"Haha, hahahaha!"
Matteo's laughter was a crowing, unrestrained sound. He waved a dismissive hand at the Mini Cooper, playing to the crowd. "A child's toy! What do you think you'll do with that little broken car? You won't even see my taillights. Don't start crying when it happens."
He wasn't the only one. A wave of astonishment and derision rippled through the onlookers. The Mustang Shelby had been a statement, but the Mini Cooper was a punchline.
Did this race even need to be run?
The crowd stirred, a flurry of activity as people pulled out their phones, furiously texting to change their last-minute bets. The hope of seeing the arrogant Matteo humiliated was being swiftly overwritten by the cold, hard logic of horsepower and sheet metal. Their money wasn't grown on trees.
Marlena's heart tightened with a pang of worry for Konrad. She stared intently at the navy blue Mini. In the uneven light, her trained eyes quickly picked out the details others missed.
This was no ordinary Mini.
The engine sound… she tilted her head, listening. It wasn't the Shelby's deep, chest-rumbling roar. This was sharper—a tight, high-revving snarl that cut cleanly through the night air. It sounded like it was wound up tight, ready to spring. This wasn't a stock engine; it was something that had been taken apart and put back together by someone who knew what they were doing.
Marlena was no racer, but she loved the sport for more than just the spectacle.
Squinting, she took in the car's stance. It was lower, hunkered down over its wheels. The faint glint of upgraded brake calipers was visible behind the rims. She was almost certain—this car was heavily modified. It might not beat the Shelby on a long straight, but in the turns? On Rome's narrow, winding streets? Here, the Mini could wield its agility.
Just like in The Italian Job.
Clearly, not everyone possessed such patience or a keen eye.
The surrounding whispers were a chorus of mockery. The excitement for a spectacle was still there, but it had relaxed into condescending laughter.
Racing was about the car first, then the driver. If the hardware wasn't there, even a reborn Senna would be powerless. Only when the machines were on a similar level could a driver push beyond 100%, injecting true suspense into the outcome.
Undoubtedly, the Mini Cooper and the Mustang Shelby were not in the same league. The race hadn't started, but the crowd felt they had already seen the ending.
Konrad slowly parked the Mini next to the Mustang. It looked like a kitten curling up beside a lion, only emphasizing the Shelby's brutish, muscular lines. Envious and admiring gazes clung to Matteo's car.
Matteo puffed out his chest, his pride threatening to pierce the night sky.
Konrad didn't perform any flashy maneuvers. He simply blipped the throttle, and the Mini glided forward with a tight, planted feel. His eyes flickered over the custom gauges on the dash, a slight, knowing smile touching his lips. Every parameter was clear. Every inch of the machine was accounted for and under his absolute control.
The car door opened. A pair of long legs emerged first. His black leather jacket was unzipped over a white T-shirt, his hair slightly disheveled by the night breeze. His expression was utterly calm—no panic, no nerves. His light footsteps were unhurried, as if he were just out for a late-night stroll, and the impending race had nothing to do with him.
Matteo still couldn't resist. "Are you here to deliver pizza with that thing? Wait, let me see if I have any coins for a tip! Hahaha!"
Konrad ignored him completely, turning to Lorenzo. "Are Italians always this verbose?"
Lorenzo straightened up with mock indignation. "I protest! One spoiled apple does not ruin the whole bunch."
Matteo: "...???"
Konrad looked back at his car, running a hand lightly over its roof as if confirming its readiness. He then turned back to Lorenzo. "After the earlier race, you disappeared. Were you busy with this?"
The owner of this particular Mini Cooper was, in fact, Lorenzo.
Konrad had come to Rome alone. For the initial underground race, Lorenzo had driven his own GTR, while Konrad had been given this Mini—a car that perfectly suited Lorenzo's personality: low-key, a wolf in sheep's clothing. The GTR was for making a statement; the Mini was for winning.
The moment Konrad had sat in it hours before, he'd felt the difference. The throttle response was razor-sharp, the suspension impossibly stiff.
A hint of surprise flashed in Lorenzo's eyes. He hadn't expected Konrad's perception to be so acute. "Since you gave me the modification specs from your sim data, of course I had the local shop implement them immediately. Had to make your trip from Germany worthwhile, right?"
Matteo had a mouthful of insults ready, a thorough critique of the Mini Cooper's inadequacies. But Konrad and Lorenzo were talking around him as if he were thin air. The feeling was utterly stifling!
"This kid is interesting."
Jean Todt and Samuel stood at the back of the crowd, having melted into the shadows. All attention was fixed on the comical size difference between the two cars, so no one noticed the two older gentlemen observing with professional detachment.
Samuel had his hands buried in his trench coat pockets, a slight smile on his face as his gaze fell on the baby-faced German. "He doesn't look nervous."
Todt stroked his chin, his interest fully piqued. "Did you notice his eyes?"
They were calm. Frank. Composed. It reminded him of a young Michael Schumacher.
Samuel nodded. "Nothing."
Todt agreed. "Yes. It's nothing." Either the young man was a fool, unaware of the situation, or he was… confident.
Todt didn't voice the last word, but he and Samuel exchanged a glance, a shared spark of intrigue igniting between them.
Of course, Todt could see the Mini wasn't stock. But the problem remained—the Mustang Shelby's hardware advantage was overwhelming. Furthermore, Rome's intricate streets tested a driver's agility, reactions, and adaptability to the extreme. Matteo, a native, held a inherent advantage. This baby-faced foreigner looked like a novice. The scales of victory were heavily tilted.
Yet, Todt found himself genuinely wondering: how did this young man plan to overturn the situation?
The next second, a voice crackled over a loudspeaker in the square. "Drivers, to your positions! The race begins in three minutes!"
Cheers erupted again, lively and boisterous. The crowd was eager to witness the GT350's raw power and began debating the specifics of the impending victory.
How many corners would it take for the Shelby to shake the Mini for good?
And what would the final winning margin be?
The two cars moved into their starting positions. The Mustang Shelby took the outside line, the Mini Cooper slotting into the inside. The entire route was a counter-clockwise loop, giving Konrad a slight advantage off the line.
But that was just the start. Everyone knew the Shelby's horsepower could easily overcome that and create a gap before the first real corner.
Lorenzo leaned on the driver's side window, offering one last check. "You remember the route?"
Konrad buckled his four-point harness, not even looking up. "It's just a sequence of corners."
Lorenzo grinned. "Then I won't remind you that the opponent is a five-hundred-horsepower rear-wheel-drive monster."
Konrad finally glanced at him, his blue eyes cool and focused. "And I won't remind you that horsepower is useless if you can't get it to the ground. This is a street, not a drag strip."
Lorenzo chuckled, looking around at the betting crowd, then lowered his voice. "Buddy, do you have any idea how many people bet on you losing tonight?"
Konrad's lips curved into a thin, sharp smile. "Good. It seems we're about to make a fortune."