The weekend brought a shift in atmosphere at the academy. Saturday morning, Valentina gathered the cohort in the main conference room for what she called a "progress review."
"You've been here four weeks," she began, pulling up a presentation on the screen. "Time for your first formal ranking."
The room tensed immediately. Rankings meant hierarchy. Hierarchy meant consequences.
"These rankings are based on multiple factors: lap times, race simulation results, physical fitness scores, technical knowledge assessments, and instructor evaluations of your attitude and coachability." Valentina clicked to the next slide.
Apex Academy Cohort Rankings - Week 4:
Marco Venturi - 87.4 points
Dominic Ashford - 86.9
points Amélie Dubois - 84.2 points
Carlos Santos - 79.8 points
Henrik Svensson - 77.6 points
Petra Svensson - 76.4 points
James Park - 74.1 points
Yuki Tanaka - 73.8 points
Michael Chen - 71.2 points
Maya Okonkwo - 69.5 points
Marco stared at his name at the top of the list, feeling equal parts pride and dread. He'd done it. He'd proven himself in measurable terms.
But the look on Dominic's face—barely contained fury masked by a rigid smile—told him he'd just made everything worse.
"Congratulations to our top five," Valentina continued. "You'll receive priority track time this week and additional one-on-one coaching. The bottom five will attend extra technical education sessions." She paused. "Remember, these rankings are fluid. They'll be updated every two weeks. Complacency will drop you. Improvement will raise you. Everything is earned."
After the meeting, the cohort split naturally into groups. The top performers gravitated together, the middle pack formed their own cluster, and the bottom two—Michael and Maya—stood apart, looking dejected.
"First place," Amélie said, catching up to Marco in the hallway. "That's going to make you very popular. And by popular, I mean Dominic is probably planning your murder right now."
"He was second. That's still good."
"Second isn't first. Not to him. His whole life, he's been first because daddy made sure of it." She glanced back toward the conference room where Dominic was on his phone, pacing, his voice low and urgent. "I guarantee he's calling his father right now, demanding to know why you outscored him."
Marco felt his phone buzz. Another message from the unknown number: Interesting rankings. Enjoy it while it lasts.
He showed it to Amélie. Her expression darkened.
"That's Richard Ashford?"
"I think so."
"You need to tell Valentina. That's intimidation."
"And say what? Someone sent me a vague text? They'll just deny it." Marco pocketed his phone. "I need to handle this on track, not in meetings."
"Your funeral," Amélie muttered. "Just remember—people like the Ashfords don't fight fair. They fight with lawyers and money and connections. You can't out-politic them."
"Then I'll out-drive them."
That afternoon's track session confirmed the new hierarchy. The top five got the best time slots, the newest equipment, and direct coaching from Marcus Webb. Marco found himself in a group with Dominic, Amélie, Carlos, and Henrik—the elite squadron.
"Today we work on qualifying pace," Marcus announced. "One flying lap, maximum attack. This simulates Q3 in a real race weekend—one chance to set your best time under pressure."
They each got two attempts. Amélie went first, setting a blistering 1:17.2. Carlos pushed hard but made a mistake in the final sector—1:17.9. Henrik was smooth and consistent—1:17.8.
Dominic's turn. He drove with clinical precision, his line perfect, his inputs measured. The lap was beautiful to watch—textbook execution of every corner.
1:17.0. Provisional pole position.
Marco watched the replay, studying Dominic's technique. Fast, but conservative. Dominic had left margin for error, driven at 98% rather than absolute limit.
Marco's turn.
He rolled out of the pit lane, completed his warm-up lap, and positioned for his flying lap. This was it—one lap to prove the rankings were accurate, to show that first place was earned.
Turn one: committed later than Dominic, carried more speed.
Turn three: different line, tighter apex, faster exit.
Turn seven: the key corner. Marco let the car rotate slightly, dancing on the edge of control, using the instability to change direction faster.
The lap felt perfect. Not textbook, not by the rulebook, but fast. Raw and on the limit.
He crossed the line and checked his dash.
1:16.7.
Three-tenths faster than Dominic.
The radio crackled. "Excellent lap, Venturi," Marcus said. "That's new track record for this cohort. Aggressive but controlled. Well done."
Marco brought the car into the pits, heart still racing. Through his mirrors, he could see Dominic sitting in his stationary car, helmet still on, not moving.
When they gathered for the session debrief, Marcus pulled up the telemetry comparison.
"Look here," he pointed at the data. "Ashford's lap is technically perfect. Optimal racing line, smooth inputs, minimal tire scrub. Venturi's lap is messier—more rotation, more aggressive entries, more risk. But Venturi gained time by using techniques that extract maximum performance even if they look unconventional."
"It's reckless," Dominic said, his voice tight. "That driving style won't work in wheel-to-wheel racing. You'll crash."
"Maybe," Marco replied. "Or maybe I'll find speed where you don't."
The tension in the room was palpable. Carlos shifted uncomfortably. Henrik studied the telemetry like it held secrets. Amélie watched both Marco and Dominic with the focused attention of someone expecting a fight.
"Both approaches have merit," Marcus interjected diplomatically. "Ashford's consistency will serve him well in race conditions. Venturi's aggression gives him qualifying pace. The complete driver needs both skills."
But the message was clear in the data: Marco had found another level.
That evening, Elena's article went live on Gazzetta dello Sport's website. Marco sat in his room reading it on his phone while Yuki studied at his desk.
"From Garage Floor to Grid Position: Marco Venturi's Unlikely Racing Journey"
By Elena Marchesi
The article was everything Valentina had hoped for—sympathetic but not pitying, highlighting Marco's talent while acknowledging the obstacles, including quotes from their coffee shop conversation that made him sound thoughtful and grounded.
But it was the final section that made Marco's stomach knot:
"At Apex Academy, Venturi currently ranks first in his cohort of ten drivers, outperforming competitors from wealthy racing families who've had professional training since childhood. His success raises uncomfortable questions about how much talent the sport loses to financial barriers, and whether programs like Apex Academy can truly level the playing field—or if they're just offering false hope to talented kids who lack the connections to survive professional motorsport's brutal politics."
Within an hour, the article had hundreds of comments. Marco scrolled through them, unable to stop himself despite knowing better.
"This kid is the real deal. Hope he makes it."
"Feel-good story but he'll get crushed by the system like everyone else without money."
"Dominic Ashford's father must be furious that some random Italian kid is beating his son lol"
"Typical media narrative. There's no way this Venturi guy is actually first. Probably staged for publicity."
"I looked up his karting results. He's legitimately fast. If he doesn't make it to F1, it's proof the sport is broken."
The article had made him a story, which meant expectations, pressure, and attention. Exactly what Valentina wanted, and exactly what Marco feared.
His phone rang. Luca.
"Dude! You're famous! The article is everywhere—people are sharing it, talking about you!"
"I know. I'm reading the comments."
"Stop reading the comments. Nothing good comes from reading comments." Luca's enthusiasm was infectious despite everything. "But seriously, Marco, this is huge. You're not just some academy student anymore. You're becoming a name."
"That's what worries me."
"Why? This is good! Public support means teams will notice you, means you're harder to ignore."
"Or it means I have more to lose if I fail."
Luca was quiet for a moment. "You're not going to fail, man. You're first in the rankings. You're beating everyone. You're doing exactly what you came there to do."
After they hung up, Marco tried to study technical materials for the next day's classroom session, but his mind kept drifting. The rankings, the article, Richard Ashford's messages, Dominic's barely contained rage—everything was escalating faster than he'd anticipated.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Yuki answered it. Maya stood there, looking uncomfortable.
"Marco? Can I talk to you?"
They stepped into the hallway. Maya shifted her weight, clearly uncertain how to begin.
"I read the article," she said finally. "About your background, your family. I wanted to say... thank you."
Marco frowned. "For what?"
"For proving it's possible. I'm last in the rankings. My family isn't wealthy like most people here—my parents saved for years to afford my karting career. I keep thinking I don't belong, that I'm not good enough." She met his eyes. "But you're proof that people like us can compete. That means something."
Marco didn't know what to say. He'd been so focused on his own struggle that he hadn't considered what his presence might mean to others.
"You belong here," he said finally. "If they accepted you, you earned it. The rankings don't tell the whole story."
"Maybe. But seeing you at the top—" Maya smiled slightly. "It helps. Just wanted you to know that."
She walked away, leaving Marco standing in the hallway feeling the weight of something he hadn't expected: responsibility. He wasn't just racing for himself anymore. He was representing something larger.
Back in the room, Yuki had finished studying. "Maya is right, you know. You give hope to people. Is powerful thing, hope."
"It's also a lot of pressure."
"Yes. But pressure makes diamonds." Yuki smiled at his own wisdom. "Or it crushes coal. Is same process."
Sunday was officially a rest day, but most students used it for extra training. Marco woke early and went for a run, his body finally adapted enough that the morning cardio felt manageable rather than torturous.
The village was quiet at dawn, shops still closed, streets empty except for a few early dog walkers. Marco ran his usual route, letting his mind clear, focusing on breathing and footfalls and the steady rhythm that felt meditative.
He was heading back toward the academy when he noticed a car following him—a sleek black Range Rover, maintaining distance but clearly tracking his movements. Marco's heart rate spiked for reasons having nothing to do with exercise.
The car pulled up beside him. The window rolled down. Richard Ashford sat in the driver's seat, expensive sunglasses, casual polo shirt, the picture of wealthy leisure.
"Marco Venturi," Richard said pleasantly. "Fancy meeting you here. Get in. Let's chat."
Every instinct told Marco to refuse, to keep running. But refusing also meant making an enemy of a powerful man who already seemed interested in undermining him.
He got in the car.
Richard drove slowly through the village, one hand on the wheel, utterly relaxed. "I've been wanting to meet you properly. My son talks about you quite a bit. Usually while throwing things."
"Mr. Ashford—"
"Richard, please. Mr. Ashford is my father, and he's dead." Richard smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I read the article this morning. Quite the story. Poor boy from Italy, overcoming obstacles, beating the privileged kids. Very inspiring."
"I'm just trying to race."
"Of course you are. And you're good at it. Genuinely talented, from what I understand." Richard turned down a side street, away from the academy. "But here's what that article didn't mention: talent is common. The world is full of talented people who never amount to anything because they lack resources, connections, or the right opportunities. You understand that, surely."
Marco said nothing.
"My son has all three," Richard continued. "Resources, connections, opportunities. I've spent millions ensuring he has everything he needs to succeed. And he will succeed, Marco. Not because he's the most talented—though he's very good—but because I've built a path for him that can't be blocked by people with less money."
"What do you want from me?"
Richard pulled into an empty car park overlooking fields. He turned off the engine and faced Marco directly.
"I want you to understand reality. You're first in the rankings now. Congratulations. But when evaluation day comes, when team principals are watching, those rankings won't determine who gets the best opportunities. Recommendations will. Connections will. The phone calls I make will matter more than lap times."
"So you're saying I can't win no matter how fast I am."
"I'm saying you're playing a game with rules you don't understand." Richard's tone was patient, almost kind. "I'm not your enemy, Marco. I actually admire your talent. Under different circumstances, I might even help you. But my priority is my son's career. And right now, you're in his way."
"I didn't put myself in his way. I'm just driving."
"And that's the problem. You're making him look ordinary by comparison. That damages his prospects, which damages my investment." Richard leaned back in his seat. "I'm offering you a choice. Continue as you are—fight Dominic for every position, every accolade, every opportunity. Maybe you'll win some battles. But I promise you'll lose the war because I have resources you can't imagine and patience you don't have time for. Or..."
"Or what?"
"Or you accept your position. You're talented, but you came from nowhere. Be content with that achievement. Race well enough to earn a decent career—maybe F3, maybe F2 if you're lucky. Support my son's rise instead of challenging it, and I'll make sure doors open for you that would otherwise stay closed."
Marco felt his hands clenching. "You want me to let Dominic win."
"I want you to be realistic about your ceiling. Dominic has the resources to reach F1. You don't. So why not accept a good career at a lower level rather than sacrifice everything for a dream that will ultimately break you?" Richard's voice was reasonable, rational. "Your father understands this. Why do you think he didn't want you racing? He knows how this world works."
The mention of Giuseppe made Marco's chest tighten with anger.
"Take me back to the academy," he said quietly.
"Think about what I've said—"
"Now. Take me back now."
Richard studied him for a moment, then started the car. They drove in silence back toward the academy. When Richard stopped at the entrance, he had one more thing to say.
"That article painted you as an underdog hero. People love that story. But Marco? Heroes don't pay bills. Heroes don't build careers. Pragmatists do." He smiled. "You have a week and a half until evaluation day. Think very carefully about what you want your future to look like."
Marco got out of the car without responding. Richard drove away, leaving him standing at the academy gates feeling like he'd just been threatened in the most polite possible way.
He found Yuki in their room and told him everything.
"Richard Ashford threatened you," Yuki said when Marco finished. "Directly. In person. Is bold move."
"What do I do?"
"Tell Valentina. Tell academy. He cannot do this."
"And say what? He offered me advice about being realistic? He never actually threatened me—just explained how the world works." Marco slumped on his bed. "If I report it, it's my word against a major investor. And it makes me look weak, like I can't handle pressure."
"Then you prove him wrong on track. Beat Dominic so badly that no amount of money can explain it away."
"And if that's not enough?"
Yuki was quiet for a moment. "Then you learn hard truth—that sometimes talent is not enough. But you don't accept that truth until you have tried everything. Until you are absolutely certain."
Marco's phone buzzed. Elena.
Saw the article got a lot of attention. How are you holding up?
He typed back: Need to talk. Off the record. Call you tonight?
Anytime. I meant what I said about the personal number.
That night, after evening training and dinner, Marco called Elena from outside the residential building where he could speak privately.
"Richard Ashford cornered me this morning," he said without preamble. "Told me to accept my place, stop threatening Dominic's career, be happy with a lower-level racing future."
Elena was quiet for several seconds. "He actually said that? Directly?"
"More or less. Dressed it up as advice, but the message was clear."
"That bastard." Elena's anger was immediate. "Marco, that's intimidation. You need to report it."
"To who? He's a major academy investor. It's my word against his."
"Do you have witnesses?"
"No. It was just us in his car."
"Of course it was. He's too smart to threaten you where it can be proven." Elena sighed. "Okay. Here's what we do. You document everything—every interaction, every message, every time someone connected to Ashford pressures you. Build a record. If it escalates, we'll have evidence."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, you do exactly what Yuki probably told you to do—beat Dominic so badly that Richard's money can't save him. Make yourself so valuable, so publicly supported, so obviously talented that pushing you out becomes more expensive than accepting you."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"Welcome to professional racing. It's all pressure, all the time. The question is whether you crack or get stronger under it."
After the call, Marco sat outside watching stars appear in the darkening sky. Nine days until evaluation day. Nine days to prepare, to train, to become undeniable.
Richard Ashford thought money and connections would win. Dominic thought privilege and perfect technique would prevail.
Marco had something neither of them understood: nothing left to lose.
When you came from nothing, when returning to nothing was the worst-case scenario you'd already lived, you could take risks others couldn't.
You could push boundaries, test limits, drive like desperation was a superpower.
Because for people like Marco, it was.
He stood, stretched, and walked back inside. Tomorrow's training would begin in less than eight hours.
And he had a hierarchy to defend.