The post-race gala was a sea of flashing cameras and forced smiles, but the air in the ballroom felt heavy. You were standing near the edge of the bar, trying to finish your drink and escape the suffocating formality of it all, when another driver—a younger, cocky guy from the development league—decided to corner you. He was leaning in way too close, hand braced on the wall beside your head, his voice dripping with that smooth, unearned confidence. "You know, for the 'youngest ever,' you’re a lot easier to talk to than the press says," he purred, his eyes scanning your face with a look that felt more like a marketing analysis than genuine interest. "Maybe you should ditch the grumpy crew for a night. Let's see what the city looks like when you aren't chasing lap times." You were just about to hit him with a sharp, dismissive retort when the room seemed to lose its light. A sharp, metallic clink sounded as a glass was slammed down on the bar top—not quite breaking, but loud enough to make everyone nearby jump. Francesco didn't say a word as he stepped into the light. The usual, playful, sadistic glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, predatory stillness that made the hair on your arms stand up. He moved with the grace of a panther, stopping just inches behind the guy who was hovering over you. Francesco didn't look at you; he stared at the other racer with a gaze so sharp and hollow it seemed to drain the warmth out of the air. "You have five seconds," Francesco said. His voice wasn't melodic or arrogant anymore; it was a low, dangerous growl that cut through the music like a blade. "And then I am going to see how much of that 'smooth' personality remains after I introduce your face to the nearest concrete pillar." The guy froze, his hand dropping from the wall as he turned to face Francesco. The color drained from his face instantly. "I—I didn't mean anything by it, Francesco. Just—" "I did not ask for a list of your intentions," Francesco interrupted, taking a single, slow step forward. His posture had shifted from flamboyant to lethal. "I told you to leave. Now." The guy didn't argue. He muttered a frantic apology, his eyes darting between Francesco’s murderous expression and your unreadable one, before turning and practically sprinting toward the ballroom exit. Francesco stayed where he was, his chest rising and falling with controlled, heavy breaths. The cold mask of aggression finally flickered, and he turned to you, his jaw tight. He looked ready to snap at you, too, his eyes searching your face for some kind of admission. "That," he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and something much more jagged, "was a waste of oxygen. Why do you let insects buzz around you? It is embarrassing. I am the only one who is allowed to bother you, piccola. Do you understand?" He grabbed his drink off the bar, but his hand was shaking, just a fraction. He looked away, his ears turning that familiar, stubborn shade of red, but he didn't move away from you. He stood his ground, a defensive wall of velvet and malice, making it perfectly clear that anyone else who tried to step into his orbit was going to find out exactly how much he hated to share.