A commotion erupted downstairs, and the bar's joyful atmosphere reached a fever pitch. The crowd, hungry for a spectacle, finally had the climax to their night's revelry.
"Race! Race! Race!"
The chant was a primal drumbeat, shaking the very foundations of the building.
In the VIP box, Jean Todt, the legendary F1 figure, rubbed his temples wearily. His gaze was drawn to the source of the noise. Below, a tide of young people, phones held high, laughed and shouted as they poured into the Roman night, as if a new, more dangerous party was just beginning.
In seconds, the bar was half-empty.
Samuel, Todt's friend of thirty years, noticed his distraction. "Ah, that's the youngest son of the Moretti family. Just another street race. The youth academy is trouble enough; don't waste energy on rich kids' games. You have a meeting in Paris tomorrow. Go back to the hotel and rest."
Todt didn't respond.
"Jean?" Samuel tried again.
Todt finally snapped back to reality. "Hmm?"
"I said, you should get some rest."
Todt offered a helpless, bitter smile. "Alcohol. Racing. Testosterone. Is there a better way for the young to forget their sorrows? Does it not remind you of our own… adventures?"
Samuel laughed. "Haha, I lack the courage for such messes now."
"But we can still remember them," Todt said, a spark igniting in his tired eyes. "Shall we?"
Samuel looked at the retreating backs of Lorenzo and Matteo, his eyes easily finding Konrad's distinct figure in the crowd. "Of course. Party hard, collapse, and fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow. A perfect plan."
As Todt and Samuel left, the bar completely emptied, the crowd startling the quiet night.
Outside, the scene was transforming. Lorenzo walked beside Konrad, bumping him with his shoulder. "Nervous? That fool Matteo claims he's preparing for Formula racing. He runs in the same circles as Stroll and Latifi."
Konrad didn't even look at him. "The 'pay driver' brigade? The sons of billionaires buying their way up the ladder while real talent gets overlooked. If that's his crowd, it tells me everything I need to know about his... pedigree."
Lorenzo stared, momentarily speechless. So much for being an unknown. The kid knew the landscape. A grin spread across his face. "Okay then. The route is a five-kilometer loop. Starting from Castel Sant'Angelo, down Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, into the narrow turns at the Spanish Steps. Brake late there. Then a sharp left into the Piazza del Popolo—it's tricky—and back to the start."
"They call parts of it a straight, but this is Rome. Every street winds. There are corners in the straights and potholes in the corners."
"Don't worry about getting lost," Lorenzo continued, gesturing to the scattering crowd. "They'll be at every turn. Partly to guide, partly to live-stream. They're also our early warning system. If the police come, the race is off. Just run. But they won't show up."
"Why?" Konrad asked, his voice flat.
"We've hijacked their comms frequency and set up roadblocks. You'll have plenty of time to play." It was clear this was a well-practiced routine.
Konrad narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Lorenzo. "I smell something."
Lorenzo put a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Me? I'm a good person!" But a glint of cunning in his eyes betrayed him.
Konrad's gaze didn't waver. "Whatever you're making from the side bets, I want twenty percent."
Lorenzo gasped, but seeing the unyielding look on Konrad's face, he surrendered. He hadn't arranged the confrontation, but he had certainly placed a ten-thousand-euro bet on the German. "Fine. You're that confident?"
"Haven't you experienced it yourself?" Konrad replied.
"Hey! Salt in the wound!" Lorenzo laughed, not denying it.
Then, it began.
Boom! VROOM! BRAP-BRAP-BRAP!
The roar of a high-performance engine tore through the night, followed by the aggressive crackle of a popping exhaust. The smell of high-octane fuel and burning tires filled the air.
The crowd around Castel Sant'Angelo parted, and all eyes fell on the military-green Mustang Shelby GT350 as it prowled into view. The V8's roar was a physical force, a restless beast stirring the blood of every onlooker.
The car stopped. Matteo made a show of getting out, a dashing, flamboyant figure under the blinding headlights.
"So? I told you you'd love it," he preened, his eyes locked on Marlena, who stood like a stunning red rose in the night. "I'm thinking of painting it bright red. Just like your dress."
From her wide-eyed look, he thought he had her. Triumph bloomed in his chest.
But then, a rustling moved through the crowd. Whispers of astonishment and snickers of ridicule. Matteo and Marlena both turned to see the other protagonist arrive.
Marlena's heart sank. The engine sound that approached was a meek purr compared to the Shelby's roar. It sounded like a kitten confronting a lion.
And then, they saw it.
Matteo clutched his stomach, erupting in thunderous laughter. "HAHAHA! What… what is that? A Mini Cooper? A grocery getter?"
He glanced greedily at Marlena, watching for her disappointment, sure of his victory.
It was indeed a Mini Cooper, its classic, boxy shape looking utterly absurd next to the muscular Shelby.
It was at that exact moment, as the two cars stood side-by-side in stark contrast, that a sound cut through the laughter and the rumbling engines.
From a portable speaker in the crowd, the opening synth beats of Symbol's 'Forever Young' began to pulse, a nostalgic and defiant anthem from another era of racing legends. The iconic tune from Initial D wove itself into the Roman night, a promise of speed, youth, and the eternal underdog.
The stage was set.