Thursday afternoon, Marco met Elena at a small café in the nearby village, a ten-minute walk from the academy. It was the first time he'd left the facility since arriving, and the normalcy of the outside world felt strange—people shopping, going about ordinary lives, completely unaware that just down the road, ten young drivers were fighting for their futures.
Elena was already there, sitting at a corner table with her laptop open and two espressos waiting. She looked more polished than she had at Montebello—professional clothes, hair styled, the transformation from trackside journalist to serious interviewer.
"Marco," she greeted him with a smile. "You look better than the photos Valentina sent. Less like a zombie."
"The first two weeks were rough."
"I heard. Sit. Talk to me." She pulled out a digital recorder. "This is on the record unless you say otherwise. Fair?"
"Fair."
They started with easy questions—how was the academy, what was the training like, how did it feel to be in England. Marco answered carefully, aware that everything he said would be published, would be read by people who might use his words against him.
But Elena was good at her job. She eased past his defenses with follow-up questions that felt like conversation rather than interrogation.
"Tell me about your first race," she said. "The simulation. You podiumed against drivers with years more experience."
"I got lucky with the tire choice. The track was damp and I bet on wets while most went with slicks."
"That's not lucky tire choice," she said. "The simulation. You podiumed against drivers with years of more experience."
"That's not luck, that's reading conditions and making a smart call. Give yourself credit."
Marco shrugged. "I'm still learning. Everyone here is fast. I'm just trying to keep up."
"Are you, though? Keeping up?" Elena leaned forward slightly. "Because from what I hear, you're doing more than keeping up. You're threatening people who expected to dominate."
"I don't know about that."
"Marco." Her tone shifted, became more serious. "I've been covering racing for three years. I know what it looks like when someone powerful feels threatened. Dominic Ashford's father has been making calls, asking questions about you. That doesn't happen to drivers who are 'just keeping up.'"
Marco hesitated. Valentina had said this interview could be strategic, could build public support. But how much should he reveal?
"Off the record?" he asked.
Elena nodded, turning off the recorder.
"There's a lot of politics here," Marco said quietly. "Money, influence, people with agendas. I'm trying to focus on driving, but it's not that simple."
"It never is in this sport. Racing is the easy part. Everything around racing is what breaks people." Elena studied him. "Are they treating you fairly?"
"Mostly. But I'm aware that some decisions aren't made on merit alone."
"And that bothers you."
"Of course it bothers me. But what am I supposed to do? Complain? That just makes me look like I'm making excuses."
Elena smiled slightly. "Smart. You're learning the game faster than I expected." She turned the recorder back on. "Let's talk about your father. How does he feel about your progress?"
The question hit harder than Marco expected. "We're... talking more now. He watched my first race. Sent me a message after."
"That's progress from what you told me at Montebello. He was pretty firmly against this."
"He's still scared. But maybe less angry." Marco paused. "He compared me to my uncle Stefano, the one who died racing. Said I was already better than Stefano ever was. That meant a lot."
"Because it means he's accepting what you're doing?"
"Because it means he's watching. He's there, even if he's not here." Marco felt his throat tighten slightly. "Sorry, this is—"
"No, this is good. This is real." Elena's expression was understanding. "Readers need to see that side of you. The human side, not just the driver."
They talked for another hour. About the physical training, about learning to drive cars versus karts, about his roommate Yuki and the other students. Elena asked about his goals, his fears, what he'd do if racing didn't work out.
"I don't have a backup plan," Marco admitted. "That probably sounds stupid."
"It sounds committed. Or desperate. Maybe both." Elena closed her laptop. "One last question, off the record again."
Marco nodded.
"The evaluation day in two weeks. The one where F3 teams are coming to scout drivers." Elena watched his reaction. "Are you ready for that? Because if you perform well, your life is going to change very fast. Real contracts, real money, real pressure. And real enemies."
"I'm already performing well. Already have enemies."
"This is different. Right now you're a talented kid at an academy. After evaluation day, if teams want you, you become a threat to people's business interests. That's when things get serious." She leaned back. "I'm not trying to scare you. I'm trying to prepare you. This sport eats people alive, Marco. Especially people without protection."
"I have protection. I have talent."
"Talent helps. But you also need allies, leverage, public support. That's why this interview matters. That's why your story matters." Elena pulled out her card, wrote something on the back. "This is my personal number. If things get bad—if the politics get too heavy, if someone tries to sabotage you in a way that's not just racing—call me. I can't promise I can fix it, but I can make noise. Sometimes noise is enough."
Marco took the card. "Why are you doing this? You barely know me."
"Because I've seen too many talented people get destroyed by this system. And because your story matters beyond just racing. You represent something—the idea that merit can still win over money. If you fail, it reinforces that the sport is closed to people like you. If you succeed..." She smiled. "If you succeed, you prove something important."
They finished their coffee. Elena paid—"I'm expensing this anyway"—and they walked out into the late afternoon.
"The article will run Monday," Elena said. "I'll send you a draft first, let you flag anything that feels wrong. But Marco? Be ready. Once this publishes, more people will know your name. Some will root for you. Some will want you to fail. It gets louder from here."
Marco walked back to the academy alone, Elena's words echoing in his mind. The evaluation day was in less than two weeks. F3 team principals would be watching, judging, deciding if he was worth investing in.
And if Richard Ashford was already making calls about him now, what would happen when real opportunities appeared?
Back at the academy, he found Yuki in their room studying race telemetry.
"How was interview?" Yuki asked.
"Complicated. She asked a lot of questions about politics and pressure."
"She is smart journalist. Understands racing is not just about speed." Yuki closed his laptop. "You should know—Dominic was asking about you during training today. Where you went, who you were meeting with."
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. Is none of his business." Yuki's expression was serious. "But he is paying attention to you now. Before, you were just new student. Now, you are threat. Be careful."
That evening's simulator session put Marco and Dominic in direct competition—head-to-head laps on Silverstone Circuit, best of ten laps wins. The entire cohort gathered to watch on the screens outside the sim pods.
Marco climbed into his pod, adjusted the seat, pulled on his helmet. Through the screen, he could see Dominic in the adjacent pod, his posture perfect, his focus absolute.
"Remember," Marcus Webb's voice came through the speakers. "This is about consistency and race pace, not just one fast lap. Drive smart."
The simulation loaded. They started together, ghost cars on the same virtual track.
Lap one: Dominic was faster by two-tenths. His line through Maggots and Becketts was textbook perfect.
Lap two: Marco closed the gap to one-tenth. He'd found a slightly better exit from Brooklands.
Lap three: Dominic pulled it back to two-tenths. His consistency was machine-like.
Lap four: Marco matched him exactly. Same lap time to the thousandth of a second.
Marco could feel the pressure building. Dominic was technically perfect, his driving smooth and controlled. But Marco was adapting, learning the optimal line by studying Dominic's ghost care, finding tiny improvements.
Lap five: Marco was faster by a tenth. A small improvement in sector two.
Through his peripheral vision, Marco could see movement in Dominic's pod—tension in his shoulders, a slight adjustment of his seating position. The pressure was working both ways.
Lap six: Marco pulled ahead by three-tenths. He'd found a different approach to Stowe corner that carried more speed.
Lap seven: Dominic responded, matching Marco's time exactly. He'd copied Marco's line.
Lap eight: Marco went faster again, four-tenths ahead now. He was in the zone, the car an extension of his thoughts.
Lap nine: Dominic made a mistake—braked too late into Copse, ran slightly wide. Marco's lead jumped to eight-tenths.
Lap ten: Final lap. Marco drove it clean, consistent, focused. Dominic pushed desperately, trying to make up time, but desperation led to small errors that compounded.
Final result: Marco won by one full second over ten laps.
When Marco climbed out of the simulator, the room was quiet. Amélie was smiling. Yuki nodded approvingly. The others looked uncertain, like they'd just witnessed something shift in the cohort's hierarchy.
Dominic emerged from his pod, pulled off his helmet, and for a moment his mask slipped. Marco saw genuine anger there, mixed with something that might have been fear.
"Lucky simulation," Dominic said, his voice tight. "Different track, different result."
"Maybe," Marco replied evenly. "We'll find out at evaluation day."
"Yes. We will." Dominic's smile was cold. "And when team principals are watching, when real opportunities are on the line, we'll see if you can handle actual pressure."
He walked away, and Carlos followed, shooting Marco a look that wasn't quite friendly anymore.
"You've done it now," Amélie said, appearing at Marco's shoulder. "You've officially gotten under his skin. That was a statement."
"I was just driving my best."
"Which is exactly the problem. Your best is getting better than his best. That terrifies him." She lowered her voice. "Watch your back. Desperate people do desperate things."
That night, Marco lay awake replaying the session in his mind. He'd beaten Dominic head-to-head, proven it wasn't a fluke. But instead of satisfaction, he felt uneasy.
Because Amélie was right. He'd made an enemy take him seriously.
And enemies with resources were dangerous.
His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: Nice driving today. But remember—talent gets you in the door. Politics keeps you in the room. Don't forget which matters more. - R.A.
Richard Ashford. Dominic's father. The major investor who'd been making calls about Marco.
Marco stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it without responding.
Across the room, Yuki was already asleep, his breathing steady and peaceful.
Marco closed his eyes and tried to quiet his racing mind. Ten days until evaluation day. Ten days to prepare, to train, to become so good that politics couldn't touch him.
But deep down, he knew that wasn't how it worked.
In racing, the fastest driver didn't always win.
Sometimes, the best-connected one did.