Luca Moretti stood barefoot on the cold tiles of his mother's balcony, watching the Milan rain shimmer under orange streetlights. The city felt quiet tonight. Quieter than it had after any race he'd ever won. And he had just won the F2 championship at Monza.
He should've felt invincible. But he didn't.
His fingers still twitched from the pressure on the steering wheel. His ears rang with the sound of engines that weren't there. The crowd's cheers were a blur now, drowned out by the voice that haunted every victory.
"You're good, Luca," his brother Matteo had once told him. "But in Formula 1, good isn't enough."
Matteo had known that firsthand.
Luca turned when his mother called from the kitchen. "Luca! Phone! London number!"
His chest tightened. He ran inside, heart thudding. The screen read: +44, Unknown Caller.
He swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Mr. Moretti?" A calm, clipped British voice. "Olivia Pratt, team principal at Razor GP."
Luca felt his throat go dry. He leaned against the wall, saying nothing.
"We've reviewed your data. We were impressed by your Monza performance—particularly your control under pressure. We'd like to offer you a full-time race seat for the 2025 Formula 1 season."
Luca blinked. Rain hit the windows in a soft rhythm.
"Do you accept?"
His voice came out hoarse. "Yes. Of course. Thank you."
"Good," Olivia replied. "Flight leaves at 6 a.m. We'll see you at our Oxfordshire HQ by noon."
The line clicked off.
Luca stood still, phone in hand, staring into space.
This was real.
He was going to Formula 1.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He packed slowly, methodically—race boots, gloves, and a small box with a torn photograph of his brother holding a trophy at Silverstone. Matteo's face was sunlit, full of joy. It had been five years since the crash in Singapore.
Luca sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the old photo. "I'll finish what you started," he whispered.
At 4:47 a.m., he zipped up his bag and walked out the door.
His mother hugged him, fierce and quiet. "Bring your heart, not just your speed."
Outside, a taxi waited. The Milan rain had stopped. A thin layer of mist curled over the street.
He looked up.
The sky was clearing.