Chapter 19 19

Chapter 19 19


The train ride to Imola smelled like coffee and rain.
Vicky sat by the window, fingers tracing the fog on the glass, watching the Italian countryside blur past in streaks of green and gray.

She wasn’t supposed to be there.
Her weekend schedule said “freelance work — translation project due Sunday.”
Her heart said stop pretending you don’t care.

She told herself it wasn’t about him.
She just… wanted to see a race.
Any race.

But deep down, she knew.

The ticket in her jacket pocket said European Formula 3 Championship — Round 6.
And the name printed on the driver list might as well have been written in fire.

#27 — Rafael De Luca Ricciardi.

⸻

It had been six months since that night in the rain.
Six months since he’d left Milan with a promise she pretended not to hear.

She’d followed the news the way you follow a wound — checking if it still hurt.
He won his first podium in Valencia. Another in Hockenheim.
His face started showing up everywhere — TV interviews, racing blogs, social media clips captioned “Italy’s next prodigy.”

He looked older now.
Sharper.
Different.

But every time he smiled into a camera, her stomach did that same stupid thing — a flutter, then a drop.

So when her friend Sofia mentioned the race in Imola, Vicky said no.
Then said maybe.
Then found herself buying a train ticket anyway.

⸻

The station was crowded when she arrived.
Fans in rain ponchos waved miniature flags; vendors sold espresso and panini to people already high on adrenaline.

She followed the signs to the circuit, the air humming with the low growl of engines in warm-up.
The sound hit her like muscle memory.

He used to talk about it all the time — “Engines have moods, Vick. You can tell when they’re angry.”
She’d laughed at him for saying it back then.
Now, she almost believed it.

She stopped at the edge of the grandstand, clutching the railing.
Down below, pit crews moved like choreography — headsets on, tires stacked, engines roaring.

And then, through the fog of rain and exhaust, she saw the number.

27.

The car was jet-black with streaks of red, sponsors gleaming across the body.
He was already strapped in, helmet on.
But she would’ve known him anywhere — the way he tapped the steering wheel twice before pulling out.
It was the same habit he had in the simulator at school, back when their racetrack was made of chalk lines on concrete.

⸻

The announcer’s voice crackled through the speakers. “And here comes De Luca Ricciardi in P3 for the starting grid—”

The crowd cheered.
Her pulse skipped.

She thought she’d feel angry. Or sad. Or maybe just numb.
Instead, she felt… proud.
Stupidly, irrationally proud.

He was doing it.
Everything he’d said he would.

And she was there, even if he didn’t know it.

⸻

The lights above the grid turned red.
One. Two. Three.

Then green.

Engines screamed, tires hissed, and the cars shot forward in a blur of color and noise.
The grandstand shook beneath her feet.

She forgot to breathe.

For thirty laps, she didn’t move.
She didn’t cheer or film or blink.
She just watched.

Watched him weave through corners, brake late, take risks no sane person would.
He drove like someone being chased by his own shadow.
Like he was trying to outrun something invisible.

By the time the checkered flag waved, her hands were trembling.
He crossed the line second.

Not a win.
But close.
Always close.

The crowd exploded.
And for one dizzy second, he lifted his helmet off, eyes scanning the stands — that same searching look he used to have when he was trying to find her across a crowded cafeteria.

And she swore — she swore — he paused.
Just long enough for her to think, He knows I’m here.

⸻

She stayed until the anthem ended, then slipped out before the crowd thinned.
Her train back to Bologna was in forty minutes.

She walked fast, coat pulled tight, rain still misting against her hair.
Halfway down the street, she stopped in front of a merchandise stand.

There were T-shirts, posters, keychains — all with his name.
The vendor smiled. “De Luca, yes? He’s very good, no?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “He is.”

She bought a small enamel pin with the number 27.
Stuffed it deep into her pocket before she could change her mind.

⸻

In Bologna, the Wi-Fi was terrible, but her phone still loaded the race recap on YouTube.
She watched it once.
Then again.

Every camera angle. Every corner.
She watched the moment he overtook second place, the way he grinned behind the helmet when he crossed the finish line.
The reporter’s voice at the end said, “De Luca Ricciardi — unstoppable at just seventeen. Remember the name.”

As if she ever could forget.

⸻

That night, in her cheap apartment room with peeling wallpaper, she wrote him an email.

She didn’t send it.
But she wrote it.

Congrats on Imola. You looked—
She stopped. Deleted that line. Started again.

You drove like you always said you would. I hope it feels the way you wanted.
She stared at the blinking cursor.

Then added,

Don’t forget to eat something that isn’t caffeine.

She hovered over “Send.”
Didn’t press it.
Saved it to Drafts instead.

⸻

Two days later, his post-race interview hit the internet.
He was all smiles — young, magnetic, untouchable.
When the reporter asked what kept him grounded, he paused.

“Music,” he said. “And… people who remind me who I used to be.”

“Anyone in particular?”

He smiled that slow, careful way. “Someone from before all this. Doesn’t matter who. Just… someone.”

The comment section exploded.
Rumors. Speculation.
Fans guessing which ex, which story, which heartbreak.

Vicky closed her laptop.
Heart thudding.

He hadn’t said her name.
He didn’t need to.

⸻

A week later, she deleted the draft email.
Then emptied the trash folder.

The next time she saw him would be years later — taller, louder, untouchable again — walking into a press conference room in Monaco like the past never happened.

But sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d still reach into that old coat pocket and find the little pin.
Number 27.
Faded now, edges worn.

And she’d wonder if he ever still thought about the rain.

:::

The boardroom smelled like espresso and ambition.

Screens flickered against the glass wall, the city stretched out beyond like a promise too expensive to believe in.
Vicky adjusted her blazer, set her tablet on the table, and ignored the faint reflection of her own exhaustion in the glass.

It was just another meeting.
That’s what she kept telling herself.

Another client pitch. Another sleepless week. Another reason she lived on caffeine and sarcasm.

“Alright, people,” said her boss — a wiry man named Callum who believed in data more than God. “Big account this quarter. De Luca Automotive just signed a partnership with Apex Fuel. Global rollout in three months.”

The room hummed.
De Luca Automotive.

The name hit her like static under the skin.
Familiar. Sharp.

Her fingers tightened around the pen in her hand.
There were plenty of De Lucas in Italy. It didn’t have to be—

Callum clicked to the next slide.

And there he was.

Rafael.
Eight stories tall, projected on the wall, smirking like sin in a tailored suit, leaning against a matte black car with his name printed on the hood.

Her stomach dropped.

He looked older now — twenty-two, maybe twenty-three — but the camera adored him even more than before.
That same smirk, that same impossible calm.
The tagline below him read: “Fuel the Fire.”

Of course it did.

Callum kept talking. “Apex wants us to handle image control — influencer partnerships, public perception, crisis contingency. They’ve requested someone with motorsport experience to lead.”

Vicky kept her face neutral, even when she felt her pulse trip.

“Victoria,” Callum said. “You’re taking point.”

Of course she was.

She smiled thinly. “Noted.”

⸻

The meeting stretched another hour — strategy decks, marketing funnels, hashtags that made her want to jump out a window.
All while Rafael’s face lingered at the edge of every slide, every mockup, every bullet point.

When it finally ended, she closed her laptop, stood, and forced her voice into something casual.

“So we’re liaising directly with their media division?”

“Yes,” said Callum. “Their PR rep’s a nightmare, but they’re sending over the athlete’s personal team contact tomorrow.”

Her hand froze halfway to her coffee cup. “His personal team?”

“Standard procedure for star talent,” Callum said, already scrolling his phone. “You’ll probably have to coordinate his interview schedule too. You’re good at dealing with egos.”

Egos.

She wanted to laugh.
Or scream.
Maybe both.

Instead, she said, “I’ll handle it.”

⸻

That night, she didn’t sleep.

Her apartment in Notting Hill was too quiet.
She opened the campaign file again, staring at the image of him — that same smirk, that same tilt of his head like he knew exactly what he was doing.

It wasn’t just that he looked good.
It was that he looked fine.
Like life had gone exactly how he wanted it to.

And she hated that part of her — the smallest, dumbest part — was glad.

She zoomed in on his face.
Eight years, and still the same eyes.

Then she closed the laptop.

Enough.

⸻

The next morning, the contact email from De Luca Racing PR landed in her inbox.

Hi Victoria,
We’re excited to collaborate with your team for the Apex campaign. Attached you’ll find Rafael’s media calendar, preferences, and availability.
Please note: He prefers morning interviews, hates photo sessions after race weekends, and doesn’t do “off-the-record” questions.

– Nadia Caruso, Senior Media Coordinator

She opened the attachment.

There it was again.
His name.
His signature in digital ink at the bottom of the release form:
Rafael De Luca Ricciardi

Like a ghost signing a contract with her reality.

She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temple.

Her assistant, Lewis, poked his head through the door. “You good, boss?”

“Define good.”

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Close.”

“Bad client?”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Let’s just say I’ve dealt with his type before.”

⸻

By the second week of the campaign, she’d memorized more about his career than she ever wanted to.

Every stat.
Every headline.
Every scandal he’d almost-but-not-quite caused.

It was like death by slow nostalgia.

She handled it like a professional.
Sharp emails. Clean presentations. Polite deflection whenever his name came up in conversation.

Still, every so often, someone would say it — his name — too casually, too easily.
And she’d feel that tiny fracture under her ribs again.

⸻

Three weeks in, she attended a client dinner in Soho.
The Apex executives were drunk, the lighting was dim, and someone was passing around a phone with a new viral clip.

“Look, it’s your boy De Luca!” one of them laughed, showing her the screen.

She didn’t need to look.
She knew the sound of his voice before the video even loaded.

It was a post-race interview. He’d just won in Monaco.
Still in his fireproofs, sweat dripping down his neck, smile lazy and bright.

“De Luca,” a reporter asked off-camera, “you’ve been unstoppable this season. What’s changed?”

He looked straight into the lens. “Nothing,” he said. “I just stopped looking back.”

The table laughed, someone toasted to it, and Vicky sipped her wine like it didn’t taste like salt.

⸻

After the dinner, she stood outside in the cold, coat pulled tight.
Her phone buzzed with campaign alerts — new press requests, an updated shoot schedule.

She should’ve gone home.
Instead, she scrolled through the attachment.

The next race was in Monaco.
The media day would be coordinated between her firm and his team.

There’d be photo ops.
Panels.
Maybe an afterparty.

And for the first time in eight years, they’d be in the same room.

She closed her phone and whispered into the night,
“Perfect. Just fucking perfect.”

⸻

That week, she worked harder than ever — every detail controlled, every sentence sharpened, every trace of emotion filed under “irrelevant.”

But sometimes, when she stayed late at the office, she’d catch herself staring at the campaign poster tacked to the wall — his eyes, his grin — and she’d mutter,
“You better not ruin this for me, De Luca.”

Because this time, she wasn’t the girl waiting in the rain.
She was the one holding the microphone.
The one who could build — or burn — an image.

And she promised herself one thing.

If fate ever put him in her orbit again, she wouldn’t flinch.
She wouldn’t run.
And she sure as hell wouldn’t fall.

Not again.