𝖣𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌.
      -𝗌𝗂𝗑 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 (𝖻𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌)

                                   𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐚

"I was wrong," I said again. Lia's eyes brazed at me; anger and regret filled me at how I left that day six years ago. Yes, I was wrong, not for leaving, but for how I did it. How could I tell her the truth without making her feel guilty?

Getting off the bed, we stood on the opposite side of each other, Lia heaving from rage, her black orbs showing her emotions more than words ever could.

"I do not want to have this conversation now," she told me with resignation, walking to the door to open it for me. I had been dismissed; I couldn't push her, I respected her too much. Also, three in the morning wasn't the ideal time to talk about this. 

When we talk about it, and I swore we would, I will ensure it was just the two of us.

As I left, I stood near her at the door, wanting to lean in to kiss her, but she shot daggers at me, daring me to try it. I didn't; I knew how lethal she could be when displeased.

************************************
"Shit. Here we go!"

I muttered under my breath when Matteo and I entered the motor Racing magazine offices. I smiled and waved at the people gawking  at me with fascination as if I couldn't be real. Glancing at the clock on the wall atop the aisle to find it had been three minutes since we started coming up the stairs to the offices. 

Time sure went at a snail pace when you want it to sprint like Usain Bolt, I secretly thought, making sure my smile stayed in place. People would be surprised and disappointed in equal measure if they knew how much I loathed interviews.

"Glad you're feeling better," a short brunette in a pixie cut shouted. I smiled at her, and she blushed, nervously putting her arms across her chest. I could have said more if I hadn't heard someone call my name.

"This way, Mr. Bianchi." a skinny guy told me, standing a few feet from me while pointing to the left.

"My name is Josh; Miss Jensen sent me to show you in." He had a baritone voice that did not match his frame. He was in tucked blue and red striped shirt; his baggy blue pants swooshed when he walked. I took his stretched-out hand in mine. He had a firm shake—one of those that felt not only professional but also sent a message that I'm not intimidated, which likely he was.

When we reached a wooden brown-painted door, Josh stood, then moved aside and opened the door to let me in. I said thank you, mumbling niceties about how good it was meeting him as it was conventionally required.

One of the promises I made to my father when I left home was that I would always have Matteo beside me; unfortunately for some people, I had kept my word; this interview wasn't any different; Matteo entered the room with me. I could tell miss Jensen didn't like it

"Mr. Bianchi," she said, holding out her hand. She was a beautiful blond woman with long acrylic nails and subtle purple lipstick that made her lips fuller.

"Call me Luca; Mr. Bianchi is my father, " I told her; she seemed to like the invitation because she relaxed a little bit. I'm almost always amused when someone addresses me as such. It made me feel like an adult with responsibilities instead of a twenty-year-old at the height of his career.

We stood side by side with my hand still in hers. She did not seem to realize it until I cleared my throat and proceeded to introduce Matteo.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she exclaimed, suddenly dropping my hand, her face turning crimson with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry we are a bit disorganized." She apologized, motioning me to an armchair.

"Please sit."

I did,  with my right leg crossing the knee.

She grinned when she sat across from me, embarrassingly or perhaps anxiously smoothening her already smooth pick trouser suit.

"Thank you for taking your time to be here," she began, her smile still pasted on her mouth.

"Thank you for having me," I lied. I found interviews gave people a license to be intrusive— to ask extremely personal stuff they had no business asking.

Why would anyone want to know who I was fucking?  How the hell was it their business whether I was in love or not? But no matter how much I wished they could stick to questions about my career, they all seemed to gravitate toward personal things

Once she was seated, she put a voice recorder on top of a small table between us, "I hope you don't mind, " she nervously said. This must be either one of her first interviews, or I made her uncomfortable.

"First, congratulations on winning the Grand Prix,"

"Thank you," I murmured, feeling the same as I always felt winning a race or conjuring a memory of winning one; excitement—a thrill that was only equal to seeing Lia after a while of not seeing her.

"How is your hand?" she pointed at my left hand, which was still in a cast.

"Healing too damn slow," I complained, and she let out a flirtatious laugh, fluttering her eyes at me as if I had said something funny. I could see Matteo from the corner of my eyes, smirking. He enjoyed watching me become uncomfortable with women who blatantly threw themselves at me.

"Okay, Luc. Let's talk about the Grand Prix. How did it feel?

"Call me Luca," My tone sounded harsher than I meant, which had her eye me in shock. In truth, I didn't have a problem with the diminutive of my name, but only a few people can call me that, especially Lia. There was a way she called me Luc, almost in a sultry tone. I wonder if she noticed.

She laughed quietly, fumbling with a notebook and pen."You can call me Eve." I nodded.

"Nobody hates winning," I said, raising my eyes to her face. Even though she had seemed nervous at the beginning, she now seemed settled, like she was correct in her alley. "I'm no exception, especially since Mercedes hasn't won the Italian Prix for about six years.

She bit her lower lip, which I thought was a habit other than a flirtatious tactic.

"Do you blame Sneider for the crash?"

Damn straight! I didn't say that, of course. Instead, I spin the best bullshit of how great of a driver he was when in reality, the guy was an ass. 

"It was an accident, although I think I could have avoided it if I were not so focused on getting to the finish line first."

"Do you regret it?"

I cackled at the memory of my mom going on and on about how useless a win I was if it meant lying in a hospital bed hurt and bandaged.

"My mother would say yes," I said in good humour, then sobered up as my mind returned to her seeing me in the hospital that first time with her head on my chest. I could feel her fear, her tears, and her pain.

"I can imagine. What about you, any regrets?"

Yes. That I couldn't celebrate with her on the only time, she attended one of my races.

"None whatsoever," I said instead.

I had not stopped thinking about what could have happened if I drove through that finish line without mishap. Lia would have been ecstatic; knowing her, she would have jumped into my arms the first chance she got. That is the way she was, why I loved her so much. Her ability to set aside her anger long enough to be there for me. I remember teasing her about it.

'Do you drop your anger and pick it up like a hat?'She had glared at me, and I recall wanting to kiss her right there in front of my family.

Lia and I are connected by more than family. She is my best friend, my soulmate, and as cliche as it sounded, the air I breathe. 

"There are many speculations about you, your family, and your career?" I could tell Eve was uncomfortable with where this question would lead—to my family. The million-dollar question about a wealthy family whose source of wealth had become fodder for gossip.  

"Would you mind setting the record straight?"

I bit the inside of my cheek as if I was contemplating the answer, while, in fact, I've always known how to answer this question;  by twisting the facts and giving people what they wanted—a fantasy.

I knew people had widespread speculation about my family, some of which were true; however, I couldn't come right out and say my family was in organized crime; no world, my family is in wine and real estate.

"You started driving when you were young. Was it something you wanted to do, or did something toss you in that direction?

"My dad." I folded my lips as I remembered how my uncles described his driving, "he is an enthusiastic driver." I added. Although, to be accurate, they said he drove like a maniac.

"So it's hereditary then?" I knew it was her attempt to make a joke, but I think in my case, perhaps it was hereditary.

"Being away from home at that age, were you ever homesick?"

"I was born in Italy. I lived there until I was four years and a few months, and although I was young, it was my first home, now my second. To answer your question, yes, I did miss home, but I saw my family pretty often."

Few facts about my family were in the public domain. Like I was born to an abusive stepfather was no secret. That he and my father were brothers was something only a few people knew.

My father said nothing stayed hidden forever, yet this was one thing the world wouldn't get from me. Perhaps I will let Alessa write it in my memoir someday. She often tells me she wants to write about me.

"You're a great driver—one of the youngest in the game. Do you have a secret?"

My lips stretched into a crooked smile, changing from my right to the left leg across my kneel.

"None. I just happen to love it."

She nodded vigorously.

"What about advice? Do you have any advice for young people that want to race professionally?"

"Believe in yourself. And put in the work."

"Three more questions. I apologize in advance because they are personal."

"You're dating Caterina Perini; she is beautiful," she said, watching me as if she expected me to say something; I did nod, urging her to continue. "Any plans to get married?"

Good God, no!

I let a chuckle, rubbing my forehead and thinking of the best answer to this question. It was the first one of its kind since I started dating her not long ago.

"We are still very young," I said diplomatically, "so neither of us has thought of marriage yet." it was a politically correct answer, although I didn't know whether Caterina thought of marriage or not.

"So you both want to pursue your careers before tying the knot?"

"Something like that."

"Okay, Luca. All the best in your relationship."

I said thank you, and she peered at me, giving me the impression the other question might be intrusive.

"Do we, as your fans, get to know who is the girl on your right?" She gave me a photo, her acrylic nails grazing my hand. I knew who she meant before I could see it.

My throat went dry for a moment, looking at how beautiful, and concerned Lia looked. It was the day I left the hospital; her hand around my arm like she was afraid I might fall and break the rest of my bones. Her vibrant red hair tied in a ponytail. Even though most of the family stood with me, she was the only one holding me. There was no danger of falling; they knew that, but I liked that she held onto me.

These were the types of questions I hated; this intrusive probing that fed people's curiosity at my expense.

"No," I said in finality. I didn't give a fuck if that was rude. Lia was my fucking business, and I meant to keep it that way until I had to talk about her. This was not the time.

"I respect that," Eve laughed nervously; I liked her; she was such a sport.

"The Final question, what does the tattoo ring on your finger mean?"

I looked at my left hand as if I did not know it was there. The ring replica tattoo that signified more than the symbol. I had other tattoos on my body, but the ring tattoo was the only one on my hands.

I wanted it that way.

"I got it when I left home," I told her in a soft voice, lost in the memory of a fourteen-year-old running from a girl he adored—a boy who had not been able to handle the emotions bottling up his every waking moment. Choosing to walk away to ensure he never got in the way of her dream.

"I got it the day after I left home. It's a commitment to my career." It was a shallow answer and a lie. This was another thing I would keep a secret.

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