Monday morning brought a surprise. Instead of the usual 5:30 AM wake-up call for conditioning, Marco found a note slipped under his door: Report to Conference Room A at 9:00 AM. Business casual attire. - V. Rossi
"What's business casual?" Marco asked Yuri, who was already up and studying.
"Nice pants, shirt with buttons, no jeans. You have?"
Marco thought about his wardrobe. "I have my father's jacket."
"That works. Must be important meeting."
At 8:55 AM, Marco arrived at Conference Room A wearing his cleanest khakis, a button-up shirt Luca's mother had insisted he pack, and his father's blue jacket that still smelled faintly of mothballs. He felt like a kid playing dress-up.
The conference room was sleek and modern—glass walls, a long table, ergonomic chairs. Valentina was already there, along with two people Marco didn't recognize: a man in his sixties with silver hair and an expensive suit, and a woman perhaps forty with sharp eyes and a tablet constantly in her hands.
"Venturi, good timing," Valentina said. "Sit."
Marco sat at the far end of the table, feeling deeply out of place.
"This is Edward Carmichael," Valentina gestured to the silver-haired man. "He's the primary investor and board chairman of Apex Academy. And this is Sarah Chen, our operations director. They wanted to meet with you."
Edward Carmichael studied Marco with the casual intensity of someone used to evaluating assets. "Marco Venturi. The mechanic's son from Italy. I watched your race on Friday. Impressive driving for someone with your limited background."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet. I didn't bring you here to congratulate you." Carmichael leaned back in his chair. "Do you understand what this academy actually is, Mr. Venturi?"
Marco glanced at Valentina, who gave him no help. "It's a driver development program. You find talented drivers and train them."
"That's what we tell the public. The reality is more complex." Carmichael tapped the table. "This academy is an experiment in market disruption. For decades, professional motorsport has been dominated by drivers from wealthy families who can afford karting careers from age five, private coaching, factory team support. The barrier to entry is millions of pounds. This creates a small, incestuous talent pool."
Sarah Chen pulled up a presentation on the screen at the end of the room. Charts, graphs, financial projections.
"We believe there's untapped talent being excluded by financial barriers," she continued Carmichael's thought. "Drivers like you—genuinely fast, naturally gifted, but from backgrounds that can't support a traditional racing career. Our theory is that if we can identify these drivers early and provide proper training, we can produce competitive talent at a fraction of the cost traditional academies spend."
"And sell them to racing teams," Carmichael added bluntly. "That's the business model. We invest in your development—training, coaching, equipment, everything. In return, when you sign with a professional team, we receive a percentage of your contract and future earnings. It's venture capital applied to human talent."
Marco processed this. He'd known the academy wasn't a charity, but hearing it explained so it transactionally felt strange. "So I'm an investment."
"You're all investments," Valentina said. "Some will pay off. Most won't. That's the nature of the model."
"Why are you telling me this?" Marco asked.
The three of them exchanged glances. Carmichael spoke first. "Because you've become interesting, Mr. Venturi. When Giancarlo Tedesco recommended you, I was skeptical. Regional karting champion with no car experience, no formal training, minimal physical conditioning. On paper, you were a long shot—high risk, uncertain return."
"But your performance has exceeded projections," Sarah added, pulling up data. "Fourth in grid qualifying, third in the race simulation, consistent improvement in technical assessments, strong marks from instructors on coachability and race intelligence. You're tracking ahead of several drivers we spent significantly more to recruit."
"Which brings us to why you're here," Carmichael said. "In two weeks, we're hosting an evaluation day. Several F3 team principals will be here to watch our cohort. They're looking for drivers to fill development seats for next season. This is essentially an audition for professional contracts."
Marco's heart rate kicked up. Professional contracts. Already. He'd been at the academy less than a month.
"The top performers will get serious attention," Valentina explained. "Dominic Ashford is already on several teams' radar because of his F4 background. Amélie Dubois has factory connections through her father. But there are three or four open seats, and team principals are always looking for value—talented drivers without inflated price tags."
"You're a value proposition, Marco," Carmichael said. "You don't come with the baggage of wealthy parents demanding control, you don't have existing sponsorship obligations, and you're fast enough to be interesting. That makes you attractive to teams operating on limited budgets."
"But there's a complication," Sarah said, her expression serious. "Dominic Ashford's father, Richard Ashford, is one of our major investors. He's contributed significant capital to this academy with the understanding that we'd facilitate his son's career progression. Richard is... let's say he's very invested in Dominic's success."
The air in the room shifted. Marco could feel the weight of what wasn't being said.
"Richard Ashford has made it clear he expects Dominic to be our top graduate this year," Valentina said carefully. "He's applied pressure to ensure Dominic gets the best coaching time, the newest equipment, the most favorable circumstances."
"And when you started outperforming his son," Carmichael continued, "Richard noticed. He's been making inquiries about you. Your background, your funding, whether you have any... vulnerabilities that might be exploited."
Marco felt cold. "What kind of vulnerabilities?"
"Financial pressure on your family. Immigration status. Academic requirements. Anything that could be used to make your position here untenable." Sarah's tone was matter-of-fact, like she was discussing weather. "This is how the sport works, Marco. Money doesn't just buy speed—it buys influence, access, pressure points. Richard Ashford is very good at applying pressure."
"So what are you telling me?" Marco asked. "That I should back off? Let Dominic win?"
"No," Carmichael said firmly. "We're telling you that you need to understand the game you're playing. Racing is what happens on track. But careers are decided off track—in boardrooms, in sponsor meetings, in conversations you're never part of. You're fast, but fast isn't enough if someone with more resources decides to make your life difficult."
"We're on your side," Valentina added. "The academy's reputation is built on producing genuine talent, not just facilitating rich kids' vanity projects. But we also need Richard Ashford's money. It's a balance."
"A delicate one," Sarah said. "Which is why we need you to be aware. Don't antagonize Dominic unnecessarily. Race him clean but don't make it personal. And understand that some decisions—coaching assignments, equipment allocation, race opportunities—might not always seem fair. That's not because we don't value you. It's because we're managing complex political relationships."
Marco sat back, trying to absorb it all. He'd thought the hard part was learning to drive fast, getting physically fit, proving he belonged. But that was just the surface. Underneath was a whole game of money and influence and power plays he didn't know how to navigate.
"I don't have wealthy parents," Marco said quietly. "I don't have connections or leverage. So what do I do?"
Carmichael smiled, but it wasn't a comforting smile. "You do what you've been doing. You drive faster than everyone else. Performance is the one currency that's hard to argue with. Be so good that teams want you despite Richard Ashford's objections. Be so valuable that we can't afford to let you go."
"One more thing," Sarah said. "We've been contacted by Elena Marchesi. She wants to do a follow-up article about your progress at the academy. Normally we'd decline—we prefer to keep our program private. But given your story, given the attention you've already generated, we think allowing controlled media access might work in your favor. Humanize you, build public support. That makes it harder for people like Richard Ashford to quietly undermine you."
"You want me to do an interview?"
"We want you to consider it strategically. Elena seems sympathetic to your story. A well-placed article could be useful." Valentina pulled out a release form. "This grants permission for a journalist to access our facility. Think about it. But decide soon—she wants to visit this week."
The meeting ended shortly after. Marco walked out feeling like he'd been hit by a truck. The world he'd entered was more complicated, more ruthless, more political than he'd imagined.
He found Yuki in their room, still studying. "How was meeting?"
"Complicated." Marco sat on his bed, mind racing. "They told me things about how this place really works. About the business side."
"Ah." Yuki closed his book. "Is good they told you. Most academies never explain. Students just get used and discarded, never understanding why."
"You knew? About the investment model?"
"My father is businessman. He explained before I came here. Everything is transaction. They invest in us, hope for return. Is not bad—we get training we could not afford otherwise. But yes, is transaction, not charity."
"And the politics? The pressure from wealthy families?"
Yuki shrugged. "Is always like this. Rich families have power. We accept this or we quit. I choose to accept and focus on driving. Is only thing I control."
Marco's phone buzzed. A message from Elena: Heard the academy might approve an interview. I'd love to chat about your first month. Coffee sometime this week?
He stared at the message. Everything was calculated now. The interview wasn't just an interview—it was a strategic move, a way to build public profile, to make himself harder to quietly sabotage.
He typed back: Yes. Thursday afternoon if that works?
The response came quickly: Perfect. I'll bring the good questions.
That evening at dinner, the cohort was buzzing about the upcoming evaluation day. Rumors were flying about which teams were coming, who might get offers, what the format would be.
"I heard Ferrari is sending scouts," Carlos said excitedly.
"Ferrari scouts everyone," Amélie replied. "Doesn't mean anything unless they actually make offers."
"My father says three F3 teams are definitely coming," Dominic said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "Apex Racing, Velocity Motorsport, and Titan Racing. All looking to fill seats for next season."
Marco watched Dominic carefully. Did he know about his father's pressure on the academy? Did he know Marco had been called into a meeting about politics and power plays?
Dominic caught Marco looking and smiled coldly. "Something on your mind, Venturi?"
"Just thinking about the evaluation day. Should be interesting."
"It will be. For those of us who are actually ready for professional racing." The implication was clear—Dominic didn't think Marco was ready.
After dinner, Marco went for a walk around the facility. The track was empty, the pit lane dark. He stood at the fence, looking at the circuit where he'd podiumed in his first race, where he'd proven he could compete.
But now he understood that wasn't enough. The track was just the stage. The real race was happening behind the scenes, in boardrooms and investor meetings and quiet conversations about who deserved opportunities and who didn't.
Marco pulled out his phone and called his father. It rang four times before Giuseppe answered.
"Marco. Is everything alright?"
"Yeah, Papa. I just.. I wanted to hear your voice."
A pause. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. It's just complicated here. More complicated than I expected." Marco struggled for words. "You were right about some things. About how this world works. About money and power."
"But you're still there."
"I'm still here."
"Then you've already won something," Giuseppe said quietly. "You knew it would be hard. You chose it anyway. That takes courage."
"Or stupidity."
"Sometimes those are the same thing." Marco could hear a smile in his father's voice. "How is the racing?"
"Good. I got third in my first race simulation."
"Third is very good. Your uncle Stefano, he never finished higher than fifth in his championships. You're better than he was already."
It was the first time Giuseppe had compared Marco to Stefano without fear or warning. Just acknowledgment of talent, passed through family blood.
"I have an evaluation coming up. Professional teams watching. It could lead to a real contract."
"So soon?"
"If I'm good enough."
"You're good enough, Marco. You've always been good enough. The question is whether they're smart enough to see it."
They talked for a few more minutes about small things—the garage, the weather, a funny customer story. When they hung up, Marco felt more grounded.
He walked back to his room and found Yuki already asleep, his study materials neatly organized on his desk. Marco changed into sleep clothes and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Two weeks until evaluation day. Two weeks to prove he deserved this opportunity, to be so good that the politics couldn't touch him, to show that a mechanic's son from rural Italy could compete with anyone.
He thought about Carmichael's words: Be so good they can't afford to let you go.
Marco closed his eyes and started visualizing laps. Perfect lines, perfect braking points, perfect exits. The mental practice he'd do every night until evaluation day.
Because now he understood. The track was where talent spoke. And he needed his talent to be screaming.