The door to Director Montfatini's office closed with a soft click, sealing out the world. The room was functional, dominated by a large desk covered in data printouts and a framed schematic of a suspension system.
Montfatini stood, offering a hand. "Schäfer. No more simulations, for now." A trace of a smile touched his lips. "Just paperwork."
On the desk lay a single document, thick as a manual. Montfatini slid it forward, along with a pen.
Konrad picked up the pen. It was heavier than he expected. He didn't rush to flip to the last page. His eyes scanned the first—the parties involved, the definitions. He saw his name, typed in clean font: Konrad Schäfer. Below it, Scuderia Ferrari.
This was the line. On one side, a mechanic from Freiburg. On the other, a Ferrari driver.
He turned to the final page. He placed the tip of the pen on the signature line, the ink a stark, permanent black against the pristine white. With a steady hand, he signed his name.
The sound of the pen was the only noise in the room. He was now contractually, inescapably, a part of Ferrari.
Montfatini took the document, his expression one of professional satisfaction. "Welcome to the Academy." He pressed a button on his desk. "Rosanna will take care of you now."
Rosanna's steps were brisk and efficient as she met him in the hallway. "So, you are the one…" She peered at a new file in her hand, squinting slightly at the print.
"Konrad," he said, supplying the information cleanly. "Konrad Schäfer."
Rosanna looked up, her face breaking into a brilliant, welcoming smile. "Rosanna Nicoletta. A pleasure. I am responsible for your food, your housing, your travel—everything while you are in Maranello. Any problems, you come to me."
She paused, her head tilting. "Now, your name. Can you teach me? For my forms."
Konrad could see the genuine effort in her expression. "Konrad," he repeated, enunciating clearly. "Schäfer."
Rosanna made a valiant attempt, but the rolling Italian vowels softened the hard, guttural German sounds into something entirely new. "Kohn-rahd… Sheh-fair?"
She didn't give up. She tried several more times, her brow furrowed in concentration, before finally scribbling a phonetic approximation in the margins of her notebook in Italian. It reminded Konrad of seeing his own name written out phonetically by his first karting mechanic—a universal method for bridging gaps.
Chatting amiably, Rosanna—a whirlwind of southern Italian warmth—led Konrad out of the main complex and to his new residence.
The Ferrari Driver Academy moved with impressive speed. The apartment was in a quiet, three-story beige building less than five hundred meters from the main gate. From the window of his assigned unit, he could see the entire sprawl of the factory.
It was a dormitory-style setup. While the Academy provided this, it wasn't a prison; those with the means could rent privately.
"...And visas," Rosanna continued, pulling a thick stack of documents from her folder. "Fill these and give them to me with your passport. I will handle the rest." She ticked off an invisible list. "What else? Ah! Meals. The cafeteria is inside the base. Charles knows where it is; you can follow him."
Before she could continue, she noticed the faint, almost imperceptible look of dread that crossed Konrad's face. She blinked, puzzled. "What is it? Is there a problem?"
Konrad let out a soft sigh. "It's not going to be pizza again, is it?"
Konrad wore an expression of profound resignation. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that his pizza ordeal had ended with Lorenzo.
Rosanna, noticing his look, placed her hands on her hips in mock indignation. "What is that face? What is wrong with pizza? It is the food of the gods!"
Before Konrad could answer, a voice came from behind them. "I think he might be pizzad-out."
They both turned. Leaning against the doorframe of an adjacent apartment was a young man of Asian descent, with a friendly, open face. He smiled and stepped forward, extending a hand to Konrad.
"You must be the one everyone is talking about. I'm Guanyu. Guanyu Zhou." His English was fluent, with a crisp accent. "I'm in the Academy too. I heard you had quite a morning in the sim."
Konrad shook his hand, giving a short, respectful nod. "Konrad Schäfer. And yes, the simulator was… educational."
Rosanna, momentarily sidetracked from her culinary defense, beamed. "Ah, perfect! Guanyu, you can show Konrad around. But first," she said, turning her attention back to Konrad with a scolding finger, "we address this pizza slander. I was informed the soul of Italian cuisine was pasta! I am receiving conflicting information."
Konrad's reply was deadpan, a glint of humour in his blue eyes.
Rosanna let out a stream of passionate Italian, her hands flying. Guanyu leaned closer to Konrad, lowering his voice. "There is a kebab shop just outside the base," he whispered conspiratorially. "Sometimes, you just need something… not Italian."
Rosanna's sharp ears caught it. "Santo cielo! You are in the heart of Emilia-Romagna, and you think of… street meat?" She shook her head, a plan forming in her eyes. "No. I forbid it."
Her expression softened into a warm, determined smile. "Your training starts tomorrow. The meal plan is strict. But tonight, I will bring you a proper welcome. Do you know where you find the true heart of Italian cooking?" She didn't wait for an answer. "In a family kitchen. The taste of a home. I will not have you feeling like a lost soul. McDonald's? Kebabs?. I will not allow you to be mistreated on your first day."
With a final, decisive sway of her hips, she turned and walked away.
Guanyu stared after her, then at Konrad, utterly dumbfounded. "I have been here three years," he murmured. "She is kind to everyone, but… a personal welcome dinner? This is a first."
Before he could say more, Rosanna's voice floated back down the hall. "Guanyu! Your afternoon session starts in ten minutes. Are you using our new recruit as an excuse to be late? Ferdinando will not be pleased."
Guanyu's eyes widened. "Oh no. The gym." In a flash, he was backing away. "It was good to meet you, Konrad! We will talk more tonight!"
And just like that, Konrad was alone. "Thank you, Rosanna!" he called out.
She waved a hand without looking back.
Konrad turned and entered his apartment. It was a studio, decorated in clean, cool tones of grey and white. It was functional and modern, a world away from the cluttered warmth of his room above the garage in Freiburg. A vase of fresh flowers on the desk added a touch of life. This was his new home.
The whirlwind of the last twelve hours finally settled, leaving a profound quiet. He was here. He was a Ferrari driver.
Letting out a long breath, he didn't allow himself to relax. There was work to do. He had made a promise.
He opened his backpack and pulled out his laptop. It was time to write an email.
The subject line was clear and direct: Formal Notice of Deferral - Konrad Schäfer.
He began to type, his message concise and respectful, addressed to the administrator of his mechanical engineering apprenticeship. He explained that he had been offered and had accepted a unique professional opportunity that required his immediate and full-time attention in Italy, and formally requested to defer his placement for one year.
It wasn't homework. It was the first professional decision of his new career. He was closing one door, cleanly and respectfully, so another could remain wide open.