Chapter 6 Keep the Cameras, Lose the Drama

I’ve had two espressos, a black tea, and half a bottle of holy water this morning. My heartbeat is still at “nuclear-missile alarm” level.

“All set?” I ask into my headset, standing behind the main stage at Bandini headquarters. “Slides go up after the CEO’s intro, Rafael comes out on Valerio’s cue, mic on at 10:06 a.m., and please, please, do not light him like Jesus descending from the heavens. I mean it.”

“Copy that,” the lighting crew answers.

I stare at the monitor. The main stage is dressed like a carbon-fiber auction room: a glass podium, a polished Bandini logo backdrop, and rows of journalists from the top sports outlets. Front row has ESPN, Motorsport Global, even a crew from F1 Net Italia, the rumor-hounds.

Perfect. Rafael’s short fuse party is about to start.

“Where is he?” I whisper to Yevena, who stands beside me with a clipboard and eyeliner as sharp as my attitude today.

“Still in the green room. Hair looks good. Clean. Sharp,” she says, holding a smile.

I nod. At least one instruction executed properly.

Then the back door opens. And he walks out.

Rafael De Luca.

In Bandini casual, matte black suit, team logo on the left chest, a tiny sponsor badge on the right sleeve, walking like he’s just stepped off a runway. His hair’s neater but still messy enough to scream effortless hot. Jawline is sharp, a day’s stubble on his chin. And that smile. Same as always. Infuriating. Fatal.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmurs as he passes me.

I don’t answer. I give his shoulder a thumbs-up, then drop it to a middle finger.

He laughs. Cool as ever. Like he’s not about to sit in front of thirty journalists and hundreds of thousands watching the live stream.

I follow him backstage to double-check the rundown. Danzel Arriaga, Bandini’s CEO, goes first, then Rafael. Questions will be filtered, but there’s always that one idiot reporter who tries to be heroic.

“Good morning and thank you for joining us,” Mr. Danzel Arriaga’s voice booms. “Today, we are proud to introduce our lead driver for the season. Four-time world champion, Rafael De Luca.”

Applause explodes. Cameras flash in unison. And Rafael...smiles.

That smile. Again.

The kind that makes nurses forget which patient they’re supposed to save. The kind that makes divorced moms delete dating apps.

Okay, enough.

Focus, Vicky.

Rafael steps forward with a magnetic aura that, unfortunately, I can’t mute on my headset. He shakes Danzel’s hand, then sits with that over-practiced casual posture: one leg slightly raised, torso leaning, right arm on the chair back, left shoulder angled toward the mic.

If cameras could bleed, the stage would be a river.

“Rafael,” an ESPN reporter asks, “it’s been pretty...eventful these past few months. What’s your comment on the transition from Neon Apex to Bandini?”

His smile never falters. “I came here to win. The rest is just background noise.”

Background noise, my ass, I think.

A reporter from F1 Net raises his hand. I immediately signal audio to skip this guy.

Too late.

“Many say your exit from Neon Apex wasn’t about performance, but about personal relationships. Your response?”

“I think...relationships are personal,” he answered calmly. “But I’m professional. And Bandini knows that.”

I almost drop my headset. Yevena stifles a laugh. I want to smash my head into the team logo backdrop.

Rafael keeps fielding questions with smart, diplomatic answers, tossing in a joke now and then, and of course, every camera adores him. He knows when to drop his chin for the perfect frame. He knows when to look straight into the lens with that ‘I can win the race or your heart, depends on my mood’ stare.

When the session wraps, I pull him to a side stage and drag him backstage.

“I told you not to answer about Neon Apex.”

“I didn’t answer,” he says, walking beside me. “I just...reframed reality.”

I stop and give him a hard look. “If you cause one more incident in the next two weeks, I’ll make sure the only sponsor left is a Russian underwear brand.”

He laughs. “Depends...are the models sexy or not?”

:::

Bandini Team Headquarters — 3rd Floor Conference Room

One thing no one ever puts in a motorsport PR contract: you have to sit across from eight Armani-suited men who all nod and say ‘Great numbers,’ but with a tone that really means, ‘We will blow you up if those graphs drop next week.’

I sit upright, coffee cup in hand, laptop open, wearing the kind of polite smile I’ve perfected over the years. The “Yes, I know Rafael is camera-magnetic, but no, I can’t guarantee he won’t go viral for almost kissing a flight attendant” smile.

“We have to admit,” says Pierre from Telux Oil, one of our main sponsors. “Engagement is up twenty percent in just one day. That press conference was... well, electric.”

I nod. “Rafael does have that electric effect. Sometimes he lights things up. Sometimes he short-circuits them.”

A few polite chuckles. Barely. This isn’t comedy; this is politics wrapped in spreadsheets.

“And our TikTok account,” someone from the digital division adds, “gained seventy thousand followers within four hours after his ‘background noise’ comment.”

“Good,” I say. “We’ll use that momentum. But we also need to control the narrative. I’ll make sure the focus stays on this season’s performance, not the... colorful past.”

Pierre leans forward. “We just want to be sure there won’t be any new problems. Our clients are conservative. They like championships, not scandals.”

Of course. God forbid a driver be good-looking, charismatic, and come with a past juicy enough for a Netflix trailer.

“It’s all handled,” I say calmly. “A neutral statement was sent to the media. We pushed down every article mentioning the ‘Neon Apex drama’ through SEO. And for our new sponsors, we’re preparing an exclusive welcome package built around Rafael’s ‘rebirth’ narrative.”

“Excellent.” Pierre glances at Danzel Arriaga, Bandini’s CEO, then back at me. “We also heard that some partners from Ricciardi Empero will be joining as co-sponsors?”

Of course. Because on top of being a four-time F1 world champion, Rafael De Luca Ricciardi is also the son of Alvaro De Luca Ricciardi. Oil king, automotive mogul, and unofficial godfather of every European paddock deal.

“That’s right,” Danzel confirms. “They’ll join this season and the next two, under Velmor Energies and Ricciardi Engineering.”

I jot it down quickly in my notepad. Two new sponsors. Two new logos for the car. Two new potential PR headaches for every press event.

And two more reasons why Rafael can show up late to meetings and still be called an asset.

“So,” Pierre continues, “when we say we want Rafael’s image clean, it’s because we know who he is. And who his father is. Image matters at this level.”

I fight the urge to laugh. Image matters? That man could crash into a bus full of nuns, and the press would still call him “passionate under pressure.”

“Of course,” I say smoothly. “We understand the responsibility. I’ll keep Rafael in line, media-wise. For the rest... well, we might need divine intervention.”

A few soft laughs ripple through the room. A bit of tension lifted. But I know once they leave, I’ll still get 3 a.m. emails about logo sizes and hashtag placements.

When the meeting ends, I stand. Yevena appears out of nowhere, as usual, handing me a tablet. “Draft of the new sponsor car design. And by the way, Rafael’s downstairs having gelato with Alex.”

I close my eyes briefly. “Of course he is. I handle the chaos, and they get ice cream breaks.”

“Alex said Rafael’s teaching the barista how to make espresso the Milan way. Causing a small commotion.”

“If he makes that barista fall in love and write a song about him, I’m unplugging his mic permanently.”

Yevena grins. “If that happens, I’ll record the song first. For viral content.”

I nod. “Smart girl.”