They came in black cars.
Not hearses—those had already done their work—but something colder. Purpose-built. The kind of vehicles that arrived not to mourn what was lost, but to decide who would benefit from it.
Arthur saw them from the factory office window just after dawn.
Two sedans, paint polished to a mirror shine that mocked the cracked asphalt of the Veloce courtyard. Their engines were quiet, modern, efficient. They idled like men who knew they could wait forever.
They didn't even give us a day, Arthur thought.
He straightened his jacket—his father's jacket, really—and walked down to meet them.
Julian Thorne exited the lead car first.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. English, though softened by years of continental business. His smile arrived a fraction of a second too late to be sincere.
"Arthur Veloce," Julian said, extending a hand. "My condolences."
Arthur took it. The grip was firm, measured. Not a challenge. Not submission. A test.
"You didn't attend the funeral," Arthur replied.
Julian nodded, unfazed. "I thought it better not to confuse respect with opportunity."
Behind him, two men stepped forward. Bank representatives. Italian, but trained elsewhere—thin smiles, leather folders held like shields.
"The factory gates are open," Arthur said. "You may as well come inside. The espresso machine still works."
That, finally, gave Julian pause.
The office smelled of old paper and burnt coffee.
Arthur poured himself a cup first. Then Julian. Then, pointedly, the bankers. It was a small act of control, but in rooms like this, small things mattered.
Julian leaned back, crossing his legs. "You understand why we're here."
Arthur nodded. "Motora-Imperia wishes to prevent the tragic collapse of a historic marque."
"Exactly," Julian said smoothly. "Veloce has heritage. Racing pedigree. But sentiment doesn't balance ledgers."
One of the bankers slid a folder across the desk.
Arthur didn't open it.
"Say the number," he said.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "Straight to business?"
"My father believed engines spoke for themselves," Arthur replied. "I prefer people do the same."
Julian smiled. "Two-point-one million lira. Assumption of debt included. Employees retained for six months."
A mercy killing, dressed as charity.
Arthur finally opened the folder—not to read the offer, but to scan the attached appendices. Supplier contracts. Outstanding obligations. Inventory valuations that were… optimistic.
So that's what you think we're worth.
"Your valuation assumes the Straight-Six remains our primary engine," Arthur said calmly.
"It is your primary engine," one banker said. "Your only engine."
Arthur sipped his coffee. "Not for long."
That earned him their full attention.
Julian leaned forward. "I'm listening."
Arthur tapped the folder. "This company is losing money because it builds the wrong car the right way. Heavy engines. Excess machining. Prestige materials for customers who are disappearing."
"Veloce customers buy passion," Julian countered.
"No," Arthur said. "They used to."
Silence stretched.
Arthur continued, choosing his words carefully. "There is a new model in development. Profit-first. Lighter. Faster to build. Designed for volume without sacrificing identity."
The lie slid out cleanly.
It had to.
Julian studied him like a chessboard he hadn't seen before. "You're proposing a pivot," he said. "Without capital."
"I'm proposing efficiency," Arthur replied. "Capital follows proof."
One of the bankers scoffed. "You have outstanding payroll. Supplier debt. And no prototype."
Arthur finally smiled.
"I have ninety days," he said. "And a factory that has been building cars by hand for twenty years. Give me time."
Julian stood.
He walked to the window, looking down at the quiet floor where mechanics would soon arrive, unaware that their lives were being negotiated in leather chairs above them.
"Ninety days," Julian repeated. "And if you fail?"
Arthur didn't hesitate. "Then you can buy the bones."
Julian turned back, eyes sharp.
"You're either very brave," he said, "or very foolish."
Arthur met his gaze. "I watched my father die because we refused to change."
The room went still.
Julian closed the folder.
"Very well," he said. "Ninety days. No extensions."
The bankers exchanged glances, then nodded reluctantly.
At the door, Julian paused.
"One piece of advice," he said. "If you intend to survive, stop thinking like an heir."
Arthur answered without looking up. "I already have."
The door closed.
The engines outside started.
Silence returned to the factory—but it was no longer empty.
Arthur looked down at his father's desk, at the weight of time now measured in days instead of decades.
Ninety days.
A siege had begun.