feeling in my belly again.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
But I don’t buy it. “Try again, Bunny Boy.”
He chuckles. “I like seeing you happy.”
Which is about the sweetest thing anyone who isn’t my father has ever said to me. I look down and bit my lip. This isn’t the boy I raced on weekends. This is a man who’s equal parts sugar and spice, and I’m not prepared for what he’s doing to my heart.
A guitar’s soft notes weave through the courtyard.
Lara’s moved to a chair in the corner, her fingers sliding across the instrument’s strings.
The atmosphere reminds me of the summer I spent at racing camp in Barcelona with Nico, Wyn, and Reece when we were all just kids dreaming of being champions.
“Remember that climbing wall in Barcelona?” I ask Nico. “The one Nia always dragged me to after training sessions?” She and their mum always spend summers with Nico and Carlos in Spain.
“Dragged?” He laughs. “You two conspired to give me heart attacks. Always going higher and pushing limits.”
“Your sister’s a good teacher.” The music shifts to something slower. “How is she? I know some shit happened last year.”
His expression turns serious. “She’s better. Sebastian, her boyfriend, has been very good to her.” Nico pauses and cocks his head. “You don’t know what happened?”
“Only that there was a problem with a stalker.”
So he tells me about her former neighbor lying in wait and carving up her face with a knife, about how Sebastian threw one of Nico’s helmets so hard it shattered the guy’s eye socket. And then the beach volleyball champion beat what was left of the man to a bloody pulp.
When he’s done, I swallow shock. “Good. I’m glad he destroyed that piece of shit.” I associate Nicolina with laughter, encouragement, and fearlessness. That girl has been through the wringer. First Junior, then breaking her pelvis, now this. “Sebastian sounds perfect for her.”
“He’s amazing.” Nico’s smile turns into a smirk. “Do not tell him I said that. His ego’s big enough already.”
“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow. “You mean that tall, strong, sexy specimen of man intimidates you?”
“Careful, Hayter.” His voice drops low. “Or I might have to remind you which world champion you’re with.”
“Promises, promis—”
His kiss cuts me off, exactly as I’d hoped.