Chapter 19
Ronan
Michael Barnes’s office is all glass and cold light and the reception smells faintly of furniture polish and money. His assistant gives me the same tight smile she’s given me since I was twelve and wearing my school blazer, waiting on a ride home he forgot to arrange.
“Your father will see you now.”
Of course he will. I’m just another appointment in his agenda, required if I want to get a few words with him.
He’s at the window when I step in, phone to his ear, suit cut like it was measured with a scalpel. “Push the earn-outs, then we’ll talk equity.” He hangs up without a goodbye and finally turns. “Ronan. You look well.”
“That’s because I am,” I say, letting the door click shut behind me. “She’s worse.”
He stares at me. Not even a flinch. “Your mother has been ‘worse’ for twenty years.”
“She’s not eating. She’s drinking as soon as she wakes. The new nurse lasted four days.”
He exhales, a bored sound dressed up as concern, and rifles through folders on his desk. “Hire a better one. I’ll transfer funds.”
“She doesn’t need a better nurse. She needs a rehab she won’t walk out of.”
My father continues looking through papers and when I don’t say anything else, he finally looks up.
“You could ask how she’s actually doing.”
“I just did,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And you told me you’re handling it.”
The old anger lifts its head. It’s almost comforting, how familiar it feels—like a scar you can trace blind. “I’m handling your wife. Again.”
He fusses with cuff links that don’t need fussing. “Don’t be melodramatic. You’ve always had a flair for it. Besides, she’s your mother.”
“Right,” I say, because if I don’t laugh, I’ll put a fist through his ridiculous art. “How’s work?”
“Fine,” he says, as though the question were rhetorical. He glances at his watch. “In fact, I’ve got an important appointment I have to get ready for. If you need more money to… help her, just tell me how much and I’ll transfer it.”
Typical. He thinks that money can fix everything.
“Why don’t you divorce her?” I ask quietly.
It’s a question I’ve never asked and the flush of anger on his face tells me he never expected me to. “Don’t be ridiculous. She couldn’t survive the scandal.”
I tip my head back and let out a laugh that comes from deep in my belly.
“What’s so funny?” my father snaps.
I’m still chuckling, shaking my head. “It amuses me that you try to play this off as if you’re doing her a favor. You’re a big part of the reason she’s an addict.”
“How dare you?” My father gasps, drawing himself up straighter. “I’ve provided your mother with everything she ever needed.”
“Love,” I say.
He frowns at me. “What about it?”
“You never gave her love. Never gave it to me, for that matter. And now we’re both suffering for it.”
“You are being very disrespectful.” He slams his hands on the desk. “And I won’t tolerate it.”
“Oh, fuck off, you cranky old wanker,” I bark at him, and he blinks at me in shock.
I move to his desk, lean my hands on it, and look him in the eye.
“Here’s how it’s going to be. You’ll continue to pay for the best care.
I’ll keep the staff steady, and I’ll keep the tabloids away.
I’ll continue to do the things you should do and won’t.
But don’t ever mistake my competence for agreement.
And don’t ever suggest again that you’re working in her best interests.
If you take credit for it again, I’ll use all my vast financial resources to make your life miserable. ”
For a second—one clean second—something akin to vulnerability cracks across his face. Then it slides away. “Are you finished?”
“More than,” I reply and turn to leave. I know I’ll never be back.
?
Traffic snakes along the embankment, brake lights washing in red streaks over wet streets. The text message from Francesca earlier made me smile and scowl all at the same time. Trattoria Viale. 7:30. Don’t be late. Don’t be jealous.
I’m not late. I’m early, which is worse.
And I’m definitely not jealous.
Much.
The restaurant has valet parking, and I don’t miss the glint in the man’s eyes when I hand him money and the keys to the Aston Martin.
I enter a warm atmosphere with brick walls crowded with framed black-and-white photos of famous people who have eaten here.
Copper pans hang above a postage stamp bar, and my stomach rumbles in response to the scents of garlic and butter wafting through the air.
I’m grateful that my girlfriend—wait! What?
—is Italian and prefers to eat the food of her people.
They’re already there, tucked into a corner two-top that’s become a three-top with an extra chair and a squeeze.
Carlos laughs at something she says and tips his head, eyes crinkling.
He’s good-looking in a wholesome way—clean lines, easy smile, exactly the sort of man mothers like and sponsors trust. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you, Carlos is their best friend.
He’s the nice guy of the circuit, has no enemies.
No scandals, no sharp edges, and admittedly, I’ve always liked him.
Until he nearly touched Francesca’s ass.
Speaking of that woman, I take a moment to study her.
Her hair is down in silky waves and she’s in a thin sweater that makes her look like sin.
She glances up and sees me, eyes lighting with joy.
That provokes a reaction, making me breathless.
The way her mouth lifts—quick, involuntary—is a dopamine hit, something I could get used to.
“Barnes,” Carlos greets, rising to shake my hand. Firm grip, steady eyes. “Good of you to join.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, and it comes out drier than intended.
We settle in our chairs and Francesca nudges a wine list in my direction, but I wave it off. “I’m good with water.”
“Discipline,” Carlos says, amused.
“Got a race coming up,” I correct. “Or did you forget?”
Carlos chuckles and raises his wineglass to me in a mock toast. “I didn’t forget, but one glass never hurt anyone.”
That’s probably true but really, I’m not much of a wine drinker.
The waiter arrives with a small carafe of olive oil so fragrant I want to consume it all.
He sets it down with a basket of bread that gives a hollow, promising knock when I tap the crust. He rattles off the specials and because he’s Italian, Francesca carries on a short conversation with him.
Her accent is beautiful and she’s so genuinely outgoing, people light up around her.
I do believe I could listen to her talk for hours, having no clue what she’s saying.
Ultimately, she orders pasta and a blush sauce, Carlos goes for grilled sea bass with lemon, and I pick the veal piccata.
“How was pit stop practice this week?” Carlos asks, tearing into a piece of bread and dragging it through the olive oil like he’s starving.
Francesca perks up instantly. “Better than last week. No one tripped over the air hose, and Nash managed not to knock the front jack man on his ass, so I’d call that a win.”
Carlos chuckles, then tips his chin toward me. “And you, Barnes? Anyone on Crown try to set fire to the garage yet?”
“Not this week,” I say, tearing my own piece of bread. “But there’s still time before Silvercrest.”
They both laugh, and Carlos leans back, glass of wine in hand. “That new curb in Sector 2 is a bit nasty if you’re not paying attention. I bit it in the sim a few times this week.”
Francesca smirks. “Nasty’s one word for it. You take it wrong and you’ll be on highlight reels for all the wrong reasons.”
Carlos grins, glancing between us. “So, which one of you is going to be the first idiot to test it?”
“I’ll let her go first,” I say smoothly. “Ladies’ privilege.”
“Coward,” she fires back, and there’s enough warmth in it to soften Carlos’s smile.
He takes a sip of wine, still looking amused. “See, this is why dinner with drivers is always entertaining. You lot can’t help turning everything into a competition—even imaginary crashes.”
Francesca rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “We can’t help it. It’s in the job description.”
I find myself almost smiling too, because it’s not me versus him. It’s all of us in on the joke.
Then Carlos says, “How are your mamma and papà? I assume they’re coming to the race.”
That perks my attention. It never dawned on me that Francesca’s parents would be here. I sort of assumed I’d have her all to myself until… well, until whatever this is ran its course or settled in. If her parents are going to stay with her, that means I’m not in her bed.
“They’re good. Mamma’s still running the kitchen like a military operation, Papà’s working on another batch of his ‘famous’ arrabiata.
” She smiles into her wineglass like it’s a secret.
“He’s turned it into a three-day process, and he guards it like it’s classified.
If you try to peek in the pot before he says it’s ready, you risk losing a hand. They’ll want to see you, of course.”
That’s where things turn green. A bolt of jealousy toward Carlos hits hard and it has nothing to do with the fact that he might have designs on Francesca and everything to do with the fact that he’s more in her inner circle than I am.
Carlos laughs. “I remember you bringing it to the paddock once in FI2. Whole hospitality tent smelled like heaven.”
Her eyes go distant with fondness. “That was after Monza. He said the only thing better than a home win was feeding the people who made it happen.”
My molars grind. It’s not the question about her parents that has me riled. It’s that Carlos knew to ask. That he’s seen her life in soft focus—parents, kitchens, red sauce in the paddock—while mine’s always been shot in high contrast, every flaw lit up until it burns.
I stab a piece of bread and drag it through oil. “How’s prep at Union Jack?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“Good,” Carlos says easily. “Sim work this morning. Chassis tweaks.”