Roads of Redemption | F1 | Toto Wolff

7.3. | Rush.

Another victorious weekend. Apparently, Mercedes' reign had come to an end.

Another day with several anonymous messages popping up on my phone. Conspiracy theories. Or maybe not.

It's funny because whoever automated or sends this manually truly believes something could surprise me.

At this point- and I'm not just talking about the competition- nothing impresses me anymore.

The team was celebrating at a bar, everyone euphoric, when a waiter approached and asked what I wanted. "Do you have caipirinha here?" I asked, to which he nodded. "I'll have one," I continued, "with vodka."

The atmosphere was full of laughter and toasts, the tension from the last races finally giving way to a well-deserved relaxation. The first caipirinhas went down like water, and as the night progressed, the empty glasses piled up in front of me. Each sip seemed to dissolve the accumulated fatigue, and I let myself be carried away by the lightness the alcohol provided.

During the celebration, while I was pouring another drink, one of the mechanics approached, already a bit tipsy. "Now I understand why you were the glue that kept Alejandro standing," he said, half-laughing, but with a touch of sincerity that caught me off guard. "You have a strength that few possess, always holding everything together."

His words hit me like a punch. The lightness I felt from the alcohol started to give way to a crushing weight. The smile on my face faltered, and the only response I found was to empty the glass in one gulp.

Checo, always attentive, noticed I was going over the edge. He tried to intervene, placing his hand on the glass I was about to bring to my lips. "Hey, I think that's enough for today," he said, concerned, with a somewhat tense smile. I just laughed, gently pushing his hand away. "Relax, Checo, just one more," I insisted, but the effects of the drink were already taking hold of me.

Despite Checo's protests, I kept drinking, enjoying the rare opportunity to disconnect from the world. Around me, I noticed some concerned looks, but the most striking ones were from Max, who was watching me closely, even from afar.

Finally, Max realized I was no longer in a state to continue. He approached, his eyes serious, but his voice still soft. "Let's go, it's time to head back to the hotel," he said, taking my hand and guiding me out of the bar.

Who would have thought a few caipirinhas could cause so much trouble?

When the elevator doors opened, I stumbled out as Max murmured something my foggy mind couldn't process. We turned into the hallway, and there he was: sitting on the floor, with his right arm resting on his bent leg, while the other stretched across the carpet.

I sighed, letting out an almost inaudible complaint.

"Let me take care of this," Max offered, his voice firm and controlled.

I nodded, but the alcohol didn't keep me quiet for long.

Ah, the alcohol.

"Look at this, Max," I began, with a dramatic pause, "Someone, please, take a picture of the CEO and Team Principal of Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team sitting at the door of a competitor's hotel room and send it to some gossip page." My voice dripped with irony. "What will Wolff's plan be now? It would make a perfect headline."

Max gave a slight smile. "Toto, now's not the best time," he said, the firmness in his voice contrasting with the disdain in the air. "Come back another time. Maybe another day?"

Or maybe never come back, I thought out loud with a heavy sigh.

Toto shot me a stern look from below before rising to his full height, his presence suddenly dominating the room. "I'll take care of her from now on, Max," he declared, his tone leaving little room for argument.