𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART ELEVEN

Max Verstappen casually proving why he's a wc in Brazil, not to mention childhood besties-maybe-enemies getting a 2-3 on the podium wtf

Word count; 2,203

Tomás

— March 15th, 2023. Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.

Just over a week had passed, and Pierre hadn't said a word. I had known it would happen, almost, just by the way he resisted my touch in the bathroom after I'd slammed the door; how he'd stared at the wall, blanketed by his own thoughts, and could barely manage to look at me when he turned around. It had happened before, and some part of me sensed it would happen again. And yet, it would be a lie to say it hadn't rendered an agitation in my veins; knowing Pierre was avoiding me, as if trying to convince himself it had never happened, when he knew I would tear down cities if it meant keeping his secret. After all, it was because of him that I mended things with Oscar in the first place.

Thank fuck, I thought. I couldn't bother with that pretense anymore.

What was worse was the fact that Curro could tell something had shifted. A habit I'd picked up long ago was to keep things hidden, especially with Curro's need to meddle, but this was different. Chain smoking cigarettes and bindging various types of tequila couldn't hide this. Nor could a two hour flight to Jeddah, where I lacked both privileges.

A flight attendant presented a black carboard box, and Curro frowned at it. "What is that?"

"A gift from Mr Alfaro." She beamed, placing it on the table between us. "For Mr Facundo."

"Don't look at me." I held up my hands, feeling his piercing stare.

"Sure it made its way through security?" Liam piped up from across the aisle.

I shrugged, slipping my fingers over the opening of the box. It was only a few inches thick, and hardly leaden at that.

"I bet it's chocolate. Alfaro sounds like a chocolatier's name."

"A chocolatier?" I glared at Liam. "What is that?"

He didn't answer, gaze too focused on the box as I took off the lid. My brows furrowed, a card lounging over layers of black and gold tissue paper. I picked it up, flipping it over in my fingers.

Liam probed, "What does it say?"

I cleared my throat, exorbitant handwriting plaguing each line, making the Spanish almost illegible. Reading it aloud, a smirk took to my lips, Curro's frown only intensifying.

"What does that mean?" Liam asked.

I tilted my head; despite my fluency in both languages, it took a moment to translate each sentence.

"Tomás Facundo," I rephrased, "It has been years since I have seen a talent like you on the grid."

Curro rolled his eyes.

"Fiery and dedicated, who doesn't take shit." I announced, like an actor practicing lines. "I would love to meet the woman who raised you, but I fear I wouldn't come back alive.

Thank you for the chat on Monday. You're a very charming man and I hope you keep the world on its toes. Take this as repayment, and good luck for this season. Keep Alonso at bay, like your life depends on it.

Ibán Alfaro, Montecristo."

"Montecristo?" Liam raised a brow. "The brand?"

I nodded; it was a cigar and tobacco brand which had sponsored Lamborghini for just over a year, discreetly displayed on our uniforms due to the FIA's new regulations. More specifically, the man who represented them at the lunch on Monday also happened to share a conversation with me outside of the hotel, as a result of being unable to light his cigarette.