Marco had one week between leaving the academy and reporting to Apex Racing. One week of limbo, caught between the life he'd left and the future that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.
He went home to Castellana.
The bus ride from Milan felt longer than he remembered, winding through mountain roads that were both familiar and strange. Six weeks away shouldn't have changed things this much, but everything looked different through the eyes of someone who'd signed a professional racing contract.
Giuseppe was waiting at the bus stop, leaning against his old Fiat van. He looked thinner than Marco remembered, more gray in his hair, but his expression when he saw Marco was complicated—pride mixed with worry mixed with something that might have been grief for the boy who'd left and wouldn't quite return.
"Papa." Marco dropped his bag and hugged his father, feeling Giuseppe tense for a moment before returning the embrace.
"You look different," Giuseppe said finally, pulling back to study him. "Older."
"It's only been six weeks."
"A lot can happen in six weeks." Giuseppe picked up Marco's bag—still the same small suitcase—and headed toward the van. "Come on. Your mother's grave could use visiting. Then we'll go to the garage. Signora Benedetti's Panda is making that noise again."
Just like that, they fell into the rhythm of normal life. As if Marco hadn't just become a professional racing driver. As if everything hadn't changed.
The cemetery was quiet, just them and the mountains and the headstone that read "Maria Venturi, Beloved Wife and Mother." Marco hadn't been here since before he left. Hadn't had time, hadn't wanted to face the guilt of leaving.
"I told her about your contract," Giuseppe said, standing beside Marco at the grave. "About how you're going to race in F3. How you did everything I tried to stop you from doing." He paused. "I think she would have been proud. Scared, but proud."
"You're scared."
"Terrified. Every day." Giuseppe's voice was rough. "But I was wrong to try to stop you. You're going to do what you're going to do, whether I approve or not. All I can control is whether I'm there when you need me."
They stood in silence for a while. Then Giuseppe spoke again.
"The girl. The journalist. She's coming here tomorrow."
Marco's head snapped around. "What?"
"Elena Marchesi. She called me three days ago. Said she wanted to do a follow-up piece, wanted to see where you came from, talk to me about—" Giuseppe shrugged. "About everything. I said yes."
"You said yes? To being interviewed?"
"She's important to you. I could hear it in your voice when you mentioned her." Giuseppe met his eyes. "And she's been protecting you. That article about the sabotage—that took courage. I figured I owed her a conversation."
Elena arrived Wednesday afternoon, driving a rental Alfa Romeo that looked absurdly out of place in Castellana. She wore jeans and a casual shirt, her hair down instead of in its usual professional ponytail. She looked younger like this, less like a journalist and more like someone Marco might have known in school.
"So this is where it all started," she said, looking around at the small town, the mountains, the garage with its faded "Venturi Auto Repair" sign.
"This is it. Not much to look at."
"Are you kidding? This is perfect." She pulled out her camera, started taking photos. "The contrast between here and the F3 paddock—that's the whole story right there."
Giuseppe invited her inside for coffee. The apartment above the garage was small and showed its age—worn furniture, outdated kitchen, family photos on walls that hadn't been painted in a decade. Marco saw Elena taking it all in, her journalist brain cataloging every detail.
But she was respectful, not intrusive. She asked Giuseppe about his own racing history, about raising Marco alone, about the decision to forbid racing.
"I was trying to protect him," Giuseppe said, his English rough but understandable. "My brother, he died because of racing. I didn't want—" He struggled for words. "I didn't want to watch my son die too."
"But you're supporting him now."
"Because I realized something. If he crashes, if something happens, I want him to know I believed in him. I don't want his last memory of me to be disappointment." Giuseppe's hands wrapped around his coffee cup. "That's what I did to Stefano. Let him die thinking I was ashamed of him. I won't make that mistake twice."
Elena was writing, but her eyes were bright with emotion. "That's beautiful. Can I quote you?"
Giuseppe nodded. "Marco earned this. Whatever happens, he earned it."
After the interview, Elena asked to see the garage. Marco showed her around—the lifts, the tools, the workbenches where he'd spent his childhood learning to read machinery like other kids learned to read books.
"This is where you developed that mechanical understanding," Elena said, watching him absently check the oil level on a customer's car. "The thing that makes you different from other drivers."
"I guess. I never thought of it as special. It was just what we did."
"That's what makes it special." She took more photos—Marco with tools, Giuseppe in his element, the garage that had been both prison and classroom. "Most racing drivers grow up in karts and simulators. You grew up understanding how things break and how to fix them. That gives you an edge they'll never have."
They walked around Castellana that afternoon. Elena documented everything—the small town square, the café where Marco had spent summers working for pocket money, the view of the mountains that had been his whole world for twenty years.
"It's beautiful here," Elena said, sitting on a bench overlooking the valley. "Peaceful. Why would anyone leave?"
"Because peaceful can also mean stuck. Because beautiful doesn't pay bills. Because—" Marco struggled to explain. "Because when your whole life is mapped out and it's small and safe and predictable, you start feeling like you're suffocating."
"And now?"
"Now I'm terrified every day. But at least I'm moving forward." He looked at her. "That article you published. About the sabotage. It caused problems at the academy."
"I know. Valentina called me, threatened legal action, accused me of sensationalism." Elena's expression was unapologetic. "I don't regret it. Your safety mattered more than their reputation."
"The investigation didn't find anything conclusive. No proof it was Dominic or his father."
"But you know it was."
"I suspect it was. That's different from knowing." Marco turned to face her fully. "Why are you doing this? The articles, the advocacy, protecting me. You barely know me."
Elena was quiet for a moment, looking out at the mountains. "Because I've seen too many talented people get crushed by this sport. Money beats merit, connections beat skill, and nobody even questions it anymore." She met his eyes. "You represent something that shouldn't exist but does—proof that raw talent can still matter. If you fail, it reinforces the system. If you succeed..." She smiled. "If you succeed, you prove the system can be beaten. And I want to be there to document it."
"That's the journalist answer. What's the real answer?"
She laughed, surprised. "You're perceptive." She paused, seeming to choose words carefully. "The real answer is that I believe in what you're trying to do. And I believe in you. Not just as a story, but as a person trying to do something difficult and important. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah. It does."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Then Elena spoke again, her tone lighter. "So. Apex Racing. Dominic Ashford as your teammate. How are you feeling about that?"
"Like I signed up for psychological warfare disguised as racing."
"Accurate assessment." She pulled out her phone, showed him something. "Look at this."
It was a forum thread discussing the upcoming F3 season. Dozens of pages of speculation about teams, drivers, championship contenders. Marco's name appeared frequently, usually in the context of "the Italian kid" or "that underdog from the Marchesi articles."
"You're famous," Elena said. "Not Lewis Hamilton famous, but in the F3 world, people know your name. They're watching to see if you can back up the hype."
"Great. More pressure."
"You'll handle it. You've handled everything else." She put her phone away. "But Marco? Be careful at Apex Racing. Simon Price is a good team principal, but he runs a tight budget. If you and Dominic are at war in the same garage, it could destroy the team. Price won't tolerate it."
"So I should just let Dominic do whatever he wants?"
"I'm saying pick your battles. Beat him on track where it matters. Don't waste energy on garage politics and ego fights." She stood, stretched. "Come on. Buy me dinner. I want to try this local place your dad mentioned. Apparently they make the best carbonara in Italy."
Dinner was at a small trattoria that Marco had been going to since childhood. The owner, Signor Russo, nearly dropped his menus when he saw Marco walk in.
"Marco! We saw the articles! You're a famous racing driver now!"
Word had spread through the small town—their local boy had made it to professional racing. Throughout dinner, people stopped by their table to congratulate him, to ask about the academy, to say they'd be watching his races.
"This is what I needed," Marco said after the attention died down. "Reminder that people are rooting for me. People who don't care about politics or money, just want to see someone from here succeed."
"Don't lose that," Elena said seriously. "When the paddock gets toxic, when the pressure builds, remember these people. They're your foundation."
After dinner, they walked back through the quiet streets. Elena's hotel was near the bus station—the only hotel in Castellana.
"Thank you for coming," Marco said. "For the interview, for dinner, for... I don't know. Being here."
"Thank you for letting me in. Not everyone would." She hesitated, then pulled out her phone again. "I need to show you something. It's not published yet, but it will be by the time you get to Apex Racing."
She pulled up a draft article. Marco read the headline:
"Marco Venturi and the Price of Dreams: What One Driver's Journey Reveals About Modern Motorsport"
The article was longer than her previous pieces, more analytical. It explored not just Marco's story but the broader question of accessibility in racing, interviewed other drivers from working-class backgrounds, examined data on how family wealth correlated with racing success.
It was thorough, powerful, and made Marco's journey emblematic of a systemic problem.
"This will make enemies," Marco said.
"It already has. I've gotten angry emails from racing families, threats from lawyers, accusations of bias." Elena's expression was determined. "But it needs to be said. The sport is broken, Marco. Maybe you can't fix it, but you can expose it. That's worth making enemies for."
"What if I fail? What if I crash out, can't handle the pressure, prove everyone right who said I didn't belong?"
"Then you fail. But at least you tried." She met his eyes. "Fear of failure is the tool they use to keep people like you from even trying. Don't give them that power."
They stood outside her hotel, the small town quiet around them. Elena seemed to be working up to something, then finally just said it.
"Be honest with me. Do you have feelings for me?"
Marco's brain short-circuited. "What?"
"I'm a journalist. My job is to be objective. But I'm having a hard time staying objective about you." She looked vulnerable for the first time since Marco had met her. "So I need to know if this is one-sided, or if I should be more careful about how much time we spend together."
Marco thought about the calls, the messages, the way he felt when he saw her name on his phone. The way her support had kept him sane through the worst moments at the academy.
"It's not one-sided," he admitted. "I just didn't think—I mean, you're older, you're established, you're—"
"Three years older. Not exactly a scandal." Elena smiled slightly. "And I didn't think you'd notice me like that. You're so focused on racing, so driven. I figured I was just the journalist who wrote about you."
"You're definitely not just the journalist."
They stood there in the awkward uncertainty of almost-confession, neither quite sure how to proceed.
"I can't be objective about you anymore," Elena said finally. "Which means I either need to stop covering your story, or we need to acknowledge that this is complicated and figure out how to handle it."
"I don't want you to stop covering my story. You're the only journalist who understands what I'm trying to do."
"Then we figure out the complicated part." She took a breath. "But Marco, I can't be your girlfriend while actively reporting on your career. The conflict of interest would be impossible. So we need to be... something else. Something more than friends but less than defined."
"That sounds messy."
"It probably will be. But most things worth doing are messy." She reached out, took his hand briefly. "Let's just take it as it comes. See what happens. Deal?"
"Deal."
Elena squeezed his hand once, then let go and stepped back. "Get some sleep. Big week ahead—reporting to Apex Racing, meeting your team, starting your professional career. You'll need your energy."
Marco walked back to his father's apartment, his mind racing faster than any car he'd driven. He had feelings for a journalist who was covering his career. That was objectively a terrible idea.
But somehow, it also felt right.
The next few days passed in a blur. Marco helped at the garage, reconnected with Luca who was insanely jealous and proud in equal measure, said goodbye to his small town one more time.
Sunday morning, Giuseppe drove him to the train station.
"Be smart," Giuseppe said. "Be fast, but be smart. Don't let them make you into something you're not."
"I won't."
"And Marco?" Giuseppe pulled him into a rough embrace. "Call me after every race. Win or lose, crash or perfect drive, I want to hear from you. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Good. Now go. Go race. Go prove everyone wrong who said it was impossible."
The train pulled away, and Marco watched Castellana disappear for the second time, heading toward England and Apex Racing and a future that was exciting and terrifying in equal measure.
His phone buzzed. Elena: Article publishes tomorrow. Brace for impact. And good luck at Apex Racing. You've got this.
Another message, from an unknown number: Welcome to the team. Report Monday 9 AM. Bring your race face. - Simon Price
Marco leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. The academy had been preparation. The small victories and politics and sabotage had been training for what came next.
Now came the real test.
Twenty races. A teammate who hated him. A car that probably wasn't competitive. A team with limited budget and unlimited expectations.
But also: a chance. A real, legitimate chance to prove that a mechanic's son from nowhere could compete with anyone.
The train carried him toward that future, away from everything familiar and safe, toward everything unknown and dangerous.
And for the first time in his life, Marco felt like he was exactly where he belonged.
Even if where he belonged was terrifying.