Chapter Text
Allie
"DI LAURENTIS TRASHES MONACO SUITE AFTER PODIUM CELEBRATION; TEAM PRINCIPAL SILENT ON DAMAGES"
“PLAYBOY OF THE PADDOCK: Every Model Dean Di Laurentis Has Been Spotted With This Season"
"DI LAURENTIS MISSES MANDATORY FIA GALA BECAUSE HE WAS 'STUCK ON A YACHT IN IBIZA'"
Allie Hayes sat in row three of a commercial flight, her iPad brightness toggled to the absolute minimum to spare herself the intense secondhand embarrassment that was Dean DiLaurentis.
The job offer had come out of nowhere, leaving her exactly one week to pack up her flat and fly across the world to Maranello, Italy. It had been an easy yes. Not because she was thrilled about the prospect of babysitting a grown man-child, but because a six-figure salary in Euros is a spectacular motivator.
Allie scrolled through the endless scroll of disaster headlines that populated whenever she Googled his name. A rich, spoiled brat with zero regard for his own public image or the image of the historic team that cut his paychecks. Di Laurentis was an undeniable talent on the track, the golden boy of Scuderia Ferrari, but even the most prestigious team in motorsport history was running out of patience with his antics.
Every single article detailed a chaotic cocktail of women, clubs, and paddock politics. But right alongside the drama were the stats: won races, record-shattering lap times, and dominant victories. He was the ultimate paradox- a catastrophic PR nightmare wrapped in an infinite money glitch.
That was where she came in.
Allie had managed her fair share of spoiled Los Angeles nepo babies. She had practically built a career out of turning PR disasters into profit margins, once convincing the general public that a toxic influencer wasn’t actually the devil incarnate through a series of carefully choreographed social media campaigns. Allie Hayes was a magician when it came to manipulating public perception and cleaning up the reputation of—for lack of a better word—absolute pieces of shit.
She dove deeper into her research, auditing his socials, his Wikipedia page, and even a hilariously abandoned high school Facebook profile. Dean DiLaurentis. Twenty-four years old. Born October 19th in Greenwich, Connecticut. Multi-millionaire parents, a cushy upbringing, and a surprisingly excellent college GPA. He had all the ingredients to be a successful, soul-crushing businessman on Wall Street. Instead, he chose to drive a rocket ship on wheels at two hundred miles per hour.
The chime of the seatbelt sign echoed through the cabin, snapping Allie out of her research spiral. She straightened her seatback and peeked out the window.
Maranello was beautiful from above. Then again, the bar was pretty fucking low coming from downtown LA, but the rolling greenery against the classic Italian architecture was a breathtaking sight.
One hour later, the sights transformed from rolling green hills to what looked like a sleek villain hideout, complete with pristine, white polished floors and dramatic red marble accents.
The Ferrari team factory was massive. The further Allie walked in, the more she felt like the walls were expanding by the second, making her feel smaller and smaller with every step.
She followed closely behind a rambling assistant with a thick Italian accent, her name entirely lost in the breakneck speed at which she spoke. Allie nearly stumbled in her heels trying to keep up with the woman, who was frantically explaining that Allie couldn't be left alone in the building until she had officially obtained her security badge and clearance.
They turned a corner toward a set of double frosted glass doors, but before the assistant could even reach for the handle, a loud, incredibly American voice echoed from the hallway ahead.
“Dude, hop off my dick. It was one beer and I came straight home. Honest.”
“I don’t care if it was one beer or one hundred, you were told to stay out of the public eye until we could fix the bullshit you pulled back in Monaco!” A male voice thundered back, sounding equally—if not more—exasperated.
“It was all fixed. They forgot about it in like a week anyway. Plus, I won yesterday,” the other voice argued back. It belonged to the man Allie assumed was Dean, and it was entirely coated in that bratty, conceited tone she was all too used to dealing with.
Before the second voice could reply, the speedy assistant swung one of the heavy glass doors open, abruptly cutting their conversation short.
And there he sat.
Dean was lounging with one ankle resting over his opposite knee, wearing fancy Italian designer loafers and a knitted polo shirt with most of the top buttons undone. His blond hair was messy—the kind of deliberately styled, fresh-out-of-the-shower messy—and his eyes immediately swept over her, tracking Allie from head to toe.
“Mr. Pontecorvo? Allie Hayes is here,” the assistant, whose badge clipped to her hip finally revealed her name was Marianna, gestured politely at Allie.
Although Allie felt a sudden jolt like a deer caught in headlights, she didn't let a single ounce of it show on her face. “Nice to finally meet you in person, Mr. Pontecorvo,” she said smoothly, before offering a sharp nod to the driver. “Mr. Di Laurentis.”
“Ah, yes, yes, Ms. Hayes. Please, call me Canzio.” The man stood up from behind a massive marble desk and shook Allie’s hand firmly, gesturing for her to sit before returning to his seat.
Marianna retreated quietly, closing the door behind her with a soft click as Allie sank into the leather chair right next to Dean Di Laurentis.
Whose eyes had not left her for a single second.
“Miss Hayes, meet your new client, Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, meet your new PR manager and personal advisor, Allie Hayes.”
It felt as though time stopped completely in the room. Allie could practically feel the air shift as a heavy tension grew, slowly giving way to something akin to pure anger radiating from the man next to her.
It wasn’t that she didn’t expect a tantrum from the twenty-four-year-old toddler in the designer shoes, but his sheer presence alone was incredibly imposing. It was suffocating in a way that frustrated Allie, almost like he flat-out refused to cede a single ounce of control to anyone but himself.
“Yeah, no. I don’t need a babysitter,” Dean laughed, the sound entirely devoid of actual humor.
“I’m more of a business partner than a babysitter, but given your track record, I don’t blame you for the comparison,” Allie said with a casual shrug, earning herself a very pointed look from the driver.
“Track record? Really?” Dean stared at her in disbelief.
“Is there a different way you’d like to word your less-than-stellar reputation?”
“Is this how you talk to all your clients when you first meet them?”
“Only to the ones who make headlines every other Tuesday,” Allie countered.
Before Dean could fire off another quip, Mr. Pontecorvo finally intervened. “I fear it’s not up for discussion, Di Laurentis. Miss Hayes will help you clean up your public image and keep you from making any more public messes.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Allie saw Dean’s jaw clench.
“I will leave you two to get acquainted. Talk.” Pontecorvo stood up, looking as though he, too, couldn’t handle the sudden, suffocating spike of tension in the room.
The moment the heavy office door clicked shut, leaving them alone, Allie was the first to stand. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the edge of the massive marble desk. She actively pretended she didn’t notice the way Dean’s eyes unashamedly traveled down her legs before flicking back up to her face, his expression a smug mask struggling to hide his genuine annoyance.
“So you’re here to… what, exactly? Keep me on a leash?” Dean broke the silence.
“I might, if I find it necessary,” Allie returned with a flat, sweet smile. “I’m here to keep you from embarrassing yourself or Ferrari, any more than you already have.”
“Embarrass Ferrari? I don’t know if you’re familiar with F1, love, but I’m the best driver they have.”
Allie was almost amused by his gigantic ego. Almost. “Yeah, but you also trash hotel rooms, get into fights, and are a man-whore.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I just met you, and you’re calling me a man-whore?” Dean stood up abruptly, and Allie’s perspective shifted from looking down to looking very, very high up. He completely towered over her, utilizing his height like a weapon. But Allie had never been one to shrink away from anything. She tilted her head up, unbothered, just waiting for his tantrum to pass. She knew the key to managing men like this was being as condescending as humanly possible; they were all kindergarten children at their core.
“I can just fire you, you know that right?”
He was absolutely throwing a tantrum.
“No, you can’t. You didn’t hire me. Mr. Pontecorvo hired me. Technically, he’s my boss and… I’m yours,” Allie replied smoothly.
With another sharp smile, she reached down and handed Dean a thick behavior folder. It was a customized binder full of expectations, PR guidelines, media schedules, and a few blank NDAs.
“Is this… homework?” Dean blindly gripped the binder, staring down at it as if astounded that something was actually being forced on him. “Are you giving me rules?”
“Yep. Nothing crazy. Just some light reading on Ferrari’s corporate policies, some social media instructions, my contact information, and some forms for you to fill out.” Allie clicked a sleek pen and held it out to him. “I’ll also need all the passwords to your public social media accounts. And your phone passcode.”
“You’re kidding.” He took the pen purely out of reflex, a stunned laugh bubbling out of him as he stared down at the barely five-foot-five girl in front of him.
She didn’t return the humor. She just stared him down, waiting for him to realize that she was, in fact, deadly serious about her job. She knew men like him tended to underestimate her, but again, she had dealt with her fair share of Deans back in LA.
“Listen, Amy—”
“Allie.”
“Sure.” He leaned forward, bracing one arm on the edge of the desk right next to hers, effectively trapping her with his massive frame on one side.
Allie resisted the urge to roll her eyes or squirm away. She simply sighed, looking straight up at him. She met his baby-blue eyes and noted the dimples on his face that any other woman would have swooned over. Allie was entirely used to men pulling this routine the second they felt control slipping away. It was a textbook psychological reaction—trying to project physical dominance to feel better about themselves. It seemed not even Dean Di Laurentis was immune to the panic of feeling small.
“Yeah, see, this…”Allie reached right around his personal space, grabbed the binder he had already discarded on his chair, and shoved it squarely into his chest. “This is your new best friend. Read it. Inhale it. Memorize it. Make flashcards if you need to.”
Dean stumbled back a step, gripping the binder and blinking in absolute shock. He looked genuinely astounded that his charm and dimples hadn’t done all the heavy lifting for him.
“Give me your phone,” Allie commanded, rather than asked. When he didn't move fast enough, she reached out, snatched it right out of his pocket, and held it up to his stunned face to trigger the FaceID.
The screen swiped open. Allie immediately tapped into his contacts and added her own number.
“If anything—and I mean anything—happens, you call me,” she said, handing the device back to him. “If a girl refuses to sign an NDA, if you break so much as a single glass in a restaurant, or if you breathe wrong in front of a paparazzi. Whatever has the potential to get you featured on a Pop Crave tweet the next morning, you call me first.”
Dean took his phone back quietly, looking down at the screen. His blue eyes tracked the crisp, professional contact name she had typed in: Allie Hayes [PR].
Before he could even open his mouth to continue the back-and-forth argument, Allie was already turning on her heel. She was halfway through the heavy glass doors before he could find his voice.
“Take today to yourself,” Allie called back over her shoulder, not bothering to look at him as the door began to swing shut. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the garage for the first media briefing.”
The door clicked into place, leaving Dean standing entirely alone in the quiet office, still staring at his phone in absolute, utter disbelief.