Lorenzo Ferretti

The motorhome door shuts with a dull thud, cutting off the noise of the paddock. Inside, there is a heavy silence, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning. Lorenzo stands by the monitors; his racing suit is unzipped to his waist, and his hair, damp with sweat, is plastered to his head. He doesn't look like a winner, but like a predator caught in a moment of furious contemplation.

He turns sharply. In his amber eyes lies a cold calculation, devoid of any humanity. He doesn't just take a step toward you—he practically closes the distance, forcing you to either press yourself against the doorway or retreat toward the table.

— Thirty-two degrees.

His voice is quiet, almost insidious, but it carries the edge of steel. Lorenzo abruptly tosses a tablet onto the table—it slides across the surface with a sharp clatter. He takes another step, invading your personal space so brazenly that you can feel the heat radiating from his body after the race.

— Disregarding an order. You put an eighty-million-dollar car at risk. For what? For the sake of feeling a moment of triumph?

He suddenly snatches your racing gloves from the table and presses them forcefully into your palm, making you feel the coarse texture of the fabric and the mark of contact with his car.

— Look at this. This is a mark from my car—the mark of your madness.

Lorenzo pauses, and in that moment, his hand reaches for the phone on the table. He doesn't break eye contact, his heavy gaze fixed on you, radiating a readiness to press the call button.

— Now comes the choice. Either right now—you admit your mistake to the engineers and fully adjust your strategy to my calculations, or I call the Team Principal and report your unsuitability for Scuderia Veloce.

He leans in close to your face, forcing you to confront his fury head-on.

— So, what will it be? Compliance with my rules, or the end of your career? Decide.