Silence gripped Cavour Square.
The crowd stood frozen, a collective breath held. They strained against the cheap speakers of their phones, listening to the hollow static where the Mini Cooper's engine note should have been. The car had devoured the final roundabout and vanished, leaving only disbelief in its wake.
Then, sound returned.
It was the desperate, misfiring roar of the Mustang Shelby's V8, a sound of struggle that shattered the quiet. The noise was a brutal announcement: the gap wasn't close. It was a chasm.
Three seconds? Five? More. The time difference was academic. The outcome was a foregone conclusion.
The final straightaways—the bridge and the long road to the finish—were the Mustang's last theoretical chance. But that chance had evaporated before the car even arrived. The Mustang hadn't reached its stage; the play was already over.
No one had seen this coming. A one-sided demolition.
On the live audio feed, the Mustang's struggle was a technical autopsy. Its unbalanced suspension caused the front end to push wide. The overheated, shredded tires provided no grip, making the cobblestones as slippery as ice. Matteo, frantic, tried to accelerate out of the roundabout, but his panic only induced more understeer, the car lurching like a wounded animal.
Over there, Matteo was still fighting a battle he had already lost.
Over here, a new sound cut through the night—the approaching, high-pitched whine of a four-cylinder engine. At the end of the straight, the navy-blue Mini Cooper materialized, cutting a clean, precise line through the darkness.
The square erupted.
A wave of sound and bodies crashed towards the car. "Mini! Mini! Mini!" The chant was a physical force. Lorenzo, a wide grin on his face, waved a beer bottle, his laughter lost in the roar.
Konrad didn't move.
He remained in the driver's seat. Through the windshield, Lorenzo saw him. He wasn't smiling. His knuckles were pale on the wheel, his body thrumming with the aftershock of the drive. His eyes were distant, replaying data from the race.
Lorenzo pushed through the crowd and leaned in the open window. "Hey! You won. No smile?"
Konrad's gaze focused slowly. He unclenched his hands from the wheel. "Is this worth celebrating?" His voice was flat, the adrenaline draining away. "Lorenzo. Have some standards. If I can beat you, he was a foregone conclusion."
Lorenzo choked on a laugh. "Yes, yes. Thank you for the reminder." He was teasing, but Konrad was already moving, opening the door.
He stepped out into the chaos and placed the keys firmly in Lorenzo's hand. "Your car."
Lorenzo looked down at the keys. 'Right.'
A stumbling, broken roar interrupted the celebration. The Mustang Shelby crawled into the square, a monument to failure. The crowd's cheers twisted into jeers and whistles.
The driver's door flew open. Matteo erupted. His face was a blotchy mask of sweat and fury. His shirt was soaked. He charged, bloodshot eyes locked on Konrad.
Lorenzo took a sharp step back. "Careful!"
Konrad didn't retreat. He met the charge. He took two aggressive strides forward, his fist clenching and rising as if to strike.
The fist cut the air.
Matteo shrieked. He slammed to a halt, arms flying up to cover his face, stumbling backward in a blind panic.
The crowd howled. People doubled over.
No blow landed.
Matteo slowly lowered his arms. The cowardly gesture, done in front of everyone, flushed his face a deep, mortified crimson. "You... your broken car! It was luck!" he spat. "The Vitale family does not lose! We race again!"
Konrad unclenched his fist, brushing one hand against the other. "Old man," he said, the words clear and cutting. "I told you. My appearance fee is too high for you."
The laughter that followed was merciless. Matteo looked ready to brawl with the entire square, but his two bodyguards finally moved. They knew who would bear the blame for this disaster. They grabbed him, one on each arm, and forcibly bundled him into the passenger seat of the disgraced Mustang. The car peeled away, its roar now a retreat.
As the crowd's attention refocused, a path cleared.
Marlena stood there, her red dress a bold statement. The cheers turned suggestive. A bet was a bet.
She walked forward, a mix of defiance and expectation in her eyes.
Konrad moved first. He shifted, his cheek barely brushing hers. The brief contact was electric. He leaned close, his voice a low murmur meant only for her, lost under the crowd's noise.
"I told you," he whispered. "You are not a trophy. And no one has the right to treat you like one."
He pulled back. The cool night air rushed into the space between them. She stood utterly still, the roaring in her ears not from the crowd, but from the frantic, irregular beat of her own heart.
From the shadows, Samuel let out a long breath and turned to his friend. "It's over. I'll take you back to the hotel."
Jean Todt didn't move. His eyes, sharp and analytical, were fixed on Konrad. He wasn't just seeing a talented kid anymore. He was seeing a solution to a problem.