Daughter of a fallen former Formula 1 driver, 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 he...
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April 2004.
"Do you think Monaco's the best circuit ever ?"
"Yes, I do"
"Do you say that because that's where you met mom ?"
"I'll tell you a secret... Yes, you're right. That's the reason."
"Is that why we live here ?"
"We live here because there's no other city on earth that breathes motorsports as strongly as this one. I feel alive here. Don't you feel it ?"
"I'm not sure. Where should I feel it ?"
"I'd say here" came my father's answer, while I watched his finger gently tap on my heart.
•
May 2019.
One step, then another. Another one. A drop of sweat trickling down my forehead. The familiar sensation of my pulse quickening, lungs tightening in my chest. The metallic taste I can almost sense on my tongue from pushing my body to its limits. I gradually slow down until I'm walking just as my watch emits a beep, signaling I've reached my morning goal, and I can halt my mad run through the rugged landscape of Beausoleil. Below, the bay of Monaco begins to paint itself in pink and orange hues as the city slowly awakens.
In a few hours, the city will plunge into the characteristic excitement of the Monaco Grand Prix. In a few hours, I'll be far away, somewhere in Italy, miles away from all the commotion. Another ring from my watch, different this time, brings me back from my reverie. On the dial, the alarm that I set up earlier this morning. 7 AM. The city center is officially closed to traffic in anticipation of sunday's race and will stay that way for three whole days. With a sigh, I turn on my heels and stretch for a moment before starting to run again, this time towards my apartment.
About thirty minutes later, I insert my keys into the lock of the small, shabby studio I rent on the Boulevard d'Italie and kick off my sneakers without bothering to untie the laces. I happily peel off the sportswear clinging to my skin and slip under the shower with a grunt of contentment.
Less than an hour later, with still damp hair tied in a messy bun and a travel bag on my shoulder, I rush down the stairs, eager to leave Monaco as quickly as possible. As I approach my car parked across the street, I notice a man leaning against it, ear glued to his phone.
I slow down, not particularly eager to confront the individual to ask him to remove his wondrous rear from my little Alfa Romeo. As I get closer, I unintentionally catch a snippet of conversation that immediately grabs my attention. "It's the engine, I think. It's fucking dead, forget it", the man complains on the phone. I'm so close now that I'm almost surprised he hasn't seen me yet. I clear my throat gently, and he turns suddenly, two deep blue eyes plunging into mine instantly.
