Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 25: Lauren

I don't even have to ask him again if I can drive; Seb just opens the car door and nods for me to slip behind the wheel after we leave the restaurant. Considering the slight downturn in our lunchtime conversation after I'd brought up my biological parents, he may be feeling a little guilty. While that was never my intention, what am I going to do? Refuse to take the Maserati for a spin? Hell to the no!

Traffic on the A1 highway leading up to Florence is sporadic, giving me the perfect chance to test this beast's limits (and break multiple road rules in the process). After tapping the paddle shifter into the sixth—and final—gear, I punch the gas. I catch sight of the digital speedometer: two hundred and thirty kilometers per hour and still rising.

Holy crap. The ride is so smooth I didn't think we were going so fast. The landscape passes by in a blur, and I scale it back to just above the legal limit of one thirty. Speed like this is dangerous enough on a closed track, let alone on an open highway where any idiot could pull out in front of me.

Seb doesn't make a peep even when I occasionally floor it again, only bracing his arms against the dashboard in a silent plea for me to dial it back. It's the most fun I've had on four wheels in a while, and we're also making great time—thirty minutes ahead of schedule per the GPS—until we exit toward Barberino onto a rural highway.

Rural is probably a misnomer in European standards, given the smooth surface and clear markings. The Italian infrastructure even in out-of-the-way spots like this is probably better than in many major American cities. The single lane in either direction does make speeding more difficult, but I overtake every chance I have. As we near our destination, I eventually get stuck behind a wide, agricultural harvester in a no-passing zone.

"This is not good," Seb says, pointing outside his window. There, a freshly plowed field is covered in dozens of large, black birds. "Crows mean bad luck."

I scoff. My teammate is apparently a little old lady. I wonder if he also has a rabbit's foot or if he avoids the number thirteen. "Or maybe it just means they're being resourceful and looking for worms the machines just turned up. Anyway, I didn't realize you were so superstitious."

"I am not. It is just something my grandmother used to say." He shrugs.

Oh, great. Are we about to head into dead relative territory again? I'm afraid to ask.

"Well, I won't argue either way since I can't even tell the difference between a crow and a raven," I admit.

"Ravens are more big, and they fly alone or in pairs. Crows like groups," he says.

"Well, aren't you a useful source of odd facts?" I tease. "Tell me something else interesting."

"In general or about myself?" he asks.

I would have been okay with general, but if he's offering . . .. "Yourself, of course."

He pauses, and then sighs as if preparing to reveal a big secret. "I like cats more than dogs."

"Me too!" I exclaim. It's usually an unpopular opinion, so it's great to finally find someone who thinks the same. "Any particular reason?"

"A dog bite me when I was four." He points to the center of his upper lip and leans closer. "See? It was a small, stupid dog, too. Not serious, but . . . I don't know." He shrugs again, dismissing the event that left a barely visible scar.

"It was apparently enough to hold a grudge for fifteen years," I say, turning my attention back to the road, but nothing has changed. We're still staring at the business end of the huge-ass farm equipment.