Chapter 16
Francesca
The hiss of an air gun cuts like a starter pistol.
I lean against the padded wall at the edge of our mock pit lane, arms folded, watching the crew descend on Nash’s car in a blur.
Tires are swapped in the blink of an eye, the jack slams down, and the front tire gunner slaps the nose with a shout of, “Go, go, go!”
Nash launches forward in a short, fierce burst, the rear tires chirping against the concrete.
The “lane” here at headquarters isn’t full length—just a painted strip long enough for him to accelerate a few car lengths before braking hard on the mark so the pit crew can do their job.
Without screaming crowds or rival cars flying past, it’s a controlled environment, but when a fraction of a second is like gold, it’s every bit as intense.
One of the guys flips her a good-natured salute before jogging back to his mark.
I step closer, peering into the open cockpit where Nash grins like a kid who’s just beaten his personal best on a video game. “You rolled two inches past your marks,” I tease. “Left front guy had to chase you.”
“Yeah?” he fires back, unstrapping his belts. “Bet you couldn’t stop dead-on if you tried.”
A couple of the crew overhear and groan like they’ve heard this argument a hundred times. “Oh, I’d pay to see that,” the rear jack operator calls.
Bex waves a gloved hand toward an empty demo chassis. “Come on then, rookie. Let’s see your precision.”
I laugh, but the challenge is too good to pass up. “Fine. But if I embarrass myself, this never leaves the garage.”
Once I’m strapped in, I take a deep breath and accelerate down the mock pit lane at limiter speed, eyes fixed on the bright orange guide cone.
When I judge the moment to be perfect, I brake hard and the car comes to a quick stop.
The jack man pops the lever under me, and a cheer goes up when my tires stop dead in the center of the marks.
“Only an inch off perfect,” Bex announces with a grin. “Not bad for a rookie.”
Nash scoffs, coming to the side of my car. “Fluke.”
I raise my hands in victory and Nash grumbles, “Guess you’re not just a pretty face after all, Accardi.”
“Careful,” I shoot back. “I might take your seat next season.”
The guys laugh, and the easy camaraderie warms me. This—being part of a team—is what makes this sport so great. Even though Nash and I compete on the track, we are always working to advance the team.
Half an hour later, we’re in the engineering bay. The walls are lined with aerodynamic models and framed blueprints of past cars, and the scent of machine oil and coffee lingers in the air. The cars we’ll be driving at Silvercrest are both on jacks with mechanics swarming to implement updates.
Nash sits at a long table, a few chairs down from me, lazily spinning a pen between his fingers.
Across from us is Tom Whitaker, the Titans’ head of electronics, with his ever-present notepad and a coffee that smells strong enough to melt carbon fiber.
Next to him, Rina Morales, lead tire performance engineer, has her tablet angled so she can flick between compound degradation charts with lightning speed.
At the far end, Matteo Ricci—the soft-spoken aerodynamics lead—leans in enough for the light to catch the silver in his hair, fixed on the airflow simulations rotating in slow loops on his display.
All brilliant minds creating a hive of knowledge that will hopefully lead to the best race we can run.
Bex leans over the conference table, pointing at one of the displays. “Brake temps spiked here in practice last year. We’re adjusting duct openings to counter that but keep it in mind when you’re setting up for Turn 1.”
She then turns to me, focuses the spotlight and asks, “What do you think, Francesca?”
As the chief race strategy engineer, Bex is the ultimate expert on these things. But all the engineers, if they’re any good, always rely on driver input since we’re the ones on the track.
I study the simulation overlay. “If the wind shifts from the southwest, we’ll need to account for extra drag. That uphill kink before the chicane could eat more speed than usual.”
Bex’s head lifts, and she gives me a smile of approval. “Good catch, rookie.”
It still catches me off guard sometimes—how much my voice matters here.
In FI2, strategy meetings were mostly me listening while the engineers talked over my head, handing me a neat little plan they expected me to follow without question.
Here, they want my read on the track, my feel for the car in different conditions, and they adjust things based on it.
It’s more responsibility, sure, but also more trust. And in FI, the stakes are so much higher—every tenth of a second could be the difference between a podium and finishing outside the points.
That pressure sits on my shoulders, but it’s the kind I’m happy to carry.
The meeting continues for another thirty minutes and then we’re dismissed. Everyone files out of the room and I hit the cafeteria for a quick salad. My phone buzzes in my pocket and when I pull it out, my heart skips a beat at seeing Ronan’s name. We still good for tonight?
A ripple of heat runs through me, as vivid as the memory of last night.
His weight above me, the press of his mouth, the low, rough way he said he wanted me.
But it’s not only that—it’s the quiet after, lying tangled together while he told me pieces of his past he probably doesn’t share with anyone.
This morning, just after dawn, we both awoke before the alarm—me on my back, him on his side, watching me in that unreadable way of his. I’d half expected him to make an excuse to leave, but instead I found myself blurting, “Do you want to get together later?”
For a second, he stared like I’d asked him to hand over state secrets, and then that slow, mischievous smile broke through. “I have an idea… want to go somewhere and have fun?”
The words were wrapped in an unspoken promise. I said yes without hesitation, even though I’m not entirely sure what Ronan Barnes considers “fun.”
There’s no question I’m still good for tonight. I type a quick Yes before tucking the phone away, my pulse a little quicker than before.
“That better be someone who makes you smile like that on purpose.”
I turn to see Bex behind me, a full-blown smirk on her face.
I play it coy. “Maybe.”
Her brows lift. “Care to share?”
For a second, I hesitate. I told Carlos about Ronan and he was all dire warnings and predictions. He didn’t tell me anything I couldn’t have figured out on my own. But he’s a guy, and sometimes you need a woman’s take.
“I’m sort of seeing someone,” I say, trying not to smile again. A group of junior mechanics passes us in the hallway, their chatter echoing off the concrete walls, and Bex tilts her head toward the far side, guiding us into a quieter corner near a stack of shipping crates.
“It’s new,” I add quietly. “And it’s a little unconventional. I’m not sure—”
“Oh my God…” Her eyes widen. “You’re seeing Carlos? I knew it. I told Nash I thought—”
“No,” I cut in before she builds an entire gossip column in her head. “It’s not Carlos. I mean, he’s wonderful, but he’s like my dearest friend on the circuit—”
Bex narrows her eyes like she’s running through every other possible candidate. “If not Carlos, then who?”
I glance left, then right, dropping my voice even further. “Ronan.”
Her eyebrows practically launch into orbit. “You’re kidding me?”
“I’m not,” I assure her. My stomach flips, though I’m not sure if it’s from saying it out loud or from anticipating her reaction. “It just sort of… happened.”
Bex crosses her arms, still staring like she’s trying to decide if I’ve lost my mind. “But… he was at the gala last night with another woman.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Yeah, well… that was someone he’d agreed to take ages ago and couldn’t get out of. But he was with me last night… after.” I don’t add details—God knows she doesn’t need them—but my tone leaves no room for misinterpretation.
“And so, are you two officially dating?”
I lift a shoulder in a half shrug, leaning against the wall.
“I’m not sure what you call it. We’re seeing each other, and it’s exclusive, but…
he wants to keep it private. And honestly, I’m not ready for the press to get a hold of this, so I’m okay with that.
My life is already a circus in the public eye. ”
Bex leans against the wall, mirroring my stance. The overhead fluorescents catch the faint smudge of grease on her cheek from earlier. “Private’s fine if it’s about avoiding the limelight. But make sure it’s not because he’s ashamed or trying to keep options open.”
I roll her words over in my head. It’s blunt, but it doesn’t come across as judgment—more like someone passing down hard-earned wisdom. “I don’t think it’s that,” I say finally. “I think… he’s guarded. He’s not exactly an open book.”
“That’s definitely his reputation.” She studies me for a long moment, as if weighing whether I’ll take her advice seriously. “If he’s worth your time, he’ll prove it in daylight too. Don’t let him make you feel like a secret if that’s not what you want.”
I let out a slow breath, because she’s right… about all of it. “I’m not sure what I want, but you’ve given me something to think about. I appreciate that.”
“Anytime.” Her expression softens into a grin. “And for what it’s worth? You could do worse.”
When I leave HQ later, the sky is the pale, washed-out blue of early evening.
No follow-up text from Ronan yet, but I know it’s coming.
I unlock my car, slide into the driver’s seat, and smile to myself, already wondering what he has planned tonight.
And maybe worrying a little about how much I’m starting to want it.
My fingers hover over the ignition, then drift toward my phone instead. Before I can talk myself out of it, I scroll to Mamma and hit call. She answers on the second ring like she’s been expecting me.
“Francesca! Is everything all right?” my mother answers, a little breathless. In the background I can hear the faint clink of a spoon against a pot and a muffled male voice—probably Papà—asking where something is.
“Yes, everything’s fine,” I say, settling back into the driver’s seat and closing my eyes for a moment. “How’s your evening?”
“Oh, quiet enough. Your father is insisting on making dinner, which means I’m supervising so he doesn’t burn the soffritto. Your brother just left, he came by to borrow tools and stayed for two glasses of wine. And you? How was your day?”
I smile, picturing the scene exactly as she describes it. “Busy. Long. We had pit stop practice, an engineering meeting, strategy talk for Silvercrest. The usual pre-race chaos.”
“Mmm,” she hums in approval. “It sounds good, though. Focused. I can tell you’re in a good rhythm.”
“Yeah,” I say, hesitating. My fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel. “I am. But… there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”
There’s a pause, enough for me to picture her tilting her head in curiosity.
“All right,” she says, her tone patient. “Ask.”
I let out a little breath, half laughing at myself. “It’s… maybe about a man.”
“Maybe,” she repeats, with all the skepticism of someone who can see straight through me without being in the same country. “Is he nice?”
“He’s…” I search for the right word, staring out at the long shadow of the HQ building across the car park. “Complicated. Guarded. And I like him more than I probably should.”
She makes a little tsking sound, but it’s not disapproval. “Then take your time, my love. Ask yourself how he makes you feel about yourself when you are with him. That is the truth you need to listen to.”
Her words settle deep, warm but grounding. It quiets the doubt I’m hearing… Francesca, you’re overthinking it. Let yourself be happy for once.
“You always have the best advice, Mamma,” I tell her.
“Good. When will you bring him home for your father to ‘evaluate’ him?”
“I have to go,” I drawl.
“Francesca Maria Accardi… you tell me who this man is!” she insists.
I laugh. “Maybe one day. Goodbye, Mamma. I love you.”
She huffs out with exaggeration. “Okay… but you keep me in the loop.”
When the call ends, I’m still smiling, but there’s a new twist in my stomach—a wave of nerves at the thought that I’m developing an attachment deep enough that I’m seeking advice, maybe affirmation, from others.