Chapter 43
We’d hireda car when we arrived in Miami, so we joined the traffic heading toward the race track. In the front, Rocco and his brother talked Formula One, and it was passionate enough for me to know that while Rocco had come to IndyCar, his one true love remained Formula racing. I guess he’d lived and breathed it for so long—probably since he was born—it was insane to think half a year of IndyCar could shift his allegiance.
It was gridlock as we approached the autodrome, but luckily, there was valet parking. Rafa gave us guest passes that got us through the gates and into the paddock, and I tried not to look nervous. It was insane, with people and cameras everywhere. It was like Daytona met Milan Fashion Week or something, with beautiful people walking along toward the garages, and cameramen and press just standing there in the middle of the walkway, doing interviews as people hustled around.
Rocco reached down and gripped my hand. “Are you ready?”
Fuck no. Was it too late to go home and splash around in the pool with Bobbi-June, or maybe snuggle with the guys on the bed?
I didn’t say any of that, though. “Yep, I’m ready!”
He raised an eyebrow as if to call bullshit, but squeezed my hand. Rafa took up my other side, and as soon as one of the cameras spotted us, a buzz rippled through the crowd.
Someone with a long camera stopped in front of us. “Rocco! It’s good to see you. Can I just grab a quick photo?” Rocco merely lifted his chin, wrapping an arm around my waist, his fingers curling possessively on my hip. “Is this the new wife?”
He was talking about me like I wasn’t there. Or like I was a blow-up doll that Rocco was merely preventing from blowing away in the sea breeze.
“This is Tally Palmer-Passero, yes.”
The photographer snapped a few more pictures, but Rocco was already leading me away. We must have stopped and posed at least six more times before we came across a driver giving an interview.
“...the conditions are perfect and we’ll try to—holy shit, it’s Rocco Passero.” The driver grinned, and I realized it was Harry Weiss, one of the British drivers. “How are you doing, man?”
Rocco gave him a genuine smile and a bro-hug. “Good, good.”
Harry turned back to the guy giving the interview. “Only reason I podiumed last race is because this guy defected to the US. We’ll catch up later, yeah?” Harry asked, and Rocco nodded.
We continued down the track, getting closer to the garages. More people came out to talk to Rocco, as well as Rafa, who I’d found out worked for the Teams Association. I was relegated to the background, but Rocco kept me close. If he wasn’t wrapped around me, he was holding my hand tightly. I didn’t know if I was offering him support or if he was offering it to me, but either way, we remained connected, no matter who we spoke to.
It was going fine, until we got to the area around Rocco’s old team. That part was nearly painful, as the mechanics gave sad little waves like children in a messy divorce. These people would’ve been with Rocco through most of their careers, and I could only imagine how awkward it was to have to turn your back on someone you considered a friend. Not everyone was as loyal as Hayes, who’d quit over my former team’s treatment of me.
But on the flipside, Hayes hadn’t been getting paid the insane amount of money these mechanics were raking in every year. I didn’t blame them for their choices really, though I did think it made them chickenshits.
Rocco’s jaw was tense, and I just wanted to hug him. So I did, wrapping my arm around his waist and dragging him close. “I’m sorry.”
He kissed the top of my head. “I’m not. It was meant to be.” Rafa suddenly reappeared beside us, his posture stiff as he stared down the paddock. I searched the crowd, and tensed too.
Mattias and Lucia Christian were swanning up the paddock, Mattias signing autographs and smiling like a politician. Lucia posed for photos, but was firmly relegated to the background, a pretty ornament for Mattias.
Rafa said something stern to Rocco in Italian, and it didn’t take a cunning linguist to know that he was telling him to be cool and not to throw any punches. We continued walking; I was kind of hoping that we’d pass like ships in the night, but I should have known better.
The journalists in the area saw their opportunity and began to shout both their names. Mattias’s eyes whipped up and found Rocco, his gaze then traveling down to our clasped hands, and his lip curling before he straightened it back into its generic smile. He grabbed Lucia by the waist and paraded her over to us.
“You’ve got this,” I murmured to Rocco, squeezing his hand in support. “You’re the better man.” He looked down at me, and there was no faking the look of love on his face.
“Passero. It’s good to see you.” Mattias Christian spoke with about as much enthusiasm as I did at the doctor’s office before a pap smear.
“Christian.” It was short and laced with so much venom, it was a wonder the other man didn’t drop dead. Rocco turned toward Lucia, his face softening slightly. “Lucia. You look lovely.”
He wasn’t wrong; Lucia Christian was gorgeous. Tall and lithe, she looked like a Mediterranean beauty queen. Her hair fell down her back like warm, liquid chocolate. Her eyes were like sparkling gold gems. Her teeth were perfect. I was inconsequential in the face of her beauty.
But behind that perfection, you’d have to be blind to miss the dead look in her eyes. I’d thought Rocco had been exaggerating, but there was no way people looked at Lucia Christian and thought she was happy. She was a doll. A beautiful trophy, but probably not as well cared-for by her husband.
“Thank you, Rocco.” She turned to me, her eyes flicking over me quickly, envy crossing her features. “This is your wife? I saw all over social media that you were married, but I’m not sure I believed it until now.”
Mattias looked at me appraisingly, giving me a smarmy smile as he put out his hand for me to shake. Or maybe to kiss his rings—he had the same level of imperiousness about it. “Lovely to meet you. You are beautiful. Passero, you’re a lucky man.”
Incredibly aware of the cameras, I shook his hand quickly and resisted the urge to wipe my palm on my satin pants.
“Tally’s beauty is the least of her defining qualities. She’s strong and a talented racer in her own right.” Rocco looked at me lovingly, and I felt myself flush. “We best get to the hospitality tents. Have a great race today,” he said lightly, though you’d have to be an idiot to miss the dark undertones of the statement.
Mattias nodded. “Thanks. The team is good this year—very competitive with the new cars and fresh blood.” He threw the barbs like they were poisoned darts.
Oh no, he didn’t.
I smiled kindly at him. “I love your optimism. We’re only a race or two into the season, and I’m sure that the whole team is aiming for some better results than, ah… what were you in the last race?” I looked up at Rafa, who had a brow raised in my direction as I defended his brother. “P9?” Rafa nodded at me, but didn’t say anything. “I’m sure you’ll find your feet. We all know it’s hard when there’s a shift in driver talent within the team. Klaus’s P5 was quite good, though; you’re right about that. I don’t see him being in the second seat for much longer.”
Yeah, I’d been paying attention, even if Rocco wanted to pretend this part of his life didn’t exist anymore. A petty part of me wanted to see his team suffer for what they did to him, and apparently, if there was a Petty Fairy Godmother, she was making all my wishes come true.
Rocco worked very hard to keep the smirk off his face, but couldn’t keep it from his eyes. “We best go. Christian. Lucia.” He stepped around them, and as we continued to move down the track toward the Paddock Club, he lifted our clasped hands to his lips. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful when you verbally take down grown men.” He kissed me deeply. “When we get home, I’m going to show you just how much I enjoy it. I want you screaming my name so loud, everyone will know you belong to me.”
I smirked up at him. I’d have his back, for now and for always.