Chapter 7 Ice Cream and Million-Dollar Headaches
I had just turned toward the lounge when something wrapped around my neck from the side.
“Oh—my favorite PR woman in the whole damn paddock!”
My throat was officially trapped in the overly fragrant embrace of Alex Moretti, who smelled too good for a human being. He squeezed me like a golden retriever that just found its owner after a war. His blond hair was still damp, and his Bandini team shirt looked more like a GQ campaign poster than an official uniform.
“Alex,” I hissed. “You do realize I can rewrite your contract to make you the pit stop mascot who has to do a TikTok dance every five laps, right?”
He groaned dramatically, still clutching my arm. “You sound tense. That’s why I brought ice cream.”
“Ice cream doesn’t fix my life.”
“Not just any ice cream, Alvarez.” He pulled me into the lounge and pointed at a small table near the bar fridge. “Double chocolate fudge caramel swirl. Homemade. And—tada!”
He dug into his gym bag (why does he always have that thing?) and pulled out… something.
“What is that?” I raised a brow. A tiny metallic-purple Bandini helmet keychain.
“A gift. Because your face looks like you just finished negotiating a ceasefire in the Middle East.”
I chuckled. “Thanks, I guess. But if this explodes, I’m throwing it at your father’s head.”
Alex dropped onto the sofa, flipping his hair like some rich anime character with too much free time. I sat next to him. Ice cream appeared from somewhere, and I didn’t even care. My hands opened the cup on autopilot.
“So,” he said, leaning his head back. “My grandma told me if I don’t bring a girlfriend home for Christmas this year, she’s setting me up with her bridge partner’s daughter, who’s apparently ‘good at knitting and very, very obedient.’”
I took a spoonful of ice cream. “Sounds like your personal hell just got a street address.”
“She sent me the girl’s photo, Vick. I showed it to Rafael. He thought it was a bot account.”
“I’m sure it was a bot account.”
Alex looked heartbroken. “I’m only twenty-two. Twenty-two! But to my grandma, that’s basically retirement age.”
“When I was twenty-two, I was crying because my design file got corrupted,” I muttered. “Your grandma can relax.”
“She even sent me an invite to her social club meeting, said I should start ‘living more maturely.’”
“...Did you read it?”
“Of course not.” He scoffed. “I forwarded it to Rafael.”
“Of course you did.” I almost laughed, scooping another bite of ice cream. The chocolate was perfect, the chill just right, and the sweetness enough to calm the nerves burned out by eight Armani suits and one handsome demon.
“How much of this conversation did I miss?”
Speak of the demon.
That voice. Low, calm, familiar. Unfortunately.
I didn’t have to turn around to know Rafael De Luca Ricciardi was standing there, looking like a perfume ad directed by Ridley Scott.
“Two complaints, one grandma threat, and one email confession,” I said flatly.
Rafael took a seat across from us, leaning his elbows on the table, arms folded. “Sounds like I came at the perfect time.”
Alex pointed his spoon at him. “You gotta help me, bro. If you pretend to be my boyfriend during the family video call, I’ll pay you in shares from my family’s Tuscany resort.”
Rafael raised an eyebrow. “How big are the shares?”
“You’re kidding,” I cut in. “Are you two seriously turning this into a reality show now?”
“If you host it, yes,” Alex grinned.
I rolled up a napkin and threw it at him. “I’m a PR manager, not the host of Family Feud.”
Rafael laughed quietly. His eyes lingered on me a second too long. But I decided to focus on the ice cream.
My tongue went numb from the caramel swirl, and maybe that was the only thing stopping me from saying something stupid.
Alex was still talking. Rafael was still lounging like he owned the place. And I kept eating my ice cream.
Because sometimes, the only way to survive in this paddock was to hold a tiny spoon and laugh at life while sitting between two multimillion-dollar disasters.
The sharp click of heels echoed from the hallway.
“Don’t tell me we have to schedule another shirtless photoshoot for Rafael,” said Yevena, dropping her iPad on the table like a lawyer who just stormed out of a Supreme Court hearing.
I sighed. “God, I hope not. That body could qualify as a UNESCO heritage site, but I don’t need to see it again on Final Cut at two in the morning.”
“Our followers jumped by six hundred thousand since his Bandini announcement,” Yevena said, sliding into the seat beside me. “Instagram, TikTok, X— even our Threads account came back from the dead. The boss wants us to keep the momentum going.”
I glanced at the two troublemakers across from me.
Alex and Rafael were now comparing their sports cars like spoiled heirs arguing over whose toy was more expensive. Alex had just bought a matte-blue Pagani. Rafael owned a limited-edition Bugatti that hadn’t even been officially launched.
“You need to try it in dual clutch mode,” Rafael said, tracing the shape of the chassis in the air. “The throttle response is like—”
“Like being bitten by a sexy demon from hell,” Alex interrupted. “I know. That’s why I bought it too.”
I stared at them. “Do these two specimens realize they’re being paid to promote races, not their luxury car collections?”
Yevena chuckled. “Unfortunately, every camera adores their faces. So let’s design something to keep the followers drooling.”
She slid the iPad toward me. “Content ideas. Starting next week, we need driver interaction reels. Challenges, Q&As, behind-the-scenes clips. TikTok-style. Funny, casual, viral-able.”
I arched a brow. “Funny and Rafael De Luca in the same sentence? Bold of you.”
“Vick,” Yevena rolled her eyes. “That man could read a tax manual and people would still watch it while drooling.”
I looked over at Rafael. He was laughing now, head tilted slightly, perfect teeth flashing, one hand running through his hair.
Well. Point for Yevena.
I scooped the last bit of my ice cream, thinking.
“First reel: a race to see who can gear up the fastest. Make it a time trial. But instead of serious penalties, we do something fun—like the loser has to answer awkward fan questions.”
“Oooh, I like that,” said Yevena, typing fast. “Next?”
“We shoot a behind-the-scenes vlog. Hand Alex the camera. Let it be messy, spontaneous, chaotic. And Rafael—”
“We’re not giving him a camera,” Yevena cut in instantly. “He’ll end up filming a two-billion-dollar perfume commercial starring himself.”
“You know him too well,” I muttered, scraping the last layer of fudge.
“You forget who his ex is,” Yevena teased with a smirk.
Before I could respond, the scent of expensive cologne and the sound of leather shoes interrupted our little meeting.
“Are you three plotting how to monetize the two most expensive assets in this paddock?”
I looked up.
Mr. Danzel Arriaga, CEO of Bandini Motorsport’s parent company, stood at the end of the lounge table. His navy suit was immaculate as always, gray tie perfectly offsetting his tanned skin. Nearly fifty, but still radiating the kind of authority that made investors tremble—and PR managers like me lose sleep.
“Sir,” I said quickly, standing and wiping my hands clean of ice cream. “We were just—”
“Innovating. I know.” He smiled. “Good. But I have one request: don’t let algorithms dictate this team’s integrity.”
“We’ll make sure Rafael’s exposure stays aligned with Bandini’s image,” I replied quickly.
He nodded. “Good. Because that boy is a double-edged weapon. We want the audience, yes—but we also want a champion.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward Rafael, who was now explaining downforce to Alex while sketching something on a napkin with a plastic fork. Of course he was.
Danzel sighed. “Please don’t make me regret signing off eight figures for a man who can make women fall in love before an interview ends.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” I said.
He glanced at Yevena. “And please, tone down the shirtless gimmicks. My wife watches those.”
“Noted,” Yevena said, raising a hand.
When Danzel walked away, I sat back down. It felt like being lectured by a guidance counselor and a corporate board member at the same time.
“I need a gallon of coffee,” I groaned.
“And maybe a hidden camera to record Rafael washing his own car,” Yevena said, trying not to laugh. “Instant viral.”
I looked up at the lounge ceiling, wishing I could escape—just five minutes away from this testosterone-fueled circus of sponsors, egos, and one man who once left me in a park. But no. I’m PR.
The first wall. The last shield.
And starting tomorrow, apparently, a viral content creator too.
