The two Formula 1 drivers stood just three feet apart, separated only by the private security guard between them. Neither man moved as the hum of distant voices and instrumental music faded into silence around them.
Between the two of them, it was DiMarco who appeared most stunned. His face was pale, his mouth open, but the shock was slowly fading with each second as he sought to ground himself.
DiMarco was dressed in a brown jacket over a plain white T-shirt and simple jeans, his clothing far too understated for such a venue, almost out of place amid the opulence of the palace. But of course, this was Davide DiMarco, and anyone who knew him well knew he was the kind of man who never dressed for anyone's approval.
What need was there to dress to perfection when one was bound to crutches? Polished shoes and a tailored suit would hardly pair well with steel shafts tucked beneath one's arms, would they?
