Nora
My right hand is still throbbing from yesterday.
I sit at my office desk and inhale the scent of this place.
I dig my fingers into the bowl of cloves.
I flex my fingers, and a dull ache runs through my entire hand.
I let out a groan of pain.
I was convinced I was more trained, given my boxing sessions at the gym, but apparently a man's jaw has more friction than a punching bag.
A sad smile escapes me.
Adriano would have laughed at the scene.
I gaze nostalgically at the photos of us that still adorn the walls: together on karts, me with a yellow helmet with green trim, in honor of my favorite driver, Ayrton Senna; him, a blue helmet with the Austrian flag, as a fan of Gerhard Berger.
"We'll race for McLaren!" We repeated in chorus, high-fiving each other, angering Dad, who was a lifelong Ferrari fan.
"What kind of Italians are you? I disown you both!" he scolded us, pretending to chase us around the house.
I can still hear the laughter of us children, echoing through the garages and offices of this racetrack.
I close my eyes for a moment and rest my head on the edge of the table littered with papers: graphs, press releases, sheets of graph paper, and a golden envelope.
A golden envelope.
Heavy paper, a dull, almost metallic gold.
No letterhead.
No postmark or stamp.
Someone came in here and put it down by hand.
I stand up and scan the room, trying to figure out if anything is missing.
Or if anyone is still here.
Nothing.
Maybe Stephan came in here before reaching me?
Impossible, the office was locked and no one has a copy.
Not even Grandpa.
I sit down again and pick it up.
It's quite thick and heavy.
It resembles a wedding invitation.
Is anyone getting married?
Curious, I slip my finger into the edge and peel off the black wax seal.
A pungent exhalation hits my face.
Tiger Balm.
For a moment, my office disappears: I'm no longer in Stresa, but in a sweltering paddock at the end of a grueling race.
I smell burning muscles and wounds seeking relief.
This is the smell of Asia.
The rustle of the paper falling onto the desk brings me back to reality.
A single black sheet, folded in three.
Golden letters.
Addressed to me.
"Nora,
Golden cages are still cages.
Your father took your seat, your grandfather took your last name, and Stephan Wilson took your future. But talent isn't erased with a funeral or a Formula 1 contract.
There's a place where telemetry doesn't matter and where no one will ask you to brake to let a teammate pass. It's called Supreme Velocity.
I know the memory of Adriano burns in your blood. I know you seek the truth. If you want to stop coaching other people's dreams and start living your own again, join me where the asphalt burns even at night.
I'll wait for you at check-in. You don't need a passport, you need guts. And you have plenty of that.
April 20, 3:00 AM. Cargo Terminal, Malpensa. Hangar 4.
Just bring your helmet. I'll take care of the rest.
— The Boss"
I reread it a couple of times, my heart clenching.
Who the hell is The Boss? And why does he seem to know me so well?
Annoyed, I drop the envelope and paper into the trash can.
Who does this guy take me for? A street racer looking for visibility?
Amateur.
I cross my legs on the desk, grab a starter spring, tucked between the rubber bands and clips, and run it through my fingers.
The blue light from the monitor catches my eye.
Supreme Velocity.
The name doesn't mean anything to me, but it smells of illegal racing.
Curiosity has gripped me, so I put my feet down, grab the keyboard, and search for it on the search engine.
Zero interesting results.
Just a few physics sites or references to video games.
And yet I'm not satisfied.
Maybe I need to ask the right people, and who better than the professionals at 'The Red Zone'?
You can access it with private credentials, received by invitation only, and it's a community of drivers, engineers, gamblers, and motorsports enthusiasts who are always up-to-date on everything that's happening.
And I find the protected thread, the coded title, "SV - The Asian Ghost Season."
Apparently it's not a joke.
I scroll through the messages, read the comments about drivers who have disappeared from the official radar, and finally a post published a few hours earlier by an anonymous user.
But apparently, clearly informed:
"The shock of the year: Stephan Wilson has torn up his pre-contract with the Audi F1 team. Reliable sources say he turned down the most coveted seat in the world for 'personal reasons.' The truth? 'The Spears' was spotted in Macau. He chose Supreme Velocity. He wants to prove he's the fastest without FIA restrictions. Who will have the courage to challenge him?"
He killed my brother to get the F1 seat, and now he's turning it down?
Did he offer me the contract while he runs off to Asia to hide? Or maybe he wants glory he doesn't deserve?
The anger I feel turns into icy clarity.
I fish the letter out of the wastebasket, and the smell of tiger balm hitting my nostrils is a direct challenge.
I shove it into my backpack, then go to retrieve my helmet from the locker.
I stare at my reflection in the shiny surface of the door as I close it, but it's a different face I see.
"If you want hell, Stephan, I'll come and bring it to you myself. And this time there won't be any security barriers to save you."