Home Alone (Piastri Edition) // Landoscar

Chapter 1: The Chaos Before Christmas

The Piastri household in Melbourne had never seen such pandemonium.

Well, technically it wasn't just the Piastri household anymore. Through a series of increasingly complicated circumstances involving sponsorship deals, team bonding exercises gone wrong, and what Zak Brown insisted was "building Formula 1 family cohesion," the entire McLaren Racing organization—along with half the F1 grid—had descended upon the Piastri family home for Christmas.

"MUM!" Oscar called from somewhere in the depths of the house, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of twenty-something racing drivers, various team personnel, and the Piastri extended family all crammed into a space meant for maybe ten people, maximum. "Has anyone seen my other sock?"

Nobody answered. Nobody could have heard him if they'd tried.

In the kitchen, Nicole Piastri was experiencing what could only be described as a complete organizational meltdown. She'd agreed to host Christmas dinner for the family. Just the family. Somehow, "the family" had expanded to include what appeared to be the entire Formula 1 paddock.

"Right," she muttered to herself, staring at fifteen different grocery lists that had somehow multiplied across her counter. "Eighteen pizzas, check. Wait, no—" She scratched that out. "Lando's gluten-free now. Or was that Carlos? No, Carlos left Ferrari, he's not even—why is there a list for Carlos?"

"NICOLE!" Chris Piastri burst through the back door, covered in what appeared to be tinsel and carrying an armload of suitcases. "The Verstappen contingent has arrived!"

"The Verstappen *what*?"

As if on cue, Max Verstappen strolled through the door with the confidence of a three-time world champion, followed by an entourage that included his father Jos, his trainer, his physiotherapist, and for some inexplicable reason, Daniel Ricciardo wearing a Santa hat.

"G'day, mate!" Daniel announced cheerfully, immediately making himself at home by raiding the fridge. "Hope you don't mind, Max's hotel lost his reservation, so I said he could crash here. Christmas spirit and all that!"

"We're all staying at a hotel," Nicole said weakly.

"About that," Zak Brown emerged from the living room, phone pressed to his ear, looking harried. "Slight problem. Massive electrical fire at the Grand Hyatt. Not massive, moderate. Small, actually. Tiny. But they've evacuated the whole building."

Nicole felt her eye twitch. "Zak. Please tell me you're joking."

"Unfortunately not! But good news—I've arranged for everyone to stay here tonight, and we'll fly out to our luxury resort in the Gold Coast first thing tomorrow morning. Early flight. Six AM. We'll be out of your hair before you know it!"

From upstairs came the sound of something expensive breaking, followed by Charles Leclerc's voice: "It's okay! It's fine! Nothing important! Probably!"

"THAT WAS MY GRANDMOTHER'S VASE!" Nicole shrieked, already heading for the stairs.

Oscar finally emerged from his room, still looking for his sock, and nearly collided with Lewis Hamilton in the hallway. Lewis was deep in conversation with George Russell about sustainable fashion while Fernando Alonso trailed behind them, criticizing everything about the house's feng shui.

"Your energy flow is completely blocked here," Fernando was saying, gesturing dramatically at a potted plant. "This is why you don't win races."

"I'm not even racing right now, Fernando," Oscar muttered. "It's the off-season."

"Exactly! No flow!"

Downstairs, Lando Norris had commandeered the living room and was attempting to set up what appeared to be a elaborate Christmas movie marathon, complete with a projector, surround sound speakers, and enough snacks to feed a small army.