My Formula 1 System

The two Formula 1 drivers stood just three feet apart, separated only by the private security guard between them. Neither man moved as the hum of distant voices and instrumental music faded into silence around them.

Between the two of them, it was DiMarco who appeared most stunned. His face was pale, his mouth open, but the shock was slowly fading with each second as he sought to ground himself.

DiMarco was dressed in a brown jacket over a plain white T-shirt and simple jeans, his clothing far too understated for such a venue, almost out of place amid the opulence of the palace. But of course, this was Davide DiMarco, and anyone who knew him well knew he was the kind of man who never dressed for anyone's approval.

What need was there to dress to perfection when one was bound to crutches? Polished shoes and a tailored suit would hardly pair well with steel shafts tucked beneath one's arms, would they?

Davide DiMarco held his crutches tight, his posture upright and firm because he was now used to them after almost three months. He leaned only as much as necessary, refusing to let the devices make him appear smaller. As a result, the crutches had become a fascinating extension of his bad boy's poise, making him appear a bit more distinguished.

And now, standing there with that same cool aura, DiMarco found himself staring at the very man who had put him in this state.

Luca, too, stared back at his victim from five races ago.

He had suspected there might be a few other Formula 1 drivers mingling about tonight, but the thought of DiMarco's presence hadn't been a plausible one. DiMarco hadn't been on the grid on Sunday, nor in the last five races for that matter. Luca was fully aware of his state, so he believed he was supposed to be out of the community's circulation entirely. Yet here he was, standing within the palace walls, crutches and all, handsome but vanquished.

Both men kept their eyes locked in charged silence, the memories of the Bahrain Grand Prix streaming back to each of them. The Z24's unbelievable durability at that intersection, the RBioL and DiMarco soaring into the air…. It was a violent collision that altered everything for Bueseno Velocita, and most importantly, Davide DiMarco.

The tension in that passage was so palpable that Adrian and Eduardo felt like the walls were closing in on them, bracing their minds for what might follow. Even the other guests had their heads turned now, whispers rising from everyone upon realizing the bitter F1 rivalry was right in front of them.

'Where's the press? Where are the cameras? This just can't go to waste!' many thought.

DiMarco eventually took control of the moment before the silence became awkward. He extended his hand toward Luca for a handshake. Luca didn't hesitate to match his fluidity; he reached out and clasped it.

Their grips locked in tight, uncomfortable firmness. While everyone thought both of them were shaking as a gesture of peace, the two men were busy testing who was stronger by pressing hard on the other's palm.

"Four wins, Luca. Four goddamn wins in six races," DiMarco said with what looked like genuine intrigue, not fake. "How do you do it?"

Luca replied with respect.

"If you weren't in this condition, I wouldn't have had enough space to trash the others."

Upon hearing these words, DiMarco's lips curved into a wide smile. It was convincing to others, but Luca believed he caught the slight fakeness in it. This was because DiMarco himself wasn't sure if that was a backhanded compliment.

Luca was the one who had put him in this condition. For Luca to say that meant he 100% intended to farm the grid with one big rival down. DiMarco ground his jaw, but he swallowed his words. "I agree," he said in a happy response.

Adrian and Eduardo, along with a few nearby guests and even security, let out light smiles too, easing themselves as the encounter became a calm one.

Eventually, both men let go of the tight grip. DiMarco, who had started the squeezing contest, didn't know what he was getting into. Luca had almost squashed his hand into a paste, but he made sure to concede before that happened.

"So, how long before you're free of that thing?" Luca sincerely asked, his eyes on the crutches.

DiMarco shifted on the crutch to steady himself. He wanted to lash out at Luca to stop the act as if he truly cared about his recovery. But in front of all these people, Captain Italy understood he had to preserve his dignity.

"A few weeks, maybe less," he answered. "By the end of this week, in fact, I could probably manage without it. But I'd rather keep it for now—focus on core rehabilitation instead of limping around and undoing the work."

Luca gave a small nod. "That's nice. I wish you a quick recovery," he said, his tone respectful but already shifting to close the exchange. "It's been good seeing you after so long, but I need to head to the prince now."

To everyone's interpretation, including DiMarco, Luca's words carried the tone of someone with other duties waiting. DiMarco didn't like being the one left in a conversation, but ever since using crutches, it had been a frequent occurrence. So, he mumbled his agreement and forced a smile.

The courtier was only too glad to resume his role as Luca and Adrian fell in line behind him, moving past DiMarco and his brother. The scene cleared swiftly, leaving the air lighter even though some traces of tension dawdled.

As the courtier led his tour group of two into the next corner, Luca's instincts urged him to glance back. Sure enough, DiMarco's gaze was following him. Yes, there it was. No practiced smile now, no mask of civility. What Luca saw before entering the corner was Davide DiMarco, F1 driver for Bueseno Velocita, the man who can never take a loss.

Luca remembered what he said: "He better win every race while I'm gone. Because when I'm back, I'll take more than my seat back. I'll take careers. And I'm very good at it."

They eventually reached the grand approach of the prince's palace, where the path wound beneath vaulted arches lined with torch-lit sconces and banners bearing the royal crest.

The group passed through a colonnade that opened into a wide inner courtyard, its fountain spilling silver water beneath lanterns suspended like stars. From there, they ascended a staircase of gleaming stone that curved toward the upper levels reserved for dignitaries and honored guests.

At last, they arrived at the reception hall adjoining the prince's private chambers, a vaulted room with gilded beams, high windows draped in velvet, and an air heavy with incense.

The courtier tried to fill the walk with meaning by recounting the palace's history and pointing out portraits of past rulers and murals of battles won, but Adrian and Luca couldn't care less.

The gentleman's words trailed off as they reached the guarded threshold, where sentries in polished armor stood at attention and swung the doors open.

Inside, the hall revealed its beauty with a high ceiling, tall windows, and the most perfect furnishing. A few low tables for refreshments occupied some spaces, and a great rug patterned with gold threading anchored the space. Apart from the gold, the dominant theme of the hall was crystal silver.

"Luca Rennick and Sir Adrian Hawthorne."

The courtier announced their presence with a bow to the other attendees. At once, the hall was hushed, and the distinguished guests merely lifted their gaze from where they sat in separate, finely carved cushion sofas.

"Welcome."

"You're welcome."

"Welcome."

It was a surprise some of them spoke.

With his duty fulfilled, the courtier excused himself.

Among the nine gathered, Luca only picked out three familiar faces: Mrs. Hawthorne, of course, seated next to Daniel Kingston, the billionaire playboy, and a certain lady whose features stirred some recognition, though Luca couldn't place where he had seen her before.

The rest were entirely wealthy strangers, including a young lady seated apart, likely the daughter of one of the esteemed guests, in much the same way Adrian was to Mrs. Hawthorne.

Mrs. Hawthorne extended her richly adorned wrists as if she were a criminal. "Well then, you've finally come to arrest me—go on, do it," she said in a very hilarious voice toward Luca.

This cracked the funny bone in everyone, and the room broke out in laughter even though none of them, except she and Luca, understood the context of the joke.

Luca and Adrian offered polite greetings all around before taking their seats among the circle of the elite. Luca sat directly opposite Hawthorne and Kingston, while Adrian sat opposite the mysterious young lady who was around their age.

"His Highness would be out shortly," was what they had been told. But judging by the weight of the room, 'shortly' was up for debate. Luca knew this was only the beginning of a long, long night.

Seated opposite the smug face of Daniel Kingston didn't make it any better.

The tycoon's eyes hadn't left him since he sat down, as if entertaining a bizarre fascination with Luca in his mind.

Luca chose to ignore him because it wasn't as though he didn't know who he was. He knew exactly who Dan Kingston was. He'd had a drink with him once on his yacht, and Luca had concluded he was a total bum.

But as Luca enjoyed his comfort on the sofa, watching everyone and everything, including Dan and Mrs. Hawthorne conversing, he noticed something really concerning.

Sitting up, he reassessed with better clarity, but his suspicion remained the same.

Daniel Kingston's brown hair was far too familiar.

'Could it be...?' Luca thought as he watched the young man and Mrs. Hawthorne discussing with each other.