Sergio Marchionne stared at his old friend. The idea was not just unorthodox; it was a fundamental breach of protocol.
Racing academies, Ferrari's included, did not recruit from the streets. There were objective reasons. Street racing and Formula racing existed in separate universes, divided by more than just technology—brakes, tires, aerodynamics. The real chasm lay in methodology: how one read a track, controlled a car's rhythm, and fundamentally understood speed.
Formula racing was a structured pyramid. Karting, then F4, F3, F2—a logical, incremental climb to the pinnacle. The FIA's licensing system existed for a reason. Even skipping a step within that system was a rare, calculated gamble.
Bringing in a complete outsider was unheard of.
"Jean," Marchionne said, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his desk. "This is… beyond unconventional. Even Helmut Marko wouldn't dare something like this." Mentioning Red Bull's notoriously ruthless talent scout was a deliberate move, framing Todt's idea in the context of the sport's most aggressive operator.
A faint smile touched Todt's lips. The early morning clarity in Maranello had sharpened his focus. "Precisely because Marko wouldn't, it is our opportunity to break the pattern."
"We dislike Red Bull's methods, but the drivers they produce have a certain edge. A ferocity. They are conditioned to operate on the limit. Our academy drivers…" Todt paused, choosing his words carefully. "They are polished. They are fast. But they lack that killer instinct. The sheer will to win when the odds are stacked against them."
"Ferocity?" Marchionne's brow furrowed deeply. "Jean, no. Street racing isn't ferocity. It's chaos. There is no data, no feedback, no technique—just instinct and luck. Formula cars cannot be driven on luck. If all he has is a reckless spirit, what is he? Another pay driver, but without the checkbook? Another name on the list of those who crash into tire walls? Ferrari does not need that."
Todt shook his head. "I am not talking about recklessness. I believe he can handle a Formula car."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a more confidential tone. "Last night, in Rome, he wasn't just brave. He was intelligent. When his opponent tried to ram him, he didn't panic. He used the car's weight and the track's camber to his advantage. Through the sequence of corners at the Spanish Steps, he manipulated the Mini's handling to widen his gap. It was the problem-solving of a true competitor."
"He has instinct, Sergio. And he has talent. Watching him corner… it reminded me of Senna in Monaco."
Marchionne took a sharp breath. "Jesus Christ, Jean." He sat back, a hand running over his face. "Talent? Every driver in the paddock is a talent. Every boy in our academy was a karting champion. They have spent their lives in simulators, learning data analysis. They have driven thousands of laps in single-seaters. What can an outsider's 'talent,' untrained and undisciplined, possibly mean here?"
Todt didn't interrupt. He let Marchionne's frustration fill the room, waiting until the CEO looked back at him, expectant.
"I know," Todt said, his voice calm and even. "I understand the system. I helped build it. And that is precisely why I chose him. Because he exists outside of it."
Marchionne was silent, processing.
"Our system produces excellent drivers. But it risks producing drivers who are all… the same. Refined copies from the same mold. I am not betting on this boy's success. I am betting he can be a catalyst. A disruptor."
The pieces clicked into place for Marchionne. His eyes narrowed, the businessman and strategist taking over. "You want to stir the pond."
"Exactly," Todt confirmed. "I am inviting him for a test. If he fails? It is irrelevant. As long as he does something unorthodox in the simulator, as long as his mere presence—a street racer, granted this opportunity—makes one of our 'perfect' academy drivers question themselves, even for a second, then the test is a success."
"We show them we are willing to look outside their structured world. That their positions are not guaranteed. That is the 'catfish effect.' This boy is not the focus. Our drivers are. For that, an eight-thousand-euro appearance fee is a negligible cost."
Marchionne finally understood. It was a cold, calculated managerial decision, dressed in the guise of a fairy tale. He looked at Todt, a new respect in his gaze.
Todt allowed a moment to pass, then delivered the final, quiet provocation. "But what if he succeeds?"
Marchionne's head snapped up. The question hung in the air, a dangerous and tantalizing possibility.
A slow smile spread across Marchionne's face. The CEO was now fully engaged. "So, you truly believe he has that capability."
Todt's expression remained a mask of benign calm. "We will only know by seeing." He gestured toward the door. "Busy Mr. Marchionne, do you have time to observe the test of a… unique candidate?"
The invitation was clear. Their combined presence would send a shockwave through the academy. It would legitimize the experiment and maximize the psychological impact.
Marchionne stood immediately, a man of action. "My pleasure."
He walked around his desk, his earlier skepticism replaced by sharp curiosity. "I am genuinely curious to see this young man who has earned your favor…"
Todt looked toward the window, down toward the entrance of the facility. A small, familiar figure was just being escorted through the gates, looking more like a lost tourist than a potential Formula One driver.
"There he is," Todt said, a trace of a smile finally reaching his eyes. "You can form your own opinion."