A chorus of roars and shouts erupted from downstairs. A joyous, chaotic energy pulsed through the bar as the crowd, sensing a spectacle, surged with excitement. The night's real party was about to begin.
"Race! Race! Race!"
"Malèna's race!"
Jean Todt, looking weary, rubbed his temples and glanced toward the source of the commotion.
On the dance floor, a wave of young people held their phones high, laughing and yelling as they flooded out the door, the start of a whole new kind of party.
In a matter of seconds, the bar was half-empty, leaving a bewildered bartender blinking at the open doorway. It was a well-practiced exodus. Clearly, this wasn't the first time something like this had happened here.
Samuel, Jean Todt's friend of over thirty years, sat opposite him and immediately noticed his distraction. His old friend had been preoccupied and lost in thought all evening. He followed Todt's gaze and spotted a familiar figure in the crowd.
"Heh, that's the Moretti's youngest son. Looks like another group of kids getting ready for a street race. You've got enough to worry about with the youth academy. Don't waste your energy on the make-believe games of these rich kids. Don't you have a flight to Paris for a meeting tomorrow? You should probably head back to the hotel and get some rest."
Todt didn't respond.
"Jean?" Samuel had to call his name.
Todt finally snapped back to the present, his eyes clouded with a distant look. "Hm?"
Samuel sighed. "I said, you're tired. You should go back to the hotel."
Todt paused, then a wry, tired smile touched his lips. "Alcohol. Racing. Hormones. Isn't this the purest form of entertainment? What could possibly be more interesting than a bunch of carefree kids getting into trouble together? Do you remember our adventures when we were young?"
Samuel laughed out loud. "Haha! I certainly don't have the energy for that kind of trouble anymore."
A nostalgic smile spread across Todt's face. "But we can reminisce. What do you say? Interested?"
Samuel glanced toward the departing figures of Lorenzo, Matteo, and the others. Despite the surging crowd, his eyes easily found the kid with the baby face.
"Of course," Samuel agreed. "A bit of a party, complete exhaustion, and then a perfect night's sleep the moment my head hits the pillow. It's the perfect plan."
As Samuel and Todt left their private booth, the entire bar seemed to empty out, its occupants pouring into the street and shattering the quiet of the Roman night.
In the crowd, Lorenzo matched Kai's unhurried pace, bumping his shoulder. "So, nervous? That guy looks like a total poser, but he claims he's getting into formula racing. He hangs out with Stroll, Latifi, and that whole crew."
Kai just looked at him. "Who?"
Lorenzo froze, feeling like he'd swallowed a fry the wrong way. "Lance Stroll? Nicholas Latifi? The Formula drivers?"
Kai's expression was one of genuine, unadulterated confusion. He had absolutely no idea who Lorenzo was talking about.
Lorenzo nearly choked. The worst part was, he could tell Kai wasn't joking. He probably had never heard those names. An explanation was already on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it back down. "What I mean is, you've never driven these streets before. Is that going to be a problem?"
Kai just shrugged, his tone casual. "Street racing is about instinct."
Lorenzo was speechless for a second.
"Alright then," he conceded.
"The course is a five-kilometer counter-clockwise loop. It starts at Castel Sant'Angelo, then a straight shot down Corso Vittorio Emanuele II into the tight corners by the Spanish Steps. Remember to brake late and get on the power early on that last corner there. Then, it's a left turn onto the long straight toward Piazza del Popolo—that part is tricky—and finally back to the Castel."
"And when I say 'straight'," Lorenzo added, "don't forget, this is Rome. Every street twists and turns. There are curves in the straights and potholes in the curves."
"But don't worry about getting lost. See those people?" he gestured ahead. "They're heading to every corner. They'll act as markers to show you the right way, and they'll be live-streaming the race on their phones."
"They're also our lookouts. If the cops show up, forget the race and just lose them. But I don't think they'll be a problem."
Kai had been about to ask about that very thing. "Why not?"
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. "We've hijacked their communication frequencies and set up roadblocks. I'm pretty sure you guys can enjoy your race in peace."
It was obvious this was a routine event for the bar, a well-oiled machine. Was this their secret to preventing bar fights?
Kai narrowed his eyes, studying Lorenzo. "Why do I get the feeling there's something fishy going on?"
Lorenzo's eyes went wide in an exaggerated display of innocence, his hand clutching his chest. "Me? How could you say that? Kai, I'm one of the good guys!" He paused, a sly glint betraying him.
Kai shot him a deadpan look. "Whatever you're making off the books, I want a twenty percent cut."
Lorenzo sucked in a sharp breath. "Seriously, you can trust me…" But Kai's unwavering stare broke him down. Lorenzo gave up the act.
It was true that the race itself was spontaneous, not pre-arranged. But it was also true that a betting pool had opened up the second the challenge was made, and he had just dropped ten thousand euros on Kai to win.
"You're that confident, my friend?" Lorenzo finally admitted.
"You've experienced it firsthand, haven't you?" Kai countered.
"Hey! No need to rub salt in the wound!"
ROAR! VROOOOM!
The thunder of engines ripped through the night sky. The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber filled the air. Piazza Cavour, next to the ancient Castel Sant'Angelo, was packed wall-to-wall with spectators. The late autumn wind rustled the fallen leaves, sending them skittering across the fortress walls.
And then, the beast arrived.
The crowd parted automatically, thousands of eyes fixated on the military-green Ford Mustang Shelby GT350.
The deep, aggressive rumble of its engine sounded like a predator ready to pounce. The car was as loud and arrogant as its driver, vibrating the very ground as it pushed into view. The guttural roar of its V8 engine sent a primal thrill through the blood of the onlookers.
With a final, deafening crackle from the exhaust, the GT350—arguably the most powerful Shelby Mustang ever built—came to a halt.
The door swung open, and Matteo emerged with a flourish, the blinding headlights forcing the crowd to look away.
He lifted his chin, his gaze finding Malèna, a vision in red against the dark night. He couldn't hide the triumphant, showy look in his eyes. "See? I told you you'd love it."
"Malèna," he continued, his voice dripping with pride, "I'm thinking of getting a new paint job. Bright red, just like your dress tonight…"
Judging by the impressed look on Malèna's face, Matteo thought he had already won. He was finally getting the smile he wanted from his goddess, and his words took on a smug tone, as if victory in the race—and her heart—was already his.
But he was cut off by a new stirring in the crowd. A ripple of whispers, tinged with disbelief and muffled laughter, spread through the spectators. Both Matteo and Malèna turned to see what was causing the commotion, waiting for the night's other main character to make his entrance.
Malèna's heart sank. Just from the sound of the approaching engine, she knew. Compared to the ferocious Shelby, this new arrival sounded like a kitten. An image of a tiny cat, trembling before a lion, flashed through her mind.
She had a very bad feeling about this.
A second later, Matteo couldn't hold it in any longer. He exploded with laughter, doubling over as he roared. "Hahaha! Ha! Is that… is that a Mini Cooper?"
As he laughed, his eyes darted greedily toward Malèna, analyzing every flicker of emotion on her face, absolutely certain that the night was his.