Daughter of a fallen former Formula 1 pilot, Camila has had only one mission since her early childhood : to disappear from the public eye and the journalists who eagerly await to tear apart the last ties holding her family together. Torn between her...
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
November 2004.
The hotel room is bathed in stifling heat. The sheets smell of dampness. I play with the fringes of the bedspread, tangling and untangling them with my fingertips. Beside me, Bianca is engrossed in a comic book with dog-eared corners, probably left behind by the previous occupants.
The order was clear. "Stay here, don't move". Andrea, seated at the small desk in the corner room, hasn't uttered a word since our parents left.
"Are they going to be much longer? I'm hungry," I ask with a sigh.
"The hospital isn't far from here, and they promised to be back before noon," my brother replies without looking up from the notepad on which he's doodling spirals.
"Do you think he's okay?" Bianca suddenly asks, looking concerned.
"Dad said not to worry. So we're not worrying. He's probably just fine," my brother declares confidently before fiddling with the radio set up on the desk. Suddenly, it springs to life at maximum volume, startling all three of us.
"... very, very sad news reaching us this morning, as the family of Pierre Pollin, critically injured in Brazil ten days ago, has just issued a statement announcing the passing of the pilot..."
Andrea rushes to turn off the radio, while Bianca, closing the comic book, looks at us both.
"Should we start worrying?"
•
September 2019.
"No, Mr. Salvagni, we didn't charge you any extra... Oh, that wasn't us. This amount doesn't ring a bell. Maybe try contacting your bank directly?"
It's 8:30 in the morning, and the garage isn't even officially open yet, but Andrea's voice echoes through the kitchen. With one hand stirring my coffee to dissolve the sugar I've added, and the other propping up my chin, threatening to collapse under the weight of sleepiness, I struggle to keep my eyes open.
"Yes, Mr. Salvagni, the rims too. You're welcome. Always a pleasure. Have a great day," my brother concludes, mimicking shooting himself in the head and sticking out his tongue.
"Crappy dude and his crappy car, loaded with cash, and he's busting our ass over 30 bucks. What's up with you this morning? You look like shit," My brother continues as he pours himself a coffee and slips in the chair next to me.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Is it because of what happened in Belgium?"
"Stop talking about Belgium."
"But is it because of that?"
I run my tongue over my lips, gaining a few seconds, searching for an answer. It's been two weeks since I hurriedly returned from Belgium. Two weeks where on my best days, I wake up sweating in my bed, my heart pounding. On the worst, I don't sleep at all, staring at the city lights until they give way to the first lights of dawn.
