Chapter 3
Francesca
The restaurant smells like home. Garlic warming in olive oil, seared meat just catching on the edges, and a whisper of toasted rosemary.
The scent captivates my mother, Giulia, first. She lifts her chin slightly, eyes half-lidded in approval as a waiter glides past with a tray of orecchiette smothered in ragù.
We’ve done this all over the world. Tokyo. S?o Paulo. London. Wherever racing or my father’s business takes us, we make a point to find a good Italian restaurant. It’s part tradition, part competitive sport. My family is from the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy, and we don’t just eat Italian food.
We judge it and we judge it ruthlessly.
My father’s already squinting at the wine list like it’s trying to pull one over on him. “They have a Chianti Classico listed under the Super Tuscans. That’s a red flag.”
My mother hums, scanning the open kitchen like a general assessing her battlefield. “The rosemary smells imported. Dry. Not terrible, but also not fresh.”
Which is ridiculous… her nose isn’t that good.
Alessio leans across the table and smirks. “Bet they serve carbonara with cream.”
That is a legitimate mistake we have found in many Italian restaurants around the world.
My father groans as if someone just insulted his grandmother. “If they do, we leave.”
I can’t help but laugh. This is the good stuff—the rhythm of our family. The sass, the faux snobbery, the strange comfort of knowing that no matter where in the world we are, we can always argue about olive oil.
The restaurant is loud, but not annoyingly so.
Probably because I come from a loud family.
The place is mostly tourists, and the bar area is packed.
We’re tucked into a booth near the windows, candlelight flickering off the glass.
We’ve already demolished the plate of olives and crusty bread.
I take a breath because tonight, I’m not a formula race car driver.
I’m just a young Italian woman out with her parents and brother for an early dinner.
In fact, I’m practically incognito. No team gear, no makeup, hair in a high ponytail making me look like a teenager.
It’s nice to be out of the paddock. Nice to be away from the cameras and commentary.
Nice to relax for tomorrow, the biggest and most important moment of my life.
Race day.
Across the restaurant, my eye catches on a very handsome man walking our way. I wave to get his attention and upon seeing me, he weaves through the tables to reach us.
Carlos Moreno, driver for Union Jack Motorsports and probably the driver I know the best on the circuit.
We’ve been friends since we were kids, both of us coming up through karting at the same time.
He was one of the few who didn’t seem to mind that I was a girl and always made me feel welcome in the club.
That was never more apparent than after he reached out when I arrived in Suzuka and invited me to join him for breakfast. He wanted to “officially” welcome me to Formula International and pledge his help should I need it.
In a sport that’s so competitive you could die trying to get the upper hand out on the track, I was very touched by the offer. I wanted to return the favor, so I invited him to eat with me and my family tonight, as I know he doesn’t have anyone here in Suzuka for this race.
I watch others in the restaurant watching Carlos.
There’s an ease in the way he moves, confident but never showy.
His hair is longish, dark and wavy and pushed back like he ran a hand through it right before walking in.
His eyes—warm brown and always alert—are filled with amusement.
His close-cropped goatee sharpens the edges of his cheekbones under the amber lighting, his skin carries a rich bronze sheen.
I rise to meet him, my grin already in place. “You made it,” I say, leaning in for a quick air-kiss.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, brushing his fingers through his curls. “My driver got lost. He apparently couldn’t believe that I was looking for an Italian restaurant in Japan.”
I laugh and gesture toward the open seat between me and my brother. “You found it. Come sit.”
Carlos slides in, offering a warm, polite smile to the rest of the table. “Thank you for having me.”
“My pleasure,” my father says, extending a hand in greeting. He’s met Carlos on a few occasions over the years. “We’re glad you could join us.”
Carlos shakes his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Luca.”
“And you remember my mamma, Giulia,” I say, watching as she leans forward with her usual grace and appraising eyes.
“Of course,” Carlos says with an incline of his head. “A pleasure.”
“And I don’t think you’ve met my brother, Alessio,” I add, and the two men shake hands. “He runs logistics for the family business.”
Alessio gives a modest shrug. “Only because Papà keeps trying to retire.”
My father scoffs. “I said slow down. I never said stop.”
Carlos’s smile shifts toward curious. “Remind me what the business is?”
“We manufacture precision instrumentation,” my father says. “Medical, aviation, industrial—you name it.”
“Grew it from a one-room shop in Bologna,” Alessio adds. “Now it has offices in eight countries, two of which I’m never allowed to visit without supervision.”
My mother rolls her eyes with a fond sigh. “Because you try to expense nightclubs you visit.”
“Only the ones that offer cultural enrichment,” he quips straight-faced, and we all laugh.
I turn to Carlos, ignoring my imp of an older brother who often displays the emotional maturity of a grapefruit. “We’re from Imola, but Bologna’s where the company was born—and where most of the headaches still live.”
“Motorsport, machines and mortadella,” Alessio adds, gesturing loosely with his water glass. “We’re very serious about all three.”
Carlos quirks a brow. “What’s mortadella?”
“It’s like bologna,” I say, “but if bologna had an Italian passport, a higher education, and better seasoning. Smooth, rich, a little nutty if you get the kind with pistachios.”
Carlos grins. “You had me at better seasoning.”
My mother nods approvingly. “Served properly with warm bread and a glass of Lambrusco, it’s a meal.”
Alessio smirks. “Or a religion, depending on who you ask.”
The rhythm settles in quickly. Carlos is first and foremost a rival, but tonight he’s just a friend, the kind you’re not indebted to but for whom you’d punch someone if they said the wrong thing.
Talk drifts toward the track once the bread basket’s been pillaged and the wineglasses refilled. Carlos leans back, one arm slung over the back of a chair, a mischievous spark already warming his eyes.
“Okay,” he says, “Bahrain last year—FP2—I come out of the garage behind Kai Williams at Brittania Performance. He’s weaving like crazy, tires barely warm, and I’m trying to get my first flyer in. I radio the team like, ‘What is he doing?’”
My father raises an eyebrow. “And what was he doing?”
Carlos shrugs, grinning. “Apparently trying to loosen a bee from his helmet.”
Alessio chokes on his wine.
“I’m dead serious,” Carlos says, laughing. “He’s swatting at his visor, driving like he’s drunk.”
“Did he crash?” my mother asks, calmly dabbing her lips with her napkin.
“No. But he did spin out in Turn 9 and blamed it on ‘aggressive turbulence.’”
My mom laughs—soft, amused, shaking her head. “Aggressive turbulence,” she repeats and winks at me. “I’ll be using that next time your father burns garlic.”
“You try sautéing while three people are calling about shipment delays,” Luca mutters, but his smile betrays him.
The laughter tapers off and Carlos glances at me, more measured now. “Speaking of turbulence—how’s the media circus treating you?”
I swirl the last sip of wine in my glass. “Depends on the hour.”
My mother’s expression tightens slightly, but she doesn’t speak. She never does—at least not first. She waits.
“It’s relentless,” I admit. “And not about the driving, of course. It’s about my face, my hair, my emotional state. They asked if I thought I’d get ‘too overwhelmed’ during the race. One woman asked what shade of lipstick I wear on race days.”
Carlos winces. “Seriously?”
Alessio snorts. “Should’ve told her you wear engine grease.”
“I almost told her I tint my lips with the blood of my enemies,” I say. Carlos laughs again, but softer this time.
“I’m fine,” I add, because I feel my mother’s worry practically vibrating across the table. “It’s annoying, but it’s not new. They’ll get bored eventually.”
Mamma reaches over and pats my hand. “Let them talk. You’re an Accardi and you don’t care what people think or say. You just keep driving.”
I nod, because that’s exactly what I plan to do.
But first, the bathroom. I rise from my chair. “I need to use the restroom. Mamma… will you order me a fizzy water when the waiter comes back?”
“Of course,” she says and then turns to Carlos. “So… are you dating anyone special?”
I roll my eyes because I can hear the machination in my dear mother’s question, confident Carlos can hold his own.
I weave through the tables and into the bar area where the restrooms are located.
It’s separated by an open archway and a few tall potted plants that do nothing to muffle the sound of clinking glasses and low music.
I spot a familiar face before I even round the corner.
Ronan Barnes.
He’s in a black button-up, sleeves rolled, and casually leaning against the bar with a beer in hand. His posture is loose and his bearing superior, like the world has never once told him no. Two women hang near him, both tall, both laughing like they’ve just heard the cleverest joke on the planet.
He doesn’t see me at first and I’m grateful for it. I haven’t seen him since qualifying ended today and even though I vowed to give him a piece of my mind after he impeded my flying lap, I’ve reconciled it’s not worth it. The race stewards declared no penalty was warranted so I have to let it go.
I duck, passing directly behind the bar, heading for the hallway marked Toilets in both Japanese and English. But curiosity gets the better of me and I sneak a peek his way, only to find him staring at me.
Great.
One of the women says something to him, her hand on his arm to get his attention. It doesn’t provoke a result though, and instead his steady blue eyes burn into mine.
I ignore him, turning toward the restroom, and only once I’m inside with the door closed do I realize that my heart is thudding.
I try to analyze why that is, and by the time I’m drying my hands, I’m no closer to the truth.
Surely, it’s because I’ve got a beef with him over how he impeded me and I’m anticipating blowback since we reported it.
That must be it.
I leave the bathroom, eyes averted with the intent to ignore Barnes, but I’m brought up short by a muscular frame right in my way. I almost run into the man, an apology on my lips when I realize it’s Ronan.
I take a step back. “Excuse you.”
Ronan doesn’t budge. His beer is still in hand, half-empty, condensation trailing down the side. “Didn’t realize walking down a hallway qualified as an offense now.”
“Blocking someone’s flying lap during qualifying does,” I snap at him.
His gaze sharpens. “I can’t believe you seriously filed a steward report on that.”
I lift a brow. “I can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t.”
A slow smile pulls at his mouth—not amused, perhaps sardonic. “I wasn’t impeding you. I was setting up for my own flyer. Your engineer should’ve timed your release better.”
Just walk on by, Francesca. Show him he’s not worth your time.
But I’m not the sort of woman who shies away from a fight. Italians can be quite spicy with their emotions. “Oh, so it’s my team’s fault now?”
“Someone has to take responsibility, Accardi. Might as well start where it belongs.”
I fold my arms. “You were crawling through Sector 2 and weaving like you were sightseeing.”
He leans in slightly, enough that I catch the faint scent of cedar, warm and smoky. “If I was sightseeing, it was only because I saw something worth looking at.”
I snort. “Spare me the charm routine. Save it for your fan club.” I nod toward the bar, where the two women are now looking me over with narrowed eyes.
Ronan doesn’t even glance their way. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
“Jealous?” I laugh, incredulous. “Hard pass.”
His smirk deepens. “You sure? Sounded a little bitter when you mentioned them.”
I shrug. “Just surprised you can carry a conversation with women whose only vocabulary is cocktails and compliments.”
That gets a low chuckle from him, and for some reason, I hate that I like the sound of it.
“You’ve got brains, Accardi,” he says. “You applying for the spot?”
I pause. Did he just say that to me? My eyes flick over to the bar and the two women shoot me hateful glares. I try to return a silent message to them that they can have him.
“You’re so full of yourself, you’re not even worth my energy to have this conversation.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, taking a lazy sip of his beer, “you’re still standing here.”
I open my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but for a beat too long, I stare at him instead—at the way his shirt clings to his shoulders, the sharp edge of his jaw, the undeniable pull of him. I get why women follow him. He’s magnetic in a way that’s hard to ignore.
I get it. I just hate that I do.
Good thing for me, his cockiness dulls the allure. Well, mostly.
I shake my head, stepping around him. “Enjoy your night, Barnes. Try not to obstruct traffic while you’re at it.”
He lets me pass this time, but I sense his gaze chasing me the entire way back to my table.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks. He’s always been like this—superior, smug, convinced the world owes him the inside lane.
But still—
No one who looks like that should be such an insufferable dick.