The Falcon 7X touched down smoothly at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport.
As they disembarked, Dominik adjusted his sunglasses, glancing at the line of black SUVs waiting on the tarmac. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had spent his life bypassing baggage claims and customs queues. The crowd gathered at the fence wasn't for him—not yet, anyway—but for the local hero, Charles Leclerc.
Airport security ushered them through the VIP terminal, a seamless transition from luxury air to luxury ground.
They climbed into a waiting Mercedes V-Class. As the car wound its way along the coast toward the Principality, Russell looked out the window, admiring the view, while Dominik simply leaned back, checking his messages.
As they entered the city, the harbor came into view, packed with superyachts. The sun glinted off hull after hull of white fiberglass and polished teak.
"It's a bit crowded this time of year," Dominik commented, eyeing the jam-packed marina with a critical eye. "In the Adriatic, you have room to breathe. Here, you're practically sharing deck space with your neighbor."
Leclerc laughed. "That's Monaco, my friend. We like to be close to the action. Welcome to my backyard."
The car slowed in front of a massive hotel complex.
"NO!" Russell groaned, realizing where they were. "Charles, please tell me you didn't book us at the Fairmont."
Dominik looked at the entrance. It was the hotel perched right over the Hairpin. "I agree with George," Dominik said, wrinkling his nose. "Sleeping above a racetrack is fine for work, but for a holiday? It's a bit tacky."
Leclerc grinned. "Relax, princesses. We're just dropping a bag for my trainer. You're staying at my apartment."
They continued up the winding roads to Leclerc's penthouse. The view was spectacular, but Dominik felt right at home. It wasn't so different from the view from his family's estate in the Buda Hills—just more blue, less Danube.
That evening, after a dinner prepared by Leclerc (who was surprisingly domestic), they sat on the terrace, overlooking the glittering harbor.
"So," Leclerc swirled his wine. "Have you spent much time at sea, Dominik?"
"We have a boat on the Adriatic," Dominik replied casually, taking a sip of the vintage red. "And something smaller for the lakes back home. I enjoy it, as long as I don't have to dock it myself."
Leclerc smiled. "Good. Because tomorrow, we take Sedici out. I'll be the captain."
Sedici was Leclerc's Riva yacht.
"Just us?" Dominik asked, raising an eyebrow. "Including your skipper, that's three people on a 66-foot boat. Seems a bit empty, no?"
"We need a fourth," Leclerc agreed. He pulled out his phone.
Dominik glanced at Russell. "Who is he calling?"
"You'll see," Russell smirked, sipping his drink. "He's calling the final member of the quartet."
Leclerc spoke rapidly in French. He hung up a moment later. "He's in."
"You didn't call Charlotte?" Russell asked.
"She's busy designing," Leclerc said. "Everyone has to work."
Dominik nodded. He understood that. Wealth didn't mean idleness; in his family, it usually meant you just had higher stakes.
"Run?" Leclerc suggested.
Dominik stood up, stretching. "Let's go. I need to burn off that pasta."
They hit the streets. Leclerc and Dominik ran at a brutal pace, their fitness levels elite. Russell, true to form, cruised alongside them on Leclerc's electric bike, looking smug.
"You realize," Dominik panted, glancing at Russell, "that cheating on a workout is bad karma?"
"I call it energy conservation," Russell grinned. "You two tire yourselves out. I'll be fresh for the boat."
They ended up in a small, hidden bar in the Old Town. The owner brought them beers without asking.
"Why didn't we shower?" Dominik asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Because he's here," Leclerc pointed.
The door opened. A figure walked in, wearing designer streetwear that probably cost more than a decent family car.
It was Pierre Gasly.
"Pierre!" Leclerc stood up.
"Look at you three," Gasly laughed, shaking hands. He looked at Dominik. "And the Rookie. The 'God of War'. I saw the video. Nice save. You drive that Williams like you own the track."
Dominik smiled, shaking his hand. "Sometimes you just have to hold your line, Pierre. Good to meet you."
"So," Gasly sat down. "We go out on the Riva tomorrow?"
"Yes," Leclerc said. "But first, we recover."
Since Gasly had driven over from Cannes, they piled into his car—a pristine AlphaTauri company ride.
"Comfortable," Dominik commented, settling into the leather seat. "Better than the shuttle bus in Barcelona."
They arrived at a private thermal spa an hour later. As they soaked in the hot mineral water, Dominik leaned back, closing his eyes.
This was the life he knew—quiet luxury, good company, and the satisfaction of a job well done. No stress about budgets, no worries about the future. Just four drivers at the top of their game.
Meanwhile, in Switzerland, Zhou Guanyu looked at his phone screen. He saw the Instagram story of the four of them clinking champagne glasses in a Monaco spa.
He sighed, looking at the freezing snow outside his window.
"I'm here doing correlation work," Zhou muttered to the empty room, "and Dominik is living the dream in a jacuzzi."