Monday morning arrived with rain, the kind of steady gray drizzle that made the mountains disappear and turned Castellana into an island of stone and wet streets. Marco woke early from a sleep that hadn't really been sleep, more like a series of anxious half-dreams where he kept missing flights or arriving at the academy only to discover he'd forgotten how to drive.
The apartment was silent. His father had left for the garage already—Marco could hear the familiar sounds of work below, metal on metal, the wheeze of the air compressor. The rhythm of a life continuing without him.
He'd packed his suitcase last night: three shirts, two pairs of jeans, underwear, his racing suit that desperately needed washing, the lucky shirt he'd worn under his suit yesterday. Everything he owned that seemed appropriate for meeting professional racing people fit into one small bag with room to spare. The realization of how little he had was somehow liberating and terrifying at the same time.
His phone showed twenty-three unread messages. Most were from Luca—a mix of congratulations, jokes, and logistical questions about the England trip. Three were from numbers he didn't recognize, probably people who'd gotten his contact from the race results. One was from Elena: Article is live. Brace yourself.
Marco opened his laptop and found the article on Gazzetta dello Sport's website.
"The Mechanic's Son: Marco Venturi's Impossible Victory at Montebello"
By Elena Marchesi
The article was accompanied by photos from yesterday—Marco on the podium, Marco in the paddock looking overwhelmed, a close-up of his taped-together helmet. Elena had captured everything: his background, his father's garage, the improbable victory, even the tension with Giuseppe, though she'd handled it delicately.
But it was the final paragraph that made Marco's throat tight:
"In a sport increasingly dominated by wealth and privilege, where driver academies cost more than most families earn in a year, Marco Venturi represents something rare: pure, undeniable talent emerging from the most unlikely circumstances. On Thursday, he travels to England for an evaluation at one of Europe's most selective driver development programs. Whether he succeeds or fails, his victory at Montebello proves something important—that the dream of racing, of reaching the highest levels of motorsport, isn't completely closed to those without family money or corporate backing. Not yet, anyway."
The article had already been shared hundreds of times. The comments section was a mix of support, skepticism, and people arguing about whether talent or money mattered more in modern racing.
Marco closed the laptop. The attention felt strange, like wearing clothes that didn't quite fit.
Downstairs, the garage sounds continued. Marco made coffee, drank it standing at the window, watching rain run down the glass. He needed to talk to his father again, to try one more time to make him understand. But Giuseppe had made his position clear, and pushing would only make things worse.
At nine o'clock, Luca arrived in his Alfa, honking twice.
Marco grabbed his suitcase and his backpack. He paused at the door to the garage, listening to his father work. The sounds were as familiar as his own heartbeat—the specific clank of a particular wrench, the rhythm of Giuseppe's movements, the slight wheeze when he bent to reach something low.
"Papa," Marco called down. "I'm leaving. For Luca's. We're... I'm getting ready for the trip."
The sounds stopped. Silence stretched long enough that Marco thought Giuseppe might not respond at all.
Then: "Your passport is in the desk drawer. Top left. And take the blue jacket from the closet. You'll need something presentable."
Marco felt something crack in his chest. Not approval, not blessing, but acknowledgment. His father helping despite everything.
"Thank you," Marco said.
More silence. Then the sounds of work resumed.
Marco found the passport and the jacket—a blue blazer Giuseppe had worn to Marco's mother's funeral fifteen years ago, barely worn since. It smelled faintly of mothballs and old cologne. Marco folded it carefully into his suitcase.
Luca was waiting in the car, engine running. "Ready for adventure?"
"Something like that."
They drove to Luca's house, a comfortable two-story in the nicer part of town. Luca's father, Roberto, was a doctor—emergency medicine, which meant he understood pressure and life-or-death decisions. He'd always supported Luca's racing, had even given Marco advice and occasional use of their tools over the years.
"Marco!" Roberto greeted him at the door. "I read the article. Congratulations! This is incredible news."
Luca's mother, Sofia, appeared with coffee and pastries. "We're so proud of you. Both of you, really. Our boys, racing!"
The warmth of the Russo household made Marco acutely aware of what was missing in his own life. A mother who cared about his dreams. A father who celebrated instead of feared.
They spent the day planning. Roberto helped Marco book a bus to Milan, then the train to the airport. Luca insisted on giving Marco his nice shoes—"You can't meet with racing academy people in work boots, man." Sofia pressed money into Marco's hand despite his protests—"For emergencies. Every traveler needs emergency money."
By evening, Marco had a plan, proper clothes, and a folder full of printouts with directions, contact information, and backup plans for every possible disaster.
"You're going to do great," Luca said as they sat on his bedroom floor, surrounded by racing posters and trophies from their karting years. "You know that, right?"
"I don't know anything right now."
"That's fair. But I know. I've watched you drive for years. You're not just fast, Marco. You're different. You see things other people don't see."
"My father thinks I'm making a terrible mistake."
"Your father is scared. There's a difference." Luca pulled out his phone, showed Marco something. "Look at this."
It was a Reddit thread about the article. Hundreds of comments, people from around the world discussing Marco's story. Most were supportive. Some were skeptical. A few claimed to know about Apex Academy—apparently it was legitimate, well-funded, and had produced several drivers who'd made it to F3 and F2.
"You're not alone on this," Luca said. "Even if it feels like it. You've got me, my family, Elana, and apparently half the internet rooting for you now."
Marco scrolled through the comments. One caught his eye:
"I'm a mechanic too. Been working on cars my whole life, always dreamed of racing but never had the chance. This guy is living the dream for all of us. Don't screw it up, Marco."
No pressure.
That night, Marco stayed at Luca's house. They stayed up late watching old F1 races on YouTube, analyzing driving lines and race craft, talking about what the academy might test him on. Around midnight, Luca fell asleep mid-sentence. Marco laid awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing through scenarios.
What if he failed? What if he succeeded? What if his father was right and this destroyed everything? What if his father was wrong and this changed everything?
Tuesday was a blur of preparation. Marco withdrew nearly all his savings—eight hundred euros saved from odd jobs over the years. Luca's father drove them to the bus station in Milan Tuesday evening. The bus to the airport left at 11 PM.
"Call us when you land," Sofia said, hugging Marco tightly. "And remember, you're smart and talented. They'd be lucky to have you."
Roberto shook his hand formally. "Your father loves you, Marco. Even if he can't show it right now. Don't forget that."
Luca walked him to the bus platform. "This is it, huh? My best friend, off to become an F1 driver."
"I haven't become anything yet."
"You will." Luca pulled him into a rough hug. "Text me everything. Every detail. I want to live vicariously through you."
The bus arrived, diesel engine rumbling. Marco climbed aboard, found a seat, pressed his face to the window. Luca was standing on the platform, hands in pockets, looking smaller than Marco had ever seen him.
The bus pulled away, and Castellana disappeared into the night behind them.
Marco arrived at Malpensa Airport at 1 AM Wednesday morning. The terminal was strange and bright and full of people going everywhere, speaking languages he didn't understand. He found a quiet corner, used his backpack as a pillow, and tried to sleep sitting up in a plastic chair.
His phone buzzed at 3 AM. A message from an unknown number:
"Marco, this is Elena. I know you're traveling tomorrow. Just wanted to say—you've got this. Don't let them intimidate you. You belong there as much as anyone. Also, I'll be covering the academy for a follow-up piece if you're okay with that. Let me know."
He typed back: "Thanks. And yes, that's fine."
Three dots appeared, then: "Get some sleep. You look terrible in airports, trust me."
Despite everything, Marco smiled.
Wednesday morning, he boarded the flight to London. He'd never been on a plane before. The takeoff pressed him back into his seat, his stomach dropping as the ground fell away. Through the window, he watched Italy shrink to toy-sized, the Alps appearing as wrinkles in brown cloth, then clouds obscuring everything.
The man next to him—businessman, expensive suit—asked what brought him to England.
"Racing," Marco said. "Driver development program."
The man's eyebrows rose. "F1?"
"Maybe. If I'm good enough."
"Well. Good luck with that." The man returned to his laptop, dismissing Marco as another dreamer with unrealistic ambitions.
Marco leaned his head against the window and watched clouds scroll by below. Somewhere down there was his father, probably in the garage, probably angry, probably worried. Somewhere down there was everything Marco had ever known, getting farther away with every second.
And somewhere ahead was England, and an academy, and people who would judge whether he was good enough, whether his dreams were justified or just the delusions of a mechanic's son who'd won one race and thought it meant something.
The plane pushed through turbulence, shuddering, finding smooth air again.
Marco closed his eyes and tried to remember the feeling of that perfect lap at Montebello, the moment when the kart became an extension of his will and the track became a language only he could speak.
He'd need that feeling again soon.
Thursday was coming, and with it, the test that would determine everything.