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A/N: Book title have been changed to "Formula 1: Becoming the GOAT in F1", Thank you for your support!
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Alessi's charge was fueled by a volatile mix of pride and panic.
He was a son of Ferrari's legacy, his path paved by a famous name. This unknown quantity, this nobody who had appeared from the ether and immediately commanded the attention of Todt and Marchionne, represented a direct threat to his privileged position.
He stopped a few feet from Konrad, his chest heaving not from the run, but from indignation. "You. Who are you supposed to be?"
Konrad, who had been mentally debating the merits of finding a decent sandwich, turned his head. He saw a young man, maybe his own age, flushed with a sense of entitled anger. The posturing was familiar; it was the same language Matteo had spoken in Rome, just with a different accent.
He didn't uncross his arms. "Do I know you?" he asked, his tone flat.
The dismissive calm was more infuriating than any retort. It refused to acknowledge Alessi's significance.
"This is Ferrari," Alessi spat, as if the words themselves were a weapon. "You don't just get to wander in here. This isn't a place for... tourists."
Konrad's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. "I was invited." He let the statement hang, a simple, unassailable fact that deflated Alessi's bluster.
Alessi's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The institutional power he was trying to wield was, in fact, on the other side.
The arrival of Montfatini cut the tension like a knife.
"Giuliano." Montfatini's voice was calm, but it carried the weight of authority. "Your telemetry review was scheduled for five minutes ago. Are you lost?"
Alessi's bravado vanished. Under Montfatini's gaze, he was just another academy driver. He shot a final, venomous look at Konrad—a promise of a future conflict—before turning on his heel and stalking away.
Montfatini watched him go, then turned to Konrad. His expression was unreadable. "This way."
He led Konrad not to a lavish CEO's suite, but to a functional office belonging to the head of the Driver Academy. The process was beginning where it should: with the professionals, not the figureheads.
The subsequent hours were a grueling, methodical dissection. The physical tests were brutal: a punishing VO2 max test on a bike, neck machines that made his muscles scream in protest, reaction drills that measured responses in thousandths of a second. The psychological assessment was just as rigorous, a battery of puzzles, pattern recognitions, and stress simulations designed to probe the limits of his cognitive endurance.
Konrad gave it everything, his mechanic's understanding of his own body allowing him to push to the very edge of his current limits. He was raw, yes. His endurance needed work, his muscle mass wasn't optimal. But the core data—the reaction speed, the spatial awareness, the mental resilience under fatigue—was exceptional.
Later, in Marchionne's office, the head of the academy presented the summary. "The data is promising. Very promising. But it's a snapshot. He's unrefined. There are significant gaps in his physical conditioning."
Marchionne skimmed the report, his eyes lingering on the reaction time and cognitive scores. He then looked at Todt, who offered a slight, non-committal nod. The data confirmed the instinct, but the path was long.
Marchionne's decision was swift and clinical. "Make the standard Academy offer. The one with the performance clauses."
This was the Ferrari way. The offer was not a golden ticket; it was a challenge. It would provide a base level of support, but advancement, better sim time, real track testing—all of it had to be earned by hitting strict performance milestones.
When the contract was presented to Konrad in a stark meeting room by a legal and management team, the reality of the offer became clear. It was a foot in the door, nothing more. It meant moving to Italy, committing to a brutal training regime, and his progression being entirely contingent on his results.
The lawyer slid the document across the table. "This is a standard Academy agreement. It outlines the terms of your stipend, the training obligations, and the performance benchmarks required for continued support and promotion."
Konrad looked at the dense document. This was no longer a simple tryout—this was a contract that would rewrite his future. The garage in Freiburg, his studies, his entire life in Germany—all of it would have to change.
He met the lawyer's gaze directly. "This requires serious consideration. There are logistics to work out—relocating from Germany, pausing my education. But..." He looked from the contract to the Ferrari emblem on the wall, a symbol of the pinnacle he had just been allowed to touch. "The answer is yes, in principle. I'll need 24 hours to work through the details with my family."
The lawyer gave a curt, professional nod. "A prudent approach. We will hold the offer for 48 hours." He gathered his papers, his role complete for now. The head of the academy followed him out, leaving Konrad alone in the office with Marchionne and Todt.
The dynamic shifted instantly. The formal negotiation was over; now, it was about alignment.
Marchionne studied Konrad, his earlier CEO persona replaced by a more direct, assessing gaze. "You have a rare talent, Schäfer. But talent is a wild resource. It needs structure, direction, and significant investment to be refined."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential tone. "Do you understand what the Ferrari Driver Academy is offering you? It is not just a spot in a program."
He began to outline the reality, his words painting a picture of the ruthless financial ecosystem of junior formula racing.
"Drivers in our academy generally fall into one of three categories," Marchionne explained, his tone that of a professor stating facts. "The first is full sponsorship. The academy covers everything—training, coaching, simulator time, race seats, living expenses. It is an investment of over one million euros per year, reserved for those we believe can carry the Ferrari banner to the very top. Charles Leclerc is such an example."
Konrad listened, his financial reality as a mechanic's nephew colliding with the scale of these numbers.
"The second," Marchionne continued, "is a hybrid. The academy provides the platform and some support, but the driver must find significant personal sponsorship, often half a million euros or more, to cover their race seats and living costs. This is the most common path. Giuliano Alessi is on this path."
He paused, letting the distinction sink in. "The third is entirely self-funded. A driver pays for the privilege of our training. This is how Antonio Fuoco started before he earned his stripes."
Marchionne steepled his fingers. "The standard offer we just presented to you is of the second type. It is a fair offer. It tests your merit and your ability to attract backing."
He then leaned back, delivering the new, pivotal information. "However... given the exceptional nature of your test results, we are prepared to make an exception. We are offering you a full sponsorship. A place in the first category."
The room was silent. Todt watched Konrad, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. He had seen the shock, the ambition, and the sheer cost of racing break countless young men. This was the moment of truth.
Konrad felt the air leave his lungs. A million euros. A year. It was an unimaginable sum, a number that erased every financial objection he had. The path was being paved for him in gold.
But with it came the weight. The total commitment. The end of his life in Germany. The end of any choice but this one.
He looked from Marchionne to Todt, the reality of the offer settling not as a triumph, but as a solemn responsibility. The "yes, in principle" now had a terrifyingly concrete price tag attached to it.
"My family..." Konrad began, his voice steady but quieter than before. "I need to explain this to my family. What this truly means."
This wasn't a hesitation. It was the acknowledgment that he was about to ask them to support him in accepting a gift that would redefine his entire world.
Marchionne gave a single, slow nod. He saw the understanding in Konrad's eyes, not the greed or fear he might have expected. "Of course. Explain it to them. Then come back and sign the contract."
The meeting was over. Konrad walked out, the numbers echoing in his mind. The dream was no longer abstract. It had a budget, a timeline, and a cost that had just been paid for him. The only thing left to pay was his entire life.