VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 96

[POV: Narrator]

"You've worn that on purpose. Admit it!" Pecco insisted, arms crossed, "Your chartreuse clashes violently with my navy!"

Marco shot back with a grin, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "You really think Lewis Hamilton cares what you wear?" he said, to which Pecco jabbed a finger at him.

"Don't start with me, Marco, I saw what you wore to the paddock last week. You have no grounds upon which to critique my sense of style!"

Across the room, Oscar sat alone on the dining table, hunched over his phone, scrolling fast and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Everyone was preparing for the evening's event — a group dinner, their unofficial farewell before the end of the season, before it all fractured into off-season obligations and next-year contracts. It was tradition by now — no one ever particularly wanted to go, but everyone always ended up laughing too loud, staying too late, and pretending it hadn't been the highlight of the year.

Andi, ever the gracious host, had offered her apartment as a meeting point so that the MotoGP lot (which only consisted of Marco, Francesco and Fabio) could all walk to the restaurant together. And seen as she was the only one of the group who lived in Monaco, it made sense — definitely not because Pecco had sent a panicked group chat message earlier admitting he refused to arrive alone. Something like 'What if Lewis Hamilton's there and I'm too shy to say hello?' which Andi had declared pathetic.

She came out of the bathroom, bracelet in hand, her fingers fumbling with the clasp like it was designed with a purposefully too-short band just to annoy her. "Has anyone heard from Fabio?" she asked, impatience clearly mounting.

Pecco and Marco exchanged a quick glance and resumed their verbal sparring like clockwork. That's a no, then. Andi then checked Oscar. She grunted when he didn't even look up from his phone.

Clearly, nobody cares about punctuality anymore.

Just then, the door swung open.

"FABIOOOO!" Pecco and Marco's fashion-fight vanished as if it never existed. They practically ran to greet him at the door, faces lighting up with genuine smiles.

Fabio's eyes caught Andi's as he stepped inside. With a warm smile, he leaned over and kissed her cheek lightly.

"Tu es magnifique ce soir," he said with a sly half-smile. "Comme toujours."

(You're magnificent tonight. As always.)

Andi lifted an unimpressed brow, switching easily to French. "Merci, Fab. Tu es en retard. Comme toujours."

(Thanks, Fab. You're late. As always.)

Pecco, feeling the need to compete, jumped in with a grin, slinging an arm around Fabio. "Yeah, well, I could've told her that before she even walked in."

"You did," Andi said, deadpan. "You texted me. Four times."

Pecco either didn't hear her or chose not to. He took her hand with exaggeration, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then pulled her into a half-hug, whispering — far too loudly — in her ear: "If you break up with Oscar, I will write you a poem and cry on live television."

Marco scoffed from behind him. "Don't tempt her too hard, Pecco. Oscar might not take it well." He gave Oscar a friendly jab on the shoulder; an attempt to bond, or something... It was no use, though — Oscar didn't even crack a smile.

Andi shook her head, walking over to Oscar, still sitting awkwardly on the chair. She caught Pecco's eye as she passed him. "You've already done both of those things."