Tout le monde aime Oscar Piastri, n'est ce pas?

by Roselynthefirst

Summary:

This is nothing but a minor introduction to the Piastri Manor. But with that aside, everything is not as it seems...

Notes:

Y'all I'm not a native English speaker so if you find any bad english, or questionable grammar, please bear with me, okay? My first language is French. 😭🙏

Except that, I hope you girlies enjoy <333

Chapter 1

I was born in Melbourne, Victoria—April 6th, 1972. Not that I remember it, obviously. But everyone always talks about your birthday like it's some defining moment, like everything begins there. For me, it didn’t. Things started long before I was born.

The name Piastri—it's got weight to it. Publicly? We're a family of racers. Fuel runs in our veins, or so the papers say. My old man was a stock car lunatic, a damn good one too. Drove in NASCAR until he traded in the wheel for something far more profitable. These days, the "Piastri Family Operatives" sound like a logistics firm. It’s a front, of course. Behind the smiles and PR is something darker. Something I grew up breathing in like oxygen. Missiles. Guns. Fake IDs. Money that never touched a legitimate bank. You name it, we dealt it.

My mother, Nicole—she tried. She really did. For a while, I had a somewhat decent childhood because of her. Picture book normalcy: pancakes on Sundays, bedtime stories, scraped knees patched with bandaids and soft kisses. She made sure I didn’t lose my soul before I even knew I had one. But even the strongest mothers can't protect you from bloodlines like mine forever.

My father wanted me to hold a gun before I could even walk without falling over. I remember the cold weight of steel in my toddler hands. I didn’t cry—I was too proud for that, too determined to earn his respect. Even back then, I lived like fear was beneath me. Maybe that’s what kept me alive.

Racing came easy to me. Easier than everything else. I was good at it. Natural, they said. Like it was in the DNA. Of course it was. I knew how to calculate angles before I could spell "school." Knew how to read tire wear, feel grip loss, study telemetry like scripture. I fit the racer-boy stereotype perfectly—fast reflexes, faster mouth, cool behind the visor. And for the world, that’s all they needed to see.

But under the surface? I was born into a family that sells shadows. And no amount of champagne-soaked podiums will ever change that. When I turned fourteen, my mother vanished.

No warning. No note. No goodbye. One night she kissed me on the forehead, told me to go to bed, and by morning her perfume was all that was left behind. Lavender and honey—ghosts don’t write letters, and she didn’t either.

We asked. Of course we asked. My sisters and I—three of them, all younger—kept asking until the silence got louder than the words. He never said a word about it. Not once. We knew better than to push. You don’t pry when the man you're prying into controls everything around you. But that didn’t stop the wondering. Did she leave? Did he make her leave? Or worse?

The house felt colder after that. Even in the Australian sun.

By the time I turned sixteen, I was already wearing two faces. On one side, I was the rising racing prodigy with a clean smile and sharper cornering instincts than boys twice my age. On the other? I was... whatever my father wanted me to be.

He called me into his office one night. Leather chairs, whiskey glasses always half-full, and that thick, humming silence before he spoke.

“Sit down, Oscar.”

He didn’t call me son. He never did. Not unless it was in front of strangers, for effect.

To him, I was a consigliere. A right hand. A brain he could trust. A weapon he’d spent sixteen years sharpening into something cold and capable. He didn’t look at me like blood. He looked at me like utility.

“There’s a man,” he said. “Rat from Cambridge. Owes. Been dodging for months. You’ll deal with it.”

He slid a file across the table—nothing fancy. Photo, name, address, debts, proof of betrayal. I think he thought I wouldn’t flinch. He was right. I didn’t.

Not because I didn’t feel anything. I did. But because I couldn’t show it. Rats, he said, didn’t deserve dignity. Disobedience, to him, was a disease. He treated it the same way you’d treat a sick dog.

That night changed everything. Not because of the kill itself—but because of what it taught me: my father's love wasn’t conditional. It didn’t exist at all. And I was never meant to be his son. I was just another tool in the arsenal. Another blade to throw when his hands got too full.

So I sharpened myself. Learned to play both games—the races and the reckoning.

I stopped waiting for answers about Mum.

And I stopped asking who I was.

Because by then, I already knew.

I have a strange relationship with time. I remember the birthdays of all three of my sisters like they’re tattooed behind my eyes—candlelight, laughter, melted cake icing, and little hands reaching out for mine.

But ask me when I was born, and I have to look it up.

That’s just how it is.

There’s Hattie—the eldest of the girls. She’s sharp, bone-dry, the kind of person who can cut you to pieces with five words and a look. Then there’s Mae, the youngest, too soft for the world she was born into, always humming something, always clutching a book like it was a shield.

And then there’s Edie.

Edie is the closest thing I’ve ever had to peace.

She’s the middle sister, but I think she was born old. She understood things the rest of us didn’t. Understood me before I understood myself. She was the one who started showing up to my karting races before she could even pronounce the word “go.” Barely tall enough to see over the fencing, arms crossed in defiance of anyone who dared cheer louder than her.

She never missed a race. Never missed me.

It meant something, even then. Still does. Because in the quiet aftermath of Mum’s disappearance, when I couldn’t sleep and the walls started whispering things I didn’t want to hear, it was Edie who filled the silence. She’d knock once, open the door without waiting, sit at the foot of my bed and talk about whatever came to mind—cloud shapes, music, the names she wanted to give horses one day. I never told her, but that kept me from losing my head.

Our mother was the one who gave us our names. Hattie, Edie, Mae—names with soul, rhythm, names that sounded like secrets passed down through songs. Our father hated them. Said they sounded “soft, like poetry and unfinished business.” Said he would’ve named us things like Ruth, Joan, or some other burnt spaghetti-sounding name from the old country.

But Mum won that fight.

She always did, until she vanished.

I miss her—of course I do. But I think Edie carries pieces of her. Her warmth, her instincts, her refusal to be shaped by our father’s iron grip. She fills the hole without even trying.

Sometimes, when it’s just us, she’ll call me “Oz.” She’s the only one allowed to do that. I used to hate nicknames, thought they made me sound weak, small. But when she says it, it feels like armor instead of vulnerability.

I don’t know what’ll happen to us. This family eats its own sometimes. But I know this: if I ever truly break, it’ll be Edie who tries to put me back together.

And that’s something worth staying alive for.
Hattie, Edie, and Mae. The only constants in my life.

Edie gets most of the attention when I talk about them. But the truth is, all three shaped me. Each in their own way.

Hattie’s the fire. Born with it in her bones. Even when she was little, she had this look in her eyes—like she was two steps ahead of everyone else, and already bored. She speaks like she’s slicing meat: deliberate, sharp, and slightly dangerous. She doesn’t trust anyone, not even me sometimes. But she loves us—just shows it differently. She’s the kind of person who would start a fire just to keep you warm. And she would never admit that.

Then there's Mae.

Sweet Mae. Our late-bloomer. The kind of quiet that unsettles people who don't know any better. She's soft-spoken, lives in her head, and memorizes poetry like it's a lifeline. Mae is the one who leaves tea outside your door when you're sick, or draws little sketches on napkins during breakfast and pretends like they don’t mean anything. But they do. She's pure in a way the rest of us forgot how to be.

I was supposed to protect them. Still am. I think that’s the only reason I haven’t fallen off completely.

But that night in Cambridge… I nearly did.

The guy’s name doesn’t matter now. Some low-level financial handler who’d been helping himself to money that wasn’t his and delaying deliveries that definitely weren’t his. My father called him a rat. That was enough to write his death sentence.

He handed me the file like it was a menu.

“You’re old enough. Handle it.”
No emotion. Not even a warning.

I remember getting on the plane—alone. No escort, no team, no guidance. Just a one-way ticket to sin and a duffel bag with something heavy inside.

The target lived in a sleek, cold apartment on the edge of the city. Clean lines. Modern art. Sterile lighting. He wasn’t hiding. They never do. Rats don’t believe they’re rats until they’re cornered.

I followed him for two days. I watched him eat lunch, talk on the phone, laugh. He looked normal. That’s what made it worse. The human part of me started to wonder who he was when he wasn’t stealing. Who he might’ve been before he crossed my father.

The night I was meant to do it, I froze.

Sat in the alley with a pistol tucked under my jacket, palms sweating through my gloves, heart jackhammering in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Every voice in my head screamed you’re not this person. I knew if I went back empty-handed, I’d be met with something far worse than disappointment.

So I called a name I knew. A guy in London who owed me a favor. Got myself some coke. Two clean lines.

I didn’t want to be high. I wanted to be numb.

And it worked.

Within ten minutes, the world slowed down. My heart steadied. My hands were still. And I felt like I could do anything. That’s the thing about cocaine—it doesn’t make you better. It just makes you believe you’re better.

I walked in through the front door.

The man was watching TV in his robe. He didn’t even hear me until I was behind him. No screaming. No torture. One shot to the back of the head. Clean. Quick.

I remember his tea was still steaming when I left.

I didn’t feel proud. I didn’t feel powerful. I felt hollow. Like the bullet had gone through both of us.

But my father was pleased. Said I’d done well. Said I was “sharp.” That was his favorite compliment.

I haven’t told anyone this—not even Edie—but I cried in the airport bathroom stall that night. Cried until the high wore off and the bile climbed up my throat. I vomited next to my boots and washed my hands for twenty straight minutes, but they still felt dirty.

They still do. Cocaine wasn’t supposed to be a crutch.
The first time was a tool—just something to flip a switch when I couldn’t pull the trigger. But the thing about switches? Once you find out how easy they are to flip, you start leaning on them more than you should.

I started using before missions. Then after. Then in between. Just a little. Just enough to “level out.” That’s what I told myself. Truth was, I was building a house out of lies and powder, and pretending it didn’t shake every time I breathed.

I hid it from my sisters.
Hattie would’ve slapped me sober. Mae would’ve cried. And Edie? Edie would’ve looked at me—with that soft, understanding ache that says I love you, but this isn’t you. I couldn’t bear it.

So I kept it hidden. A hollowed-out book in my room. Double-stitched lining inside my travel bag. Private numbers. Clean drops. Cold water to the face, gum, mints, eye drops. I mastered the art of looking awake when I was half-dead inside.

My father noticed, of course. He always notices. But he never brought it up. Not once.
He didn’t care what kept the engine running—so long as it didn’t blow up in front of the press.

He started assigning me more work. Riskier jobs. Bigger stakes. International clients. He said I had a knack for “negotiating without making a mess,” and that my public persona as a rising racing star helped “grease certain doors.” The irony? The more famous I became, the more access I had to the underworld beneath it.

He scheduled everything down to the hour.

Racing season? He’d space out contracts, missions, hits—keep them tidy, discreet, behind blackout curtains.
Off-season? That’s when the real work started. I once flew from Monaco to Marrakesh, killed a broker over breakfast, and was back in time for a press dinner in Milan. Smiling. Signing autographs. Doing interviews like my hands weren’t still shaking in my lap.

The public saw perfection.
The Piastris had to be perfect.

Elegant, disciplined, respected. The rich Australian family with European polish, a history in motorsport, and a net worth no one could quite trace. The tabloids loved us. They called us "The House of Speed." If only they knew.

Behind that polished image was rot. Carefully hidden rot.

No blood on the suits. No wrinkles in the press photos. No scandals. Just shining teeth and practiced charm.

I got good at pretending. Too good.

But at night—when the lights dimmed, the noise faded, and I was alone—I felt like a ghost in my own skin. High or not, I was always floating somewhere between identities. Somewhere between Oscar the racer, Oscar the killer, and Oscar the son who never got to be just that.

I kept telling myself I was in control. That I could stop. That I didn’t need it.

But the lines started blurring.

And if I’m being honest—I don’t know if they’ve ever stopped. By eighteen, I was in Formula 2.
Sponsors on my overalls, lenses in my face, pressure mounting on all sides—but somehow, I was still breathing.

A big reason for that? Logan Sargeant.

We’d known each other since karting, back in ’79. I was seven, and so was he. I remember it clear as day—Florida sun, Australian accent, two kids in oversized helmets trading insults and lap times like candy. We were fast, mouthy, and born for it.

The Piastris and the Sargeants had always been... acquaintances. Both wealthy, both racing-obsessed, both running undercurrents most people wouldn’t dare touch. Our fathers smiled through their teeth at the same charity auctions, spoke in vague threats over drinks. They weren’t friends—but they respected each other. Which is worse, in a way.

So when I brought Logan home for the first time, my father wasn’t surprised. Just muttered something like “Figures. You always knew who to keep close.”

But Logan? He wasn’t a chess piece to me.

He was my friend.

We grew up parallel. We trained together, we traveled together, we even got suspended from the same race school once for swapping tires between practice runs to screw with telemetry. We’d sneak out at night to steal bottles from team fridges and race rental scooters until we crashed them or nearly broke bones.

There were times, late at night, hotel rooms in Spain or Bahrain, where we’d just lie there staring at the ceiling—talking about life after racing. About girls, fame, the future. About getting out, maybe. Away from it all. Just disappearing one day and letting the world figure out where we went.

I never told him about the other side of my life.
The guns. The missions. The bodies. The coke.
But he knew something wasn’t right. Logan’s sharp like that.

He never asked questions. Just gave me that look. That “I’ll be here anyway” kind of look.

On the track, we were flawless. A true duo. Our data blended perfectly—aggression, defense, tire management. One of the engineers joked we shared a brain.

We didn’t fight over results. We celebrated each other. We trusted each other with things I wouldn’t trust my own blood with.

For once, all was well.

And I held on to that. Tight.

Because in a world where I was constantly pretending, where everything was either survival or silence, Logan was the only real thing I had left that wasn’t broken yet.

I don’t know how long it'll last. Friendships in our world are fragile things. One mistake, one lie, one slip—and it can all fall apart.

But for now?

We race.

We laugh.

We survive.

McLaren signed me when I stepped up to Formula One.

It felt like arriving at a palace—chrome, orange, history etched into every wall. Everything sharp and polished. And there was Lando. Already settled. Already loved. Grinning like a Labrador, awkward like a math teacher, and—underneath it all—wired so tightly I thought he might burst.

He was shy at first. Not in a rude way. More like... unsure of how much of himself to show me. There’s a sort of silent vetting in motorsport. We shake hands and smile, but what we’re really doing is measuring each other—lap times, temperament, insecurities.

Lando had plenty. I could see it in how he double-checked things—his own words, his telemetry, his position on the track. He never said it outright, but I knew. He felt like he had something to prove. To the world, maybe. To himself, definitely.

But none of that mattered when his mum sent food to the paddock. Homemade stuff—proper. Sandwiches, pasta bakes, banana bread so soft it could cure war crimes. We'd eat together sometimes, sit on pit wall stairs and make jokes that only made sense on two hours of sleep. He was obnoxious in a charming way. Talked too much when he was nervous, twitched his foot constantly during debriefs. But he was real. And I respected that.

As for me?
I’d grown.
That’s what people told me, anyway.

They said I’d become “magnetic.” Composed. Sharp. The media loved the mystery, the stoicism. I gave them what they wanted. A perfect mask. They didn’t know about the bloodstained past or the powder in my veins I was still trying to let go of. They didn’t need to.

But behind all that... something had shifted.

And that’s when I pushed Logan away.

We were still friends, technically. But Formula One isn’t built for childhood dreams. It’s built for survival. And Logan wasn’t performing. He was slower. Sloppier. Stuck in a mental loop he couldn’t seem to break. I gave him time. Patience. Silence.

And then I gave him distance.

It wasn’t cruel. It was necessary. I needed to focus. I couldn’t afford to carry someone else’s spiral—not when my seat, my image, my numbers, my future depended on staying sharp. Staying clean. Staying perfect.

I didn’t tell him. I just started replying slower. Seeing him less. Pretending I didn’t notice when he stopped calling.

He didn’t take it well.

By the end of the season, Logan was out. Didn’t finish the calendar. Walked off the grid looking like he'd been gutted. And every time I tried to say anything, even a basic hello, he looked at me like I was a traitor.

Like I’d killed something sacred.

Maybe I had.

Now, he acts like I don’t exist. He’s cold. Snide. Ego the size of a cargo ship. Loud in rooms he used to whisper in. Not just to me—to everyone. His whole personality rewired by bitterness.

And I get it. I really do.

But I still don’t regret the choice.

Because Formula One isn’t friendship. It’s warfare dressed in carbon fibre.
And only one of us was winning.

Brazil, 1994.

It was media day—sun high, energy buzzing, fans pressing against fences, and camera flashes swallowing everything. Lando and I were walking the paddock, helmets swinging from our fingers, just talking nonsense. The weather, oddly enough. How the humidity here made your race suit feel like wet paper. He joked that if he melted into a puddle mid-qualifying, I’d have to drive for both of us.

It was light. Easy. One of those rare moments when it felt like we were just young guys again—not assets, not products. Just us.

Then I saw Logan.

I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t even know he’d flown in. He wasn’t racing anymore—not on the calendar, not in the garage. Just... drifting around the edges like a ghost with a badge. He looked different. Leaner. Harder. Still bitter. Maybe more.

We locked eyes. Nothing was said. But everything was felt.

And I knew.

“Lando,” I said, casually, “Give me a second.”

He blinked. “What’s goi—”

I didn’t explain. Just walked.

We didn’t say anything, me and Logan. Not at first. It started with shoulders brushing. Then a glance that turned into a word. One word led to another. Accusations. Bitterness. That tone he had—sharp, condescending, desperate to hurt me even if he couldn’t beat me.

"You think you’re above everyone now, huh? Just because McLaren slapped your name on some t-shirts?”

That was his favorite angle lately.

“You left me in the dirt, Oscar. I was drowning and you watched.”

He didn’t understand.

He never tried to.

And then he shoved me.

Small. Stupid. Not enough to knock me down—just enough to set me off.

I don’t remember who threw the first punch. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. Doesn’t matter now. Fists flew. Knuckles cracked. The kind of fight that isn’t theatrical—just angry, close, silent. Personal.

I landed more hits than I should’ve. Could feel the bones in my hand swelling, splitting. Logan’s lip burst open. Blood hit his teeth. My jaw caught one of his punches, but it didn’t register until later. I was somewhere else—somewhere years back, killing rats, snorting confidence, shedding friends like old skin.

Lando tried to step in once. “Guys, hey—hey—what the hell is this?!”
But he froze. Watched. Didn’t stop us. Didn’t know how.

When it ended, Logan spat on the ground, wiped the blood with his sleeve, and walked away.
Didn’t even look back.

I stood there, chest heaving, hand throbbing, sweat clinging to my collar like guilt.

Lando finally said, “What the fuck just happened?”

I just muttered, “It had to.”

The bruises lasted a week. Knuckles like purple marbles. Journalists kept trying to fish—especially after George Russell made some cheeky comment in the press conference. Something like:

“Been boxing lately, Oscar? Or is that just McLaren’s new training method?”

Albon chimed in with that laugh of his, “Yeah, looks like someone lost an argument with a steering wheel.”

I just smiled.

Said it was a gym accident. “Got a bit too enthusiastic on the heavy bag,” I told them. They laughed. The media ran with it.

But Lando knew.

He never said anything. Never asked for the full story.

But every now and then, I’d catch him watching me like he was trying to figure out who'd had really signed up to share a garage with.

[LANDO'S PERSPECTIVE]

Before I knew Oscar personally—before the paddock walks, the quiet jokes, and the split-second glances that meant something but were never spoken aloud—
I spent nearly every moment around Carlos.

Carlos Sainz Jr. was like... gravity.
He didn’t pull you in with noise, or flash, or drama. He just was. Steady. Collected. Always two steps ahead, even when you thought you were in sync. And I gravitated toward that. Toward him.

I trusted him. Completely.

We were more than teammates. We were a team.
His family felt like mine. I’d been to dinners with his sister. Spent hours talking to his father about karting dynasties and the weight of expectation. His mother once fixed the collar of my race suit before quali because mine was crooked. It felt... safe. Familiar.

Our families, too, were tied. My father’s firm did things for the Sainz family. Legal defense. Quiet redirections. Polished lies and sealed records. And in return? The Sainz name gave us something no court could offer—protection.

It worked. For a long time.

Until it didn’t.

Carlos didn’t say goodbye when he left for Ferrari.

No hug. No “catch you later.” Not even a goddamn text. One week we were laughing about tyre deg over team radio, the next I was reading headlines about his new deal. Suddenly he was laughing every day with that damned Monégasque, Charles Leclerc.

You know what it’s like to watch someone you trusted move on like you never existed?

It’s like drowning. And people just assume you're waving.

And the worst part?

Our families cut ties shortly after.

Business fell apart. The legal support dissolved. And Carlos—he didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t look back. Like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter.

So when Oscar showed up, quiet but razor-sharp, all mystery and composure, I didn’t know what to make of him.

He wasn’t Carlos. He didn’t try to be.

He was cooler. More distant. But real, in a way Carlos never let himself be. I could sense something dark under Oscar’s skin, something broken he wore like a badge, but he never let it slip. Not unless he meant to.

I found myself watching him more than I meant to. Not because I didn’t trust him—but because I didn’t know him. And that scared me.

Carlos made me feel safe.

Oscar made me feel like I was walking across ice—thin, clear, cracking.

And part of me liked it. It happened fast.

One second we were walking through the paddock in Brazil, joking about the heat, complaining about media day, me nervously sipping a bottle of water like that would fix the nerves I always pretended I didn’t have.

And then—

Oscar peeled away. No warning. No tension in his voice. Just a flat, “Give me a second,” and then he was walking toward Logan with that calculated kind of calm that’s more dangerous than yelling.

I didn’t move.
Didn’t even call after him.
Because something in me knew.

The silence before thunder.

The punches were... vicious. Fast. Personal. Not showy. No shouting, no pushing of cameras. Just two people who knew each other too well, breaking something that couldn’t be rebuilt.

I watched it happen. Not because I wanted to—but because I froze.

Oscar wasn’t like that.
Not the version I knew, anyway.

Sure, he was composed. Cold, maybe. But underneath it all, I thought he was just... surviving. Like the rest of us. Quiet. Methodical. A bit sharp-edged, sure, but not violent.

But what I saw?

That wasn’t survival.

That was rage.

Unfiltered. Controlled. Precise.

And it scared me. Not in the obvious way—he wasn’t going to turn on me or anything. It scared me because I realized: I didn’t know him. Not really. Not the part of him that kept all the knives hidden behind a smile.

Later, during the press conference, he played it off effortlessly.

George asked with a smug grin, “What happened to your hand, Piastri? Rough massage?”

Albon laughed. “Yeah, or maybe your sim rig bit back?”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, flexed his bruised knuckles with a casual shrug, and said:

“Bit of an incident with the punching bag. Overtrained. Rookie mistake.”

Lies.
But perfect ones.

His smile sold it.
The media lapped it up.

And all I could do was sit there beside him, trying to reconcile the man I watched break someone’s lip with the one charming the entire press room. It wasn’t that he lied—it was how easily he wore the lie like a suit tailored to his skin.

He didn't flinch. Not once.

And I think...
I think that’s when I started falling into something I couldn’t name.

Oscar and I got closer after that. Quietly.

Little things, mostly. He’d wait for me after briefings. Leave me half of whatever his lunch was if I skipped mine. Tap my leg with his foot during long sim days to keep me grounded. He didn’t say much. But when he did speak—just to me—it felt like something was being shared without having to explain it.

It felt... intimate. Not in the obvious way. Just in the way that made the world feel smaller when he looked at me a certain way. When he smiled—not the one he gave to cameras, but the crooked, tired one he gave me when I said something dumb that made him forget how heavy he usually seemed.

Too close.
Closer than we should be.
I knew it. He knew it.

But no one said a word.

We were both too good at pretending. There’s a silence that lives in summer.
A soft one. Gentle around the edges. Not empty. Just… unhurried.
It filled the backyard of the Norris estate like warm linen.

Every driver gets two weeks off mid-season. A breather. A reset.

Ours ended up braided together—Piastri and Norris.
Our fathers met first. Talked law and legacy like it was casual. They discussed mergers and money and insurance policies like they weren’t talking about chess pieces. And somehow, that gave us space.

For once, no cameras. No mics. No fireproof suits.

Just us.

Oscar wore a soft white button-up with the sleeves rolled up, collar open, a shadow of sun on his collarbone. Jeans. Barefoot in the grass. It was stupid how natural he looked like that. Like he didn’t belong on a podium, but here—paper boat in one hand, folded with surgeon precision.

“Yours is sinking already,” he said, smirking.

“Yours is cheating,” I muttered. “You reinforced the bow.”

He shrugged. “Strategy.”

“Let me guess. If we played cards again, you’d still let me win?”

He just smiled. That half-smile. The one he only gave me.
Like he was proud of himself for pulling a string no one else saw.

He did let me win. A few rounds.
But I knew the truth—Oscar Piastri didn’t lose anything by accident.

We sat on the grass with the sun dipping low.
Picnic basket open. Light clinking of water bottles. Bread torn into soft pieces in our palms as we fed ducks by the pond.

I don’t know why it made me feel something.

Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe the way Oscar let his shoulder brush mine once, and didn’t move away. Maybe the way the light turned his hair a lighter brown, like honey, like warmth, and it made my throat feel tight for reasons I couldn’t explain.

He said something about the pond being peaceful.
I replied, “You’re different here.”

He looked at me, eyes calm. Unreadable.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.

Later, he beat me in cards again. Without mercy this time.

“You’re impossible,” I groaned.

“You smile more when you lose.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

He leaned back on his elbows, legs stretched out, the card deck fanned lazily between us like the remnants of a storm.

“You’re hard to read sometimes,” I said.

“So are you.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at me. Long enough that I felt like he was trying to memorize something, or maybe trying not to. It made my chest feel tight again. Not bad. Just—full. Like there was too much inside me and nowhere to put it.

That night, when I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep.
Kept thinking about the grass stains on our jeans. The warmth of his shoulder. The way he watched my hands when I folded the paper boat. The silence that didn’t feel like absence—but something waiting to be said.

I didn’t know what it was.
I still don’t.

But I know I wanted it to last.
Just a little longer.

 

[OSCAR'S PERSPECTIVE]

Ninth in the championship. Two podiums. Rookie season.

On paper, it looked golden.
But my father only glanced at the numbers once, nodded, and moved on.

“Better than expected,” he’d said, tone unreadable. “But next year, we aim for fifth. At least.”

No praise. Just plans.

And now it’s winter—what should be downtime—but the Piastris don’t do rest. We restructure. We realign, we consolidate power, we draw new borders in places most people don’t even know exist.

This year, it’s the Norris merger. A calculated one.

The official announcement never made headlines.
But behind every smile was a contract.

Two dynasties. One in high finance, one in cold operations. My father liked to say it brought “refinement to ruthlessness.” What it really brought was eyes. More of them. Watching us.

I didn’t mind, not really. I knew how to move inside the glare.
But Lando?

He flinched in it.

The Norris estate was all glass and green lawns and whispered family legacies. Lando floated through it like a misplaced soul, with perfect teeth and useless hands.

His father rarely spoke to him directly unless it was something sharp.

“You can’t fix an empire with charisma,” I overheard once.

Lando had laughed it off, but it clung to him.
You could see it in the way he started disappearing at family dinners. How he’d fake a smile when his mother asked him to help set the table, but always passed the task to me. How he clung to me in little ways—small touches, shared glances, questions that didn’t sound like questions.

He’s had messy relationships before.
Carlos was one of them. You could see it on his face when the name came up—how he’d bite his lip, force a joke. I didn’t press.

And Luisinha. I never met her, not properly, but I saw the aftermath. Late-night phone calls Lando never answered. Old photos deleted too quickly. And this lingering ache in him that had nothing to do with racing.

He never talked about what went wrong.
But I knew something about heartbreak. And I knew that whatever broke Lando, softened him too.

Maybe that’s why I kept gravitating toward him.
Even when I shouldn’t have.

We were in the study. Rain outside. Chessboard between us.

He moved a pawn. Sloppily.

“You’re not thinking ahead,” I said.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I never do.”

“That’s not good.”

He looked at me. Really looked. “I’m not like you, Oscar. I don’t see ten steps ahead. I just sort of… survive.”

I tilted my head, smiling slightly. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Barely.”

Something quiet passed between us then. Not words. Not movement. Just feeling. Like a rubber band stretched too far, waiting to snap.

I won the game, of course.

Afterward, he followed me to the library. Sat too close on the couch. His head tipped back against the wall.

“You ever feel like you’re just… playing a role someone else cast you in?”

I turned to look at him.

“All the time,” I said.

He stared at me. “Then why are you so good at it?”

I didn’t answer.

Because the truth is, I don’t know.
Maybe it’s because someone had to be. And I’d always rather be the one holding the knife than the one it surprises.

Chapter 2: II

Summary:

A little look somewhere else in Europe. The Leclercs have made a name for themselves, in more ways then one.

Notes:

This chapter contains the rape of a minor and underage, minor consensual sex. So if your uncomfortable, feel free to skip this chapter.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli was a young, innocent boy from Bologna, Italy. He had been sold off by his parents to Charles Leclerc, a ruthless man who took pleasure in others' pain. Despite being just thirteen years old, Andrea was subjected to various forms of torture and sexual abuse under Charles' command.

One day, while Charles was away on business, one of his henchmen took advantage of the situation and brutally raped Andrea. The boy screamed in agony and pain as he was violated repeatedly. The attack left him bleeding and bruised, barely able to move. When Charles returned and found out about the incident, he was furious.

"How dare you touch what is mine without my permission?" Charles growled, his eyes flashing with rage.

The henchman trembled before him, knowing he had crossed the line. Charles grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall, choking him until he couldn't breathe. As he lay dying at his feet, Charles turned his attention back to Andrea, who was curled up in a ball on the floor, whimpering softly.

"Look at what you've done," Charles hissed, grabbing Andrea roughly. "Now, I must punish you for your disobedience."

He dragged Andrea to a dark corner of the room and tied him up, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. Then, he began to whip him mercilessly, making sure every inch of his body was marked with pain. As tears streamed down Andrea's face, Charles leaned in close and whispered, "You're mine now, to do with as I please. And this is what happens when you disobey me."

Andrea whimpered, his body aching from the punishment and the fear that gripped him.

-------------------------------

And when I wasn't hurting the boy? I was making him believe he was destined for something great. Once the boy started listening, there was no reason to hurt him anymore.

People always said I had the face of an angel. The press adored it. So did the sponsors.
It made them feel safe.

They had no idea.

In Monaco, legacy is everything. The Leclerc name was old. Elegant. Clean, at least on paper. But behind every empire is a rot that keeps the walls up. Ours came from Italy — old blood, old money, older promises.

The Cosa Nostra didn’t vanish. It just started wearing watches and sipping champagne on yachts.

Carlos used to be close. We shared secrets, raced karts together, whispered about girls and engines in the back rooms of our fathers’ villas. But Sainz Sr. got greedy. Thought he could upgrade by siding with the Norrises.

He wanted “legitimate” growth. Whatever that meant.
So he cut ties.

Let him. He’ll come crawling back when he realizes the real power never left Italy.

Today, I was taking a day off. At least, on the surface.

The shipment arrived from Bologna. A car, sure — some parts too. But that wasn’t what caught my attention.

It was the boy.

Twelve, maybe thirteen. Big eyes. Slim build. Precise movements. Andrea Kimi Antonelli. His parents signed him over like a lease. Said they couldn’t afford to raise him right. Said he had “potential,” whatever that meant in desperation.

I watched him walk through the gates like a stray animal too proud to flinch.

Good. I didn’t like flinchers.

I didn’t hurt him. Didn’t need to.

He was smart. Observant. Already asking the right questions. I fed him information, slowly, like meat to a dog you were training. I told him about strategy. About loyalty. About what it meant to owe someone like me your life.

I didn’t want a soldier. I wanted a shadow. Someone who’d bleed for me without ever being seen.

“Your name is Antonelli,” I said, sipping espresso in the courtyard. “But soon, that won’t mean anything. Not unless you make it mean something.”

He stared at me. “Like what?”

I smiled. “Like fear.”

He nodded once.

Just once.

And I knew then—I’d found something better than a pet.

I’d found a mirror.

Ferrari wasn’t just a team. It was an altar. Red and gold. Glory and gasoline.

To the world, it was passion incarnate. To the Leclercs, it was a front.

The family had always been involved. Quietly, at first. A cousin in sponsorship. An uncle with controlling shares in Shell's regional contracts. Eventually, it wasn’t quiet at all.

By the early '90s, the Leclercs didn’t just fund Ferrari — they owned it. Not on paper. Paper burns. But in boardrooms, in backrooms, in bank accounts you couldn’t trace.

 

Cocaine shipments from South America moved through Naples ports disguised in engine crates. The Sicilian side handled street-level trade. The Leclercs oversaw laundering — Monaco real estate, antique car auctions, and “legitimate” luxury goods. Every Scuderia budget increase? Drug money.

Why did Ferrari always have the deepest pockets despite poor performance in some seasons?

Because they weren’t fighting for wins. They were buying influence.

The FIA turned a blind eye. Team principals knew better than to question it. The drivers? Most were just pawns.

Except Charles. He was royalty.

Carlos walking away? That had consequences. The Sainz family had value — control over police in certain regions, the silence of prosecutors. But betrayal cut deep.

Charles responded the only way he knew how: by expansion.

He bought out smaller karting teams in Spain, France, and Germany. Not directly. Through shell companies. Investment firms. Clean logos. Dirty cash.

He made sure that any young driver with promise eventually had to pass through his system.

And among them, the brightest was a boy with burning eyes and ruthless silence.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli.

Still in karting, still just a kid. But sharp. Cold. Obedient.

He’d grown under Charles’s tutelage, like a blade being tempered. He was told nothing about the bigger plans. Only that one day, he’d be called upon — and when that happened, he’d do what he was told.

Charles had been preparing him for one specific goal: infiltration.

Not into Ferrari. Into Oscar and Lando’s world.

 

By 1996, Kimi would move into junior formulas.

He’d seem like just another prodigy. Nothing special.

But the truth? Charles was placing him like a chess piece. A spy in the paddock. Someone to pull Lando in emotionally, to crack his insecurities. And someone to mirror Oscar — to become just as good, but darker, less merciful.

The goal wasn't to win a title.
It was to destabilize.

If Oscar and Lando were climbing too high, too fast — Kimi would be the perfect storm to bring them down.

And when the boy did well? He got rewarded.

Charles Leclerc watched as Andrea Kimi Antonelli performed a series of tasks he had set for him, his eyes filled with pride. The boy had come a long way since he first arrived, broken and afraid. Now, he was obedient and eager to please his master.

"You've done well today," Charles said, his voice soft but commanding. "You've earned a reward."

Andrea's heart raced with anticipation as he followed Charles to the bedroom. He knew that even though the rewards were no longer painful, they were still incredibly satisfying. Charles undressed him carefully, running his hands over every inch of his skin, admiring the marks left by their previous encounters.

"Lie down," Charles commanded, and Andrea obeyed without hesitation.

Charles climbed onto the bed, his body hovering over Andrea's. He took his time, teasing his senses before finally pushing inside him. The boy's tight muscles gripped him, causing Charles to groan in pleasure. He moved slowly at first, allowing Andrea to adjust to his size. But as he picked up the pace, Andrea moaned in delight, meeting each thrust with a gasp.

Their bodies moved in perfect sync, their rhythm echoing through the room. Charles' hands roamed freely across Andrea's body, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. He leaned down to capture his lips in a passionate kiss, their tongues dancing together as they reached their climaxes.

As they lay there, panting heavily, Charles couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. He knew what he was doing to Andrea was wrong, but the boy seemed to enjoy it. And in that moment, Charles realized that he had truly claimed Andrea as his own, body and soul.

"You're mine now," he whispered into Andrea's ear, his voice low and menacing. "And I will make sure you never forget it."

Andrea nodded, his eyes filled with love and submission. He knew that no matter how dark the road ahead might be, he belonged to Charles, and that was all that mattered. At least, he made Charles think he was thinking that way. He definitely was not. Disgusted, actually. But, anything to please him.

 

------------------

Trento, Italy, 1996 — Age 13

He hated the sound of Charles’ voice.

It was always soft. Too soft. Like poison wrapped in silk. Like a serpent whispering behind your ear, telling you you were special, chosen, brilliant. Telling you this was all for your own good.

Kimi knew better.

He knew what this really was. He wasn't adopted. He was purchased. Taken from his parents like meat from a butcher's block. They’d sold him off without a second glance — their debt paid with his freedom.

He was the Leclerc family’s property now. And Charles?

Charles was the prince who held the leash.

Kimi didn’t say much. He never did. Quiet boys lived longer. He learned that early on. It was safer to nod, to train, to do the kart laps Charles told him to do. Safer to smile at sponsors and answer interview questions with memorized lines.

He was thirteen but his stomach ached like a man twice his age. From hunger, sometimes. From fear, always.

And when Charles gave him new instructions — “You’ll be racing against Piastri. I want you to study him. Know how he breathes, how he thinks. Make him trust you. And then break him.” —
Kimi only nodded.

But inside?

He wanted to scream.

He didn’t want to do this.

He didn’t care about Oscar Piastri. Or Lando Norris. Or their politics or their stupid smiles. He didn’t want to be some tool in a game he didn’t start. He didn’t want to race with a wire around his throat, knowing that if he ever disobeyed, the leash would pull tight.

But Charles had made it clear.

He said it while smiling over a cup of espresso, under the Roman sun, as if discussing dinner plans:

“If you ever go off-course, I won’t kill you, Kimi. I’ll just let you starve. And I’ll make sure no one even remembers your name.”

So Kimi swallowed the hate. Swallowed the fear. Swallowed his childhood, his dreams, his voice.

He trained harder than anyone else.

He played the part.

And when he closed his eyes at night — in some cold room that wasn’t his, under sheets that smelled like bleach and gun oil — he told himself:

Just survive. Don’t care. Don’t feel. Don’t let them see you break.

One day, maybe, he'd run. Maybe he'd burn it all down.

But not today.

Not while Charles was watching.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Many, many things are bound to happen.

Monaco, 1979. Charles was nine years old when his father was executed.

They said it was cardiac arrest. That was the headline.
But Charles remembered the look on his older brother’s face—Lorenzo, just seventeen, suddenly the new head of the Leclerc family. The tension. The hushed phone calls. The overnight erasure of certain allies. The silencing of servants. The disappearance of any trace of the "rat."

No one would say it aloud, but Charles pieced it together.

His father, Hervé Leclerc, had been betrayed. Someone inside the operation had tipped the authorities off about a weapons shipment passing through the south of France. It never reached its destination. Hervé had been named.

The penalty for treason in that world was simple: death.

It wasn’t the police who killed Hervé.

It was Oscar Piastri’s people who carried it out.

Charles had never forgiven him.

The boy grew up with ice in his veins, watching Lorenzo abandon dreams of the track to keep the family's criminal empire alive. Charles' own talent—razor sharp, god-given—was shaped by rage.

He still had the letter. The one that pointed fingers at the traitor. It wasn’t signed, but the trail had been traced.

One of Piastri’s own. A “clean kill.”
No torture. No theatrics. Just a silenced .22 to the chest, three times.

The same way Oscar’s father taught him.

So Charles waited. Waited through karting. Through Formula Renault. Through every crooked team contract his family paid off. Until he reached Formula One.

And now? Now Oscar was here too.

And Charles?

Charles had the power.

Behind Ferrari’s polished garage doors, the Leclerc family still pulled strings. Drug money and weapons profits funneled into sponsorships. Logistics. Transport. Silence.
Charles wasn’t just a driver.

He was a prince of blood and fire. And he hadn’t forgotten.

He wouldn’t rest until Oscar felt the same loss he had.

Lorenzo never got to race. Neither did Hervé see him win. Charles would make damn sure Oscar never stood on the podium without looking over his shoulder.

He would take his career, his legacy, and maybe—just maybe—his heart, too.

Because revenge is best served not cold... but burning.

 

---------------------------------------

It was Monaco, the winter break. Quiet by racing standards, but there’s no such thing as off-season when you live in the paddocks of dynasties.

I remember the moment I met him—Kimi Antonelli.

He arrived with Charles. Quiet, but not timid. There was something about the way he stepped out of the car, back straight, eyes scanning the place like he already knew where everything was. Like he didn’t need an introduction. I took note of that.

He wasn’t wearing team gear. Just a plain white t-shirt tucked into black jeans. His sleeves were rolled just slightly. No chains. No watches. Just presence. Almost clinical. Almost cold.

He was taller than me, for sure. Broad across the shoulders. He wasn’t built like a boy who’d been pampered. He looked like someone who hadn’t been allowed to be a child for a long time.

Confident. Dangerous. Controlled.

Lando was standing off to the side, half behind me. His posture always gave him away—shoulders slightly hunched, head tilted downward like he was trying not to take up space. I liked Lando. I liked him a lot, more than I probably should have. But it was hard not to notice the way he shrank in moments like this.

And the truth? Lando always looked just a little pathetic when he stood still.
Like life had chipped at him since he was young.
Like he never expected to win a room, only to survive it.

I knew Lando’s father. Knew the way he spoke to his son when cameras weren’t around. The weight he put on Lando’s shoulders, all while giving him nothing in return.

But here was Kimi, who didn't seem to carry that weight. Or maybe he just carried it better.

He wasn’t loud. Didn’t introduce himself. He simply looked me over—sizing me up, just once—and then offered a quiet “Ciao” that felt more like a test than a greeting.

I nodded. “Oscar.”

His handshake was firm, but brief. No need to assert dominance. He wasn’t trying to prove himself.

He didn’t have to.

Charles lingered beside him, grinning like a wolf in a silk suit. I knew this was a move. A long one. Charles was always playing at something. And if Kimi was here, then he was part of it.

What I realized right then—what hit me square in the chest—was this:

He won’t be easy.

Not to manipulate. Not to read.
He’s not like Lando, who folds with a gentle enough touch, who smiles at you even when he’s bleeding.

Kimi was solid.
A stone wall with eyes that didn’t blink too often.

Now, I’m not saying I’d manipulate him.

But if I ever had to?

I’d need a much sharper knife.

It was Lando’s idea.

He always tried so hard to make things feel normal, to keep everyone laughing, connected. I think, deep down, he just wanted to be surrounded. Not adored, not even understood—just not alone.

He invited Charles and Kimi to play tennis with us.
Friendly match, he said.
He said it like he always does—lightly, smiling, puppyish even. He bounced on his heels like he was waiting for approval.

“You’ve got good reflexes, right?” he asked Kimi, who just raised an eyebrow like he’d already predicted every shot.

I didn’t object. I rarely do.
Even when I see the pieces moving behind the game.

It was winter in Monaco. Chilly enough that Lando insisted we play indoors, in one of those pristine courts that smelled faintly of rubber, polished wood, and wealth. The air was cool and dry, the lighting clinical and high.

Lando had that old white hoodie on—the one with the frayed sleeves he always pulls over his hands when he’s nervous.

Charles brought his own racket. Of course he did.

Kimi played like he was solving a puzzle. Not flashy. Not cocky. Just relentless precision. I could see the way he mapped the court in his head, like this was another simulation—like he could predict bounce and spin before the ball even left our strings.

And Lando? He wasn’t half bad.
He got frustrated when he missed, laughed when he didn’t.
Sometimes he’d glance toward me after a good shot like he needed my reaction to validate it.

He always does that.

After, we were starving.

There’s this small Italian place down the road, kind of hidden behind a bookstore. No reservations. No press. Just wooden chairs, soft lighting, and the kind of tortellini that actually tastes like someone’s grandmother made it.

We crowded into the corner booth. Four of us. Charles took the end seat and Kimi sat across from me. Lando slipped in next to me, shivering slightly from the walk.

“This place is magic,” Lando said, fiddling with the edge of his napkin. “They remember your name after one visit.”

He wasn’t lying. The waiter did remember him. Greeted him with a gentle pat on the shoulder and asked if he wanted his usual.

Lando smiled like it made him feel real.

Charles pretended to study the wine list. Kimi said little, but his eyes didn’t stop moving. He was watching all of us—our interactions, our silences, what we didn’t say.

I kept catching him looking at me. Not in challenge, but calculation.

I leaned back, chewing a mouthful of handmade tortellini, and watched Lando light up when he talked about the last sim race he did. He was practically glowing.

For a moment, it felt okay.
Simple. Warm. Human.

But somewhere deep in my gut, I knew better.

Because Charles doesn’t show up for games.
And Kimi isn’t just another kid with a racket and manners.

And Lando?

Lando still believes this is just friendship.

I wish I could too.

I kept the questions casual.
Normal. Harmless.
Exactly the sort of things you ask someone when you’re trying to be polite—friendly, even.
But not too interested. Not too probing.

Just enough to make them answer.

“So, what did you think of the new safety regs?” I asked, fork pushing pasta across the plate. “You think they’ll slow the juniors down or help them out?”

Kimi didn’t look up immediately. He finished chewing—slow, deliberate—and then shrugged lightly. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re fast, you’re fast.”

Right. A typical racer’s answer. I smiled like it was clever.

“You started in karts, yeah?”
He nodded.
“Who was your hero?” I asked, tone light, easy. “Senna? Schumi?”

He blinked once. “Senna.”

Of course. Everyone says Senna. It’s the safe answer. The legend.
But he didn’t say it with affection. He said it like it was memorized.

He’d been trained in this—conversation. Social deflection. The art of answering without revealing anything real.

Lando was halfway through a long ramble about Monaco street corners, but I kept my focus on Kimi.

“And where are you from, exactly?” I asked, playing casual. I leaned back, letting my fingers toy with my glass. “You said Italy, but…?”

He paused for half a second too long. His eyes flicked to Charles.
Then, “Bologna.”

He said it with enough confidence to make it pass.

But I caught the shift in posture, the subtle stalling.
He had to think about it. Decide which version of the truth he was going to give me.

“Nice city,” I said. “Good food. Solid karting scene too.”

He didn’t answer that one.

Instead, he asked, “You always this curious about people you just met?”

I smiled—sharp and brief. “Only when they’re interesting.”

He didn’t smile back.

The rest of the table buzzed with Lando’s voice. Charles was pretending to ignore us, but I knew better. Every bit of this was being observed, catalogued. Charles doesn’t waste time.

Kimi is young, but not naïve.
He’s not afraid, either. Just… patient. Caged. Calculating.
But I saw the slip.

And in a room full of lies, one crack is enough to start a fracture.

[FLASHBACK – KIMI ANTONELLI]
The room was dim.
Not dark—never completely dark. Charles liked him to see.

Kimi sat stiff-backed on the wooden chair. No cushions.
His lip stung. His cheekbone was split. There was a cut near his collarbone too, thin and red, like a signature drawn with glass.

A man—not Charles, but someone worse in a way—stood behind him. He didn’t speak unless told to.
Charles was across the room, tying his tie in a mirror. Neat, perfect.

"Again," came the voice. Calm. Bored, even. “Where are you from?”

Kimi answered, voice steady, “Bologna.”

Charles didn’t even look at him. “Good. And your racing idol?”

“Senna.”

A pause. A slow smile from the mirror.
“Perfect. Just enough of a cliché to be believable. But don’t overdo it. If someone asks who your second favourite is, just say you admired Prost for his precision. It’ll make you seem thoughtful.”

Kimi nodded.

“And what do you say when someone asks how you got here?”

“That my parents supported me.”
Lie.
They’d sold him off like livestock.

“And what don’t you talk about?”

Kimi glanced down. “The shipments. The names. The night in Marseille. What you do. What I do.”

Charles finally turned around. He wore a navy-blue suit. Clean lines. Brushed hair. He looked like a diplomat, or a prince.
Not the devil.

“Bravo,” he said quietly. “Now you’re useful.”

The door closed a moment later.
Kimi sat still, the pain swimming under his skin.
He didn’t cry. That part of him was gone.

[PRESENT – OSCAR & LANDO’S APARTMENT, MONACO]

It was late by the time they got back. Lando had kicked off his shoes and crashed on the couch, one leg dangling off the side. His curls were damp from the chill outside. Oscar brought in two mugs—tea, not coffee. They didn’t need more nerves tonight.

Lando took his with a soft thanks, sipped, and asked, “So… you think Kimi’s weird?”

Oscar tilted his head, sitting on the armrest. “No. I think he’s careful.”

“Same thing, innit?”

Oscar exhaled. “You know Charles isn’t just some smooth Ferrari sweetheart, right?”

Lando looked up, blinking.

Oscar leaned down a bit, voice low, calm. “The devil doesn’t wear horns, mate. He wears a nice watch, smiles at your mum, pays the bill, and doesn’t raise his voice. That’s Charles.”

Lando gave a small laugh. “Come off it. He’s not that bad.”

Oscar sipped his tea. “Your father’s firm cut ties with the Sainz family, yeah? Ever wonder why?”

Silence.

“Because when the Leclercs offered protection,” Oscar said, “they offered it in blood. Not just contracts and muscle. Actual blood.”

Lando looked uncomfortable. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”
Oscar’s voice didn’t rise, but there was steel in it.
“Because I’ve seen what happens to boys like Kimi. Quiet, sharp boys with bruises under their sleeves who know too much and say too little.”

Lando swallowed.

Oscar softened, but only slightly. “And I’m telling you this because you—with your soft heart and your dumb smile—are exactly the type Charles would love to ruin.”

Lando shifted. “Then why’d he come play tennis with us?”

Oscar smirked. “To watch. To measure. To see if you were still yours or someone else’s. That’s how men like him think.”

A beat.

“And Kimi?” Lando asked quietly.

Oscar sat down beside him now, more gentle. “Kimi’s a pawn. He doesn’t get to say no.”

Lando stared at the floor.

Then quietly: “Teach me, then.”

Oscar blinked. “Teach you?”

“How to be less…” He shrugged. “Easy.”

Oscar’s gaze lingered. Then, for once, he smiled—not mockingly, not sharply.

“All right. First lesson?”
He nudged Lando’s knee.
“Never trust a man who knows how to tie a Windsor knot without looking.”

[Piastri Family Mansion — Melbourne, Australia]

The house was big, but not in a showy way. It had charm—wide verandas, the scent of eucalyptus drifting through open windows, a lazy golden retriever asleep on a rug by the stairs.

Lando had never been in a home that felt so... lived in.

Oscar had disappeared upstairs with their suitcases, promising to change before dinner. That left Lando awkwardly lingering by a hallway photo frame—one of those overly symmetrical ones, all smiles and school uniforms and hand-made Father’s Day cards on display. He felt out of place, like a misplaced object in someone else's memory.

"Lando?"

He turned, startled. A girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, stood there with Oscar’s same sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes.

“You’re Hattie, right?” he asked politely, holding his hands behind his back like a schoolboy.

She crossed her arms. "You like Oscar, right?"

The air shifted. Just a little.

Lando blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” she continued, matter-of-factly, “not just as a friend.”

He swallowed a laugh, mostly out of nerves. “Everybody likes Oscar.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

He glanced toward the stairs. “Well, I don't know what you're implying—”

“Yes, you do.”

There was no malice in her tone. She wasn’t teasing. Just calling it like she saw it. Piastri girls, it seemed, didn’t do fluff.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed about it,” Hattie went on, “just… don’t lie to him.”

Lando looked at her now, fully. “Why would I lie?”

“Because you already are,” she said. “Pretending it’s all just friendly, and you’re just ‘mates.’ He doesn’t see it yet. But you do.”

Lando said nothing.

Then, she added, quieter, “You should know... he and Lily aren’t really together. It’s for show. The media loves it.”

A pause.

“But he hasn’t told you that, has he?”

That one hit.

“No,” Lando murmured.

Hattie nodded. “Right. Just thought you should know what you’re walking into.”

Then she turned and walked away—like she'd simply returned a borrowed truth to its rightful owner.

----------------------------------------------

Oscar and Lando were curled up on the massive sectional in the den, watching some late-night cricket and laughing about how little they understood the rules.

Lando had been quieter than usual, and Oscar noticed.

“You all right?” he asked, nudging him with a foot.

Lando nodded. “Yeah. Just tired. Jetlag, I think.”

Oscar smiled. “We can sleep in tomorrow. The maid will make pancakes.”

Lando smiled back, but something inside him was unsettled.

He had always been second to the media—second to the public's version of Oscar. But here, in Oscar’s home, with the walls full of his childhood and his sister’s knowing stare—

He realized he might not even be first in his own feelings. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and lemon zest, the air warm from the stove and filled with quiet conversation. The maid, a kind older woman named Marisella, had outdone herself—thin pancakes stacked high, dusted with powdered sugar, adorned with strawberries, bananas, and warm syrup in little white jugs. Everything looked like it belonged in a cookbook.

Oscar was already halfway through his second helping when Lando sat down, hair still messy from sleep.

“You sleep all right?” Oscar asked, glancing at him.

Lando nodded, eyes lingering on the strawberries for a moment too long. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good. You looked like you were stuck in your own head last night.”

Lando gave him a small smile. “I’m always stuck in my head.”

Oscar’s eyes flickered—briefly. “You don’t have to be, you know.”

It was said simply, without weight. But something in the way he said it made Lando pause mid-sip of his orange juice.

“What do you mean?”

Oscar shrugged, pushing a few banana slices into his mouth. “Just that... I’m not an idiot.”

Lando blinked. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

Oscar glanced around—his sisters were in the sunroom, their parents upstairs. Then, still casual, he said, “I know how you look at me.”

That hit like a soft blow. Not cruel. Not even confrontational. Just... real.

Lando’s throat went dry.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” Oscar added, “You think I haven’t realized that every time you say something kind, you say it a little quieter? Or how you never look at me for too long, but you always find me again?”

Lando’s heart thudded against his ribs.

Oscar leaned in a little. “You don’t need to tell me. I just thought you should know—you’re not invisible. Not to me.”

Lando tried to smile, but it was nervous, twitchy. “Do your sisters feed you this kind of stuff often?”

Oscar snorted. “They feed me crap, yeah. But this? I already knew. Hattie just confirmed it.”

A silence fell between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just charged.

Oscar stabbed his last bite of pancake, then looked up at Lando again. “I don’t know what I’m doing either. With Lily, or... whatever this is. But if it helps—” he paused, “—I don’t mind when you look at me like that.”

Lando swallowed. “Like what?”

Oscar gave him a small grin. “Like I’m more than just your teammate.”

Then he stood, taking his empty plate to the sink like nothing had happened—leaving Lando sitting there, surrounded by syrup and powdered sugar and one hell of a heavy heartbeat.

The air was fresh, with just enough chill to warrant a sweater. The estate stretched out around them like a personal slice of paradise—golden trees in the distance, gravel paths winding through manicured gardens, and in the middle of it all: the stable.

Oscar walked slowly beside Lando, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker. The sun filtered through overhanging branches, and their sneakers crunched softly over gravel.

“I always forget you have horses,” Lando murmured, looking up at the white, wooden stable house.

“Dad’s idea,” Oscar said. “Said it built discipline.”

“And?”

Oscar shrugged. “I like them more than some people.”

They stepped into the stable, the smell of hay and leather thick in the air. The horses—sleek, well-groomed creatures—looked up, ears twitching. One, a caramel-coated gelding named Domino, snorted and leaned its head forward eagerly.

Lando stepped forward first, hesitantly running a hand down Domino’s nose. “He’s warm.”

“They all are. You should try riding sometime.”

Lando gave him a sideways glance. “Are you going to teach me?”

Oscar clicked his tongue. “I’ll think about it.”

They laughed softly—quiet, so as not to startle the animals. Then Oscar stepped closer, rubbing another horse between the eyes.

“He’s strong,” Lando said.

“Yeah. He listens though.” Oscar glanced over. “You don’t have to be forceful to be respected. You just have to be... consistent.”

Lando gave him a look, suspicious. “Is that about me, or the horse?”

Oscar only smiled.

They lingered there for a while, brushing down the horses with idle affection, the light coming in through the half-open barn doors. There was something timeless about it. As if nothing else existed—not the paddock, not the circuits, not the media.

Just them. Just this.

[Monte Carlo – Leclerc Residence]

 

Elsewhere in Europe, the halls of the Leclerc villa were dressed in silence and shadow.

Charles sat at the head of the long mahogany table, fingers steepled. The chandelier above glinted like a crown of icicles. His phone buzzed once—just once—before he picked it up.

“Andrea is adapting well?” he asked, voice like velvet over a blade.

A pause on the other end.

“Yes, monsieur. He’s begun training at the academy. He’s clever. Calm. Cold.”

Charles smiled faintly. “Good. It will take time, but we’ll turn him into something useful.”

He ended the call with a tap.

Then, he stood and walked toward the tall windows. From up here, Monaco looked peaceful. Tourists sipped espresso below. The harbor sparkled with wealth.

He knew better.

Charles looked down at a dossier resting on a silver tray. Oscar Piastri — printed in clean block letters. Inside were photos, movement logs, and handwritten notes from embedded agents.

And tucked behind it, almost as an afterthought, Lando Norris.

Charles tapped the folder, thoughtfully.

“You took my father,” he said quietly, to no one. “Now I take everything from you.”

He smiled.

It was gentle. Innocent.

A perfect disguise.

 

[Melbourne, Australia – That Night]

After dinner, after Hattie’s teasing, and after the laughter died down, Lando and Oscar found themselves outside again.

Oscar led him through a small gate at the back of the property, out onto a hill that overlooked the rest of the estate. The grass was dry but soft, and the stars were sharp in the sky—clearer than Lando had seen them in years.

They brought a blanket. Just one. Oscar had claimed it was thick enough for both of them. It was.

Lando lay flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, glancing sideways at Oscar every so often, as if to double-check the moment was really happening.

“You know what I used to think as a kid?” Lando asked.

Oscar hummed. “What?”

“That if you picked a star, just one, and wished hard enough on it, something would change. You’d feel less... lonely. Or small.”

Oscar turned his head. “Did it work?”

Lando didn’t answer right away.

“Not really. But you keep trying anyway, you know?”

Silence. Then Oscar reached across the blanket, his pinky barely brushing Lando’s.

“You’re not small,” he said.

Lando’s throat tightened. “And you’re not as heartless as you pretend to be.”

Oscar chuckled, low. “Heartless? I’ve literally spent the whole day dragging you to my horses and feeding you tortellini.”

“Emotional manipulation.”

Oscar smiled. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Their eyes met for a fraction longer than either of them expected. Then Lando looked away.

“It’s stupid,” he muttered.

“What is?”

Lando picked a star. “I don’t know what I want from you.”

Oscar didn't answer. He didn’t need to. The space between them was already charged.

But nothing happened.

Not tonight.

[Italy – Bologna, Private Racing Academy]

 

Kimi sat on the stone steps of the old dormitory building, the pale moonlight washing over the track in the distance. A soft hum of cicadas filled the air.

Oliver Bearman flopped down beside him, eating some disgusting British candy and chatting about a new kart frame he’d tested earlier.

“They keep saying we’ll be ready for Formula Renault next,” Oliver said between chews. “Can you imagine? Open wheel. Finally. Like proper racing.”

Kimi nodded. He always did.

“You’re quiet,” Oliver said, nudging him. “Homesick?”

“No,” Kimi lied with ease. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing important.”

Oliver shrugged and let it go. He always did. Because to him, Kimi was just another rich Italian kid with a bad temper and quick hands. The type who never had to worry about money or consequence.

But Kimi—Kimi knew better.

He carried Charles’s invisible leash wrapped around his throat, every privilege paid in blood and silence. Every right answer came with bruised ribs and split knuckles. If he slipped, if he talked, if he ever said no—

He would disappear.

But tonight, he wasn’t afraid.

Tonight, he imagined saying the wrong thing. Standing up. Running.

And for the first time in his life, he didn’t just imagine it as suicide.

He imagined it as freedom.

Charles had made a weapon out of him. But even weapons can turn.

[Oscar’s Room – Melbourne, Late Evening]

The light was dim. Oscar sat on the edge of his bed, phone cradled between his shoulder and cheek, his thumb lazily tracing the seam of the bedsheet.

“—yeah, I know, it’s been hectic,” he said, voice soft and even.

In the next room, Lando lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The walls in the old Piastri estate weren’t thin, but they weren’t thick enough to hide quiet conversation when the world around you was otherwise still.

“It was good though,” Oscar continued. “Just... calming. Being home. We went riding today. Even Lando came along.”

Lando blinked at the ceiling.

He hadn’t known he’d be mentioned.

“Yeah, he’s still a bit of a wimp around horses, but he tried. You’d have laughed.”

A pause. Then a light laugh from Oscar.

“No, Lily, not like that. It’s not—” Oscar’s voice dropped, fond but flat. “It’s not like what you’re probably imagining.”

Lando shifted, curling toward the wall.

They weren’t lovers. He’d known that—felt that—but hearing it confirmed, out loud, to someone else? It stirred something sharp and small in his chest. Not jealousy. Not quite. Something closer to loneliness. To being outside of something again.

Oscar’s tone never shifted. No flirtation, no affection. Just warmth. Familiarity.

“We’re like old shoes, you and me,” he said to Lily. “Worn in, but still good. You’ve always understood that better than anyone.”

There was a long silence as she spoke on the other end.

Then Oscar’s voice again, soft.

“Thanks. For not pushing.”

A beat.

“Oh, and hey. You’re coming to Australia, right?”

Lando sat up slightly, quietly.

“Yeah? That’s good. First race, fresh start.”

Oscar’s voice took on a smile. “I’m glad. I mean, the media will love it, but... it’s still good to have someone there. You know. From before all this.”

Another silence.

Then: “Alright. Sleep well, Lil.”

The click of the call ending was final.

Lando lay back down, staring at the ceiling once again, the silence louder now than it had been before.

A few moments passed.

Then he turned over and whispered to himself, bitterly amused.

“Old shoes.”

The sky was still pale and sleepy when the two of them stepped outside, baskets in hand. The morning mist clung to the edges of the hedgerows, and the grass was still wet with dew. Oscar walked ahead, hoodie loose around his frame, curls a little messy. Lando trailed behind in silence, tugging at the sleeves of his jumper.

The plum trees stood in neat rows, heavy with fruit.

“She was gonna do it herself,” Lando said after a long while, finally breaking the quiet.

Oscar shrugged, reaching up and pulling a dark, ripe plum from one of the lower branches. “She does enough already. Besides—figured it’d be nice. Something slow for once.”

Lando plucked a fruit as well, less confident with the weight of it in his palm. He looked at Oscar, who was methodical with his movements, careful with each branch.

“You always this wholesome in the mornings?”

Oscar let out a dry laugh, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re just not usually awake early enough to see it.”

Lando half-smiled, biting into a plum absently. The juice ran down the side of his thumb.

A beat of silence passed before he asked, casually—too casually, “You talk to Lily last night?”

Oscar nodded without looking at him. “Yeah. Just caught up a bit.”

“Right.”

A few more plums hit the bottom of Oscar’s basket with soft thumps. Then he added, as if sensing the weight of Lando’s tone, “She’s coming to Australia. Just for the press stuff. That’s all.”

Lando looked down at the half-eaten fruit in his hand.

“You don’t talk to her like someone in love,” he said finally.

Oscar didn’t respond right away. He set his basket down at the foot of the tree, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“No,” he admitted. “Because I’m not.”

That hung in the air between them. Cold. Honest. Unforgiving.

“I used to be. But... we’re both useful to each other, in different ways now. That’s what this world is, sometimes.”

Lando didn’t say anything. Just nodded slowly and bent to pick up a plum that had fallen into the grass.

Oscar leaned against the tree trunk, arms folded, watching him. “She’s not in love with me either, you know.”

Lando’s voice was low. “I guessed.”

Oscar studied him for a long moment before adding, “If I was blind, I’d say you were in love with me more than she ever was.”

Lando froze—basket in hand, back slightly turned.

Oscar didn’t wait for a response. He pushed off from the tree, brushing past him with a soft bump of shoulders.

“Come on. You’re gonna be sticky all day if you keep eating them off the branch.”

Lando followed quietly, cheeks flushed not just from the sun this time.

[Late Morning – The Kitchen, Piastri Estate]

 

The idea had started out innocent enough.

“We picked the plums, right?” Lando had said, voice bright with that boyish spark of mischief. “We should finish the job. Make the pie.”

Oscar had raised an eyebrow. “You know how to bake?”

“I watched a YouTube video once,” Lando replied, already rolling up his sleeves like a man on a mission.

Ten minutes in, it was chaos.

Flour covered nearly every surface—including Lando’s nose. Oscar had somehow cut the butter wrong—"How do you even cut butter wrong?"—and they both forgot to preheat the oven until the filling was already done. The crust kept cracking, the measurements were off, and Oscar had confidently said “that looks about right” one too many times.

The smell of burning sugar came in fast. Acrid. Wrong.

“Shit—shit, shit—” Lando scrambled to open the oven, only to be greeted with blackened edges and bubbling plum lava oozing down the side of the dish. “Oh my God. It’s dead. We murdered a pie.”

Oscar coughed, waving the smoke away. “You baked a war crime.”

At the height of the panic, the maid entered—expression stoic, eyes flicking between the mess, the smoke, and Lando holding a wooden spoon like it might ward off a ghost.

She didn’t say much. Just calmly took the ruined pie from them, and with the practiced grace of someone who had clearly done this more times than she should’ve needed to, turned off the oven and opened the windows.

“Out. Kindly,” she said, gently ushering them toward the door with a warm, polite smile that didn’t quite mask her quiet horror. “I’ll take it from here.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lando said for what must’ve been the third time as she wiped down the counter. “Truly. I had good intentions, I promise.”

“You also had the wrong flour and no idea how to make dough,” Oscar added helpfully from behind him.

Lando swatted at him without turning. “You weren’t any better.”

“I never claimed to be.”

The maid—sweet, ever-patient—just chuckled softly under her breath. “You’re both lucky you’re charming. Go wash up.”

Back in the hallway, Lando rubbed his temples.

“I genuinely thought I could do it.”

Oscar bumped his shoulder lightly. “You’re good at lots of things. Just not pie.”

“Thanks,” Lando muttered, sarcastically.

Oscar turned to him, expression softening. “But... I liked the trying part.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Oscar shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “You wanted to do something real. It’s nice. Doesn’t happen much in our world.”

There was a silence.

Then Lando said, “Next time, I’m reading two YouTube recipes.”

Oscar smiled. “I’ll buy a fire extinguisher.”

[Evening – Piastri Estate, Living Room]

The smell of plum pie drifted lazily through the halls like something out of a storybook. The real one this time—golden, fragrant, not on fire.

Oscar sat cross-legged on the large velvet couch, balancing his plate carefully as the crumbs threatened to escape. Lando, curled up at the other end, took a generous bite and groaned in delight.

“Oh my God,” he mumbled through the flaky crust, “She’s a genius. That crust? Unreal.”

Oscar nodded, chewing slowly. “We were so far off.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lando replied. “I had the vision. Just not the skill.”

They both laughed. It was easy like this. The garden lights outside twinkled in the dusky blue, the sky dimming just beyond the tall windows. A blanket had been tossed over their legs at some point—Oscar’s doing, not that either of them acknowledged it out loud.

The television was on, low volume, playing an old Italian movie Oscar’s father used to like. Neither of them were really watching it.

Lando licked plum juice off his thumb and said quietly, “Do you ever think about how lucky we are?”

Oscar tilted his head, glancing over.

“Not in the cheesy way,” Lando added, “Just—like this. Pie, horses, stargazing. It’s a lot.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “Yeah. It is.”

[Meanwhile – Trento, Italy]

The hallways of the villa echoed with cold. Not from the marble, or the draft, but from the silence. That kind of silence. Heavy, taut. Waiting.

Kimi sat on the edge of his narrow bed in the servants’ quarters. A slice of stale bread and reheated broth had been left for him—dinner, supposedly—but it sat untouched on the desk across the room.

The skin around his knuckles stung faintly. His hands still shook from the latest “lesson.”

He’d said the wrong thing earlier. Not in public. Not even to anyone important. Just in a passing conversation with one of Charles’s older cousins. He'd called Bologna home, when the script said to say “Naples.” A minor error. Barely worth noting.

But the punishment had been swift. Methodical.

He pressed the cold washcloth against the forming bruise on his ribcage, flinching when it touched.

He didn’t cry. Not anymore. That stopped years ago.

Across the room, a neatly folded stack of clothes awaited him. Charles's family always dressed him to impress. A polished doll for their political games. A pawn in expensive shoes.

He hated it.

But hate wouldn’t save him. Obedience might.

Outside his small window, he could just make out the stars.

He wondered what freedom tasted like. Not money. Not fame. Not the Leclerc name. Real freedom.

Maybe plum pie?...

That morning, Kimi sat at the long breakfast table alone. The sun was barely creeping through the grand kitchen windows, catching on the marble counters and crystal light fixtures. Everything in this house sparkled—everything except him.

He stared at the toaster as it began its familiar humming.

Then came the beep.

Sharp. Sudden. Shrill.

Beep-beep-beep.

He flinched—but it wasn’t fear, not really. It was irritation. Resentment. Exhaustion. It had been building for weeks. The constant correcting. The measuring of his every word. The faint bruises hidden under his collar. The sharp looks from Charles when Kimi’s smile wasn't charming enough. The endless practice of being a perfect Italian boy with the perfect scripted backstory.

Another beep-beep.

His jaw clenched. He stood up. Calmly.

Lifted the toaster by its cold chrome edge.

Walked to the glass door that opened out to the garden.

And launched it.

The thing arced clumsily, tangled in its own cord, then crashed down onto the Leclerc family lawn in three fractured pieces.

Kimi watched it for a long time.

Nobody said anything. No one was around.

And truthfully? The toaster could be replaced in an hour.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was: for a brief moment, he did something they didn’t tell him to do.

A crack in the mirror.

A spark of rebellion.

He walked back inside without a word, sat back down, and bit into a cold piece of toast from yesterday. Stale. Tough. But it was his choice.

And that—for now—was enough.

Chapter 4

Summary:

The 1950s. First alliance, then war.

Long before Oscar’s sharp eyes, Lando’s conflicted heart, Charles’ clean-cut cruelty, or Kimi’s silent defiance, there were two boys who started it all—two names etched into legend: Nico Rosberg and Lewis Hamilton.

Their tale didn’t begin on the polished floors of Formula 1 hospitality units or under the flashbulbs of the media circus. No, it started in a dingy karting garage in Italy. Two boys—one pale-haired and German-Finnish, the other dark-skinned and wide-eyed from Stevenage—racing on second-hand engines, fueled by obsession.

But what the world never knew was that their friendship—like most great things in motorsport—wasn't born purely from coincidence. It was carefully orchestrated.

Keke Rosberg, former World Champion and a man with too many connections, had ties that stretched back far deeper than Monaco’s yacht clubs or Helsinki’s political elite. Before the Cold War crumbled, Keke had worked deals with Soviet diplomats—underground transfers, discreet money pipelines, closed-door favors. No one asked questions. That was the Rosberg way. He could hide behind his charming, barrel-chested bravado. Everyone liked Keke. Even the ones he’d once betrayed.

Then there was Anthony Hamilton—the so-called “rags to riches” father of Lewis. The world only knew part of the story. He had once run one of the most discreet, violent trafficking circuits in South America, based deep in Brazil’s underground. But when things turned sour—when people died, and police began sniffing too close—Anthony abandoned the empire. Fled. Changed names. Burned contacts. He re-emerged in England, a single father, pushing a cheap kart down pit lanes like any other underdog. But beneath his calm determination was the survival instinct of a kingpin on the run.

Keke knew who he was.

He didn’t rat him out.

Instead, he protected him.

Because in Anthony Hamilton, Keke saw something valuable: loyalty under pressure. They made a pact—quiet, bloodless, but binding. Keke made sure the karting team they both raced for always had two lead seats. One for Nico. One for Lewis.

“They're to be together,” he told the team boss. “No exceptions.”

So they were. Two boys, handpicked to be rivals before they even knew what rivalry meant. They trained together, sweat together, broke bones and records on the same circuits.

But here’s the truth no one saw:

Where Lewis was fire, Nico was ice. Lewis needed to win. Nico needed to outdo him.

And no matter how many podiums they shared, no matter how many times they stood side-by-side in photographs, the ghost of their fathers’ legacies stood taller than both of them.

Because they weren’t just racing for trophies.

They were racing for redemption.

For legacy.

For the war their fathers never got to finish.

And long before Oscar or Lando or Charles ever touched a steering wheel—this war was already well underway.

 

Back then, Lewis and Nico were inseparable.

Two shadows cast by the same sun, drifting through paddocks and pitlanes like twin meteors. Wherever Lewis went, Nico followed. Wherever Nico turned, Lewis was already there. They were the kind of best friends that made people stop and smile—boys with helmets too big for their heads, laughing in matching overalls smeared with grease and engine oil, limbs bruised from racing, hearts wide open.

They spent almost every moment of every single day together. If you saw one, you saw the other. You’d think they were twins, born of the same flame, rather than boys from opposite corners of the world.

Nico, with his silver-spoon background and calm precision, was calculated, methodical, and a little more rigid. Lewis, with his freewheeling charm and desperate hunger, was passion bottled into motion. They balanced each other—one fire, one ice.

They slept over at each other’s houses more often than not. Ate the same food. Watched the same VHS tapes of Senna races until the reels warped. Nico taught Lewis German curse words. Lewis taught Nico how to drift a kart tighter through a turn. They built makeshift tracks in Nico’s backyard with soda cans and garden hoses, just to race toy cars side by side.

When one lost, the other gave up his trophy. When one cried, the other sat next to him and waited—no questions, no judgment. That was their pact. Even at eight years old, even in a world of grown men pushing them like pawns on a chessboard, their friendship felt real. Untouchable.

They didn’t yet understand what was looming—sponsors, contracts, money, power. They didn’t yet know how rare it was to have something that pure in a world like motorsport. They were just Nico and Lewis. That’s how everyone knew them. A set. A package deal.

But time doesn’t spare even the closest bonds. And neither does ambition.

What they had then—that fierce, almost childlike loyalty—would be tested in every imaginable way.

And slowly, piece by piece, it would break.

 

They were just kids—barely teens—when they first tried smoking behind the paddock tents. Lewis coughed the first time, his eyes watering, while Nico grinned like a boy who’d just stolen fire. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was theirs. A secret. Another shared thing, like kart parts or ice cream cones. Nico lit the cigarette, Lewis followed. Nico poured the shot, Lewis drank. It became tradition, reckless and unspoken.

Because of Nico’s connections—his father’s deep ties to Europe’s elite and the darker alleys that came with them—they were whisked into worlds they had no business being in. Velvet-rope clubs. Underground parties in Monaco. Mansion rooftops in the hills of Nice. Dressed in expensive clothes they barely understood, too young to drink, too old to be innocent.

They’d stumble back to their hotel rooms at 3 a.m. with red eyes and half-lucid grins. They’d race the next morning like nothing had happened—still sharp, still fast, still boys pretending they weren’t already being eaten from the inside out.

They thought it was invincible—that they were invincible.

Then came Lotus.

Their first true step into Formula One. The stakes weren’t just higher—they were suffocating. Sponsorships, expectations, relentless media. They had the same livery on their suits again, just like when they were kids, but something was different now.

They were no longer boys racing side by side.

They were men racing against each other.

At first, the cracks were small—offhand comments, a stolen overtake during practice, a missed dinner. Still friendly. Still smiling. But Lewis had started pushing harder, needing more. Nico noticed. Then Nico started playing games behind the scenes, subtle politics his father had taught him. Lewis noticed.

That’s when it began to unravel.

The late-night smoke breaks turned quiet. The drinking stopped being fun. They stopped laughing the same way.

There was one party in Spain where it really broke. Lewis showed up late, alone. Nico was already there, surrounded by people Lewis didn’t recognize—people who didn’t look like racers. They looked like something else. Something colder. Lewis watched from across the room. Nico didn’t even wave.

And from that moment, the idea of “Nico and Lewis”—the inseparable pair—was gone.

They still raced for Lotus that year. Still stood side by side in photos. Still did press with smiles. But it wasn’t real anymore. Behind the helmets, behind the brand—they were strangers.

And deep down, maybe both of them knew:

The things they’d done together were carved into their bones. But whatever they were—whatever they had—was already lost.

What made Nico Rosberg's presence haunting—truly haunting—was not just the fact that he could drive. It was the fact that he knew how to win without ever touching the wheel. He understood the machine around the car: the politics, the press, the whispers in the paddock that moved strategy meetings and tilted the balance sheet in his favor.

He didn’t need to outdrive Lewis.
He just needed to outmaneuver everything else.

Nico was raised to see Formula One as a chessboard, not a racetrack. And in that game, politics was power.
He knew every loophole in every regulation.
He knew how to befriend engineers and subtly cast doubt.
He knew when to plant a seed in Toto Wolff’s ear and when to let the press run with it.

And Lewis—who had always fought with raw talent, instinct, and flame—couldn’t play dirty like that. Not at first. Not when he believed the track was enough.

But 1976 changed that.
1976 was a blood year.

Nico took the championship that season—but the cost wasn’t just points or wins. It was respect, friendship, and safety.

Their fights had turned brutal. In Austria, they collided on Lap 1 and kept screaming long after the helmets came off. In Spa, they refused to shake hands. In Monza, one of them was physically pulled from the other by their own mechanics, sweat-streaked and furious.

It wasn’t just rivalry anymore. It was personal.

Pit crews whispered about it. Engineers feared it. Sponsors ignored it, for the sake of headlines and camera time.
But everyone knew:

This wasn’t racing anymore. It was war.

Nico had clawed control of the team—not through speed, but through precision politics. He dictated tire strategy. He got the newer upgrades first. He leveraged his family name, his fluency in German, Italian, and French, and his deep understanding of every contract clause to bend the garage to his favor.

And Lewis?
Lewis was left to bite the dust.

He’d come back to the garage after qualifying with a faster lap—only to find out Nico’s car had received a secret last-minute engine mode.
He’d be on a two-stop strategy while Nico miraculously got a one-stop that worked perfectly.

When you have political power, you control everything.
And Nico knew that.

He took the 1976 title coldly, calculatedly, surgically.
And once he had it?

He retired.
Left the world stunned. Left Lewis burning.

Like he had never intended to stay. Like the whole thing had been about beating Lewis, and nothing else.
Like he’d spent his life preparing for one final checkmate.

And once he played it—he walked away from the board.
Leaving Lewis with the pieces.
And scars that would never really fade.

The night Nico Rosberg won the title, he celebrated like a man who had finally killed his ghost.

Champagne flowed like water. Music thumped through the walls of the Monte Carlo ballroom. Cameras flashed, friends laughed, and he grinned—tight and perfect for every photo.

But behind his eyes?
Nothing.

He didn’t cry.
He didn’t look relieved.
He didn’t even look happy.

He looked… finished.

He toasted with princes. He kissed his wife. He gave his statement to the press—“It’s the right moment to step away. I’ve reached my goal.”
And everyone applauded.

But no one asked why he looked like the trophy weighed a thousand pounds in his hands.

Because deep down—beneath the designer suit, the calculated statements, the champagne sparkle—Nico knew.
He’d become something he never meant to be.

He was the kid who once used to race side-by-side with Lewis, laughing under the hot sun, sharing half a chocolate bar, swearing they'd take on the world together.
Now?

Now he’d grown so cold, so sharp, he didn’t even remember what that warmth had felt like.
The kind of cold you don’t come back from.

He’d burned every bridge for that title.
Every friendship.
Every version of himself that used to love the race for the race.

And all he had now was a shiny trophy—something people only cared about for a few seconds, something that would sit behind glass, gathering dust, like it meant more than the lives shattered beneath it.

Because if you think about it—really think about it—what is it?
It’s just a piece of metal.

It doesn’t speak.
It doesn’t hold your hand when you're alone.
It doesn’t forgive you for what you did to get it.

It just sits there.
Silent.
And cold.

 

Nico married his childhood sweetheart, Vivian Sibold, in a quiet, picture-perfect ceremony tucked away in the hills of Geneva. She was everything the world expected—blonde, elegant, with a grace that could calm a storm. She knew him before the politics, before the power, before the coldness that came with chasing ghosts.

Together they had two daughters.
Neila, born in 1973—wide-eyed, curious, and already sharp like her father.
And Alaïa, just a baby, born last year in 1975, still soft and new to a world that hadn't yet shown her its jagged edges.

Time passed.

Their relationship—Nico and Lewis’s—healed, but only just. A threadbare truce. Frayed and fragile. They didn’t speak often. They didn’t reminisce. But Lewis… Lewis always sent Christmas gifts to Nico’s daughters. Wrapped in silver paper with neat handwriting and thoughtful notes, toys tucked inside that said I still remember what it was like to be little boys who dreamed big.

He met them once, too.

It was awkward. But kind.
Neila had run up to him and asked if he was the “race car guy” Papa used to talk about. Lewis smiled and said yes, though he didn’t know which version of “race car guy” Nico had spoken of.

They didn’t talk about the past.
They didn’t talk about the crashes, the sabotage, or the fire in their veins that turned to ash.

But Lewis looked at Nico’s daughters with a sadness Nico couldn’t quite decipher.
Like maybe—just maybe—he saw something in them he once saw in them.

Something worth protecting.
Something warm.

Lewis Hamilton went on to win four more World Championships after Nico Rosberg's abrupt retirement, matching Michael Schumacher’s legendary seven-title record—a feat once thought impossible. Those years cemented Lewis as not just a generational talent, but a symbol of resilience. The boy from Stevenage, the one they doubted, had become a king.

Nico Rosberg, on the other hand, never truly left the paddock.

He returned to Formula One—but not as a driver. Instead, he became a commentator, a face on race day broadcasts, the man who interviewed drivers in the moments right after victory or defeat. He was polished, articulate, even likable… but haunted.

When he had to interview Lewis after a win—or worse, a title clincher—the air would tighten. The smiles were practiced. The professionalism ironclad.
But underneath?

Something raw.

Lewis had moved on. He was diplomatic, even charming, but he never truly forgave Nico. There was no warmth, no real glimmer of the brotherhood they once shared. The old friend was gone—buried somewhere under tire smoke and political warfare.

Nico?

He had never moved on. The trophy, the retirement, the family—none of it had filled the space left behind. Regret clung to him in quiet moments. He’d watch Lewis stand tall on podiums and feel the sting of what he’d broken—not just a friendship, but something sacred.

He had won the title.
But he had lost everything else.

 

[Back to the present day—season opener, 2000, Australia.]

The heat was oppressive, the kind that clung to your skin and blurred the air above the tarmac. Melbourne was buzzing with energy, fans pressed up against barricades, flags waving, cameras snapping like angry insects. The whole world was watching.

Oscar adjusted the collar of his team polo, squinting under the merciless sun. Lando walked beside him, his curls damp at the edges with sweat, brows furrowed as he scanned the paddock. And on Oscar’s other side, just a step behind—Lily Zneimer, still smiling for the press, still doing her job.

She wore a sundress that suited the weather, light and lemon-colored, and she laughed when the cameras flashed. Her arm occasionally brushed Oscar’s, just enough to sell the story. High school sweethearts, still going strong. Still perfect for the headlines.

Except… they weren’t.

The way she leaned into Oscar wasn’t love—it was habit. And the way Oscar barely looked at her at all? That was distance, not disinterest. They still talked like best friends, and that’s exactly what they were now. But that part was a secret too.

Lando, beside them, was quieter than usual. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and muttered, “Bloody furnace,” but otherwise said nothing. He didn’t need to. He watched Oscar a little too closely. Lily noticed—she always did—but said nothing either.

They walked as a trio, but everyone watching would see the perfect couple and their teammate.

They wouldn’t see the glances.
Or the tension.
Or the story unfolding beneath the sunscreen and the sunglasses.

The season had begun.
And so had everything else.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Ferrari starts dominating once more. It's a start to a new era in formula one.

Free Practice 1 – Melbourne, 2000.

The engine roared down the straight, smooth and guttural. Oscar gritted his teeth as he clipped the apex. The McLaren was fast—no doubt about that. Responsive, agile, and well-balanced. He could feel it in his bones. They’d worked hard all winter for this.

But not hard enough.

Because out there—somewhere ahead on the timing sheets—Ferrari was untouchable.

When he pulled into the garage and the pit crew wheeled him back in, the numbers were already flashing on the screen.

1:18.323 — Leclerc.
A good six-tenths ahead of anyone else.
Impossible.

Oscar ripped off his gloves, jaw tightening. “That car’s a bloody spaceship,” he muttered under his breath. No one said anything. But they all thought the same.

Lando rolled in a few minutes later. “P2,” he said, forcing a shrug. “Still not enough.”

Not when Ferrari’s performance made no sense. They hadn’t been that far ahead last year. Not even close. Development time was regulated. Budget caps were strict. Resources were monitored.

So how?
How the hell were they suddenly so fast?

Unless…

Unless Charles was doing what he always did best: smiling in your face while driving a knife into your back.

It wasn’t just the car, either. It was the access. The privilege. The fact that Ferrari seemed to be operating above the law of the grid. Development restrictions? Wind tunnel limits? Budget caps?

Charles Leclerc had blown through all of them.

And the FIA had said nothing.

Because someone inside was compromised. Paid off, blackmailed, turned into a puppet. The kind of corruption that ran deep—not unlike a government. The kind that wore a tie and had a press pass. The kind that always smiled for the cameras, while cash was slipped under tables.

On the pit wall, Charles watched it all unfold. His arms were folded neatly across his chest, the red of his race suit a beacon among the sea of engineers and journalists. His posture was regal, effortless. His expression—calm, polite, impossibly charming.

To the public eye, he was the golden boy.
Polite. Brilliant. Handsome.
A dream for Ferrari, a savior for Italy.

But to those who knew?
Who really knew?

Charles Leclerc was no angel.

He was the devil in disguise.
And the FIA had sold him the keys to the kingdom.

[Qualifying Day – 2000 Australian Grand Prix]

[Melbourne, Victoria – 34°C, blistering sun, zero clouds]

By mid-afternoon, the heat was suffocating. The kind that makes your suit stick to your back and your head pound even inside the helmet. The kind of weather that usually favored McLaren—always had.

Melbourne had always been kind to them.
But not today.

Oscar sat on the tire barrier in parc fermé, visor up, sweat dripping down his brow. His arms were still shaking a little from the final flying lap.

P3.

Lando was beside him. Quiet. Resting his head against the garage wall, hands still clenched in frustration.

P4.

It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t right. Not in Australia. Not when Oscar was racing on home soil, with the eyes of the entire country watching him. He could feel the disappointment burrowing under his skin like a splinter.

The screen blinked above them:
P1: Charles Leclerc – Ferrari
P2: Carlos Sainz – Ferrari
P3: Oscar Piastri – McLaren
P4: Lando Norris – McLaren

Ferrari front row lockout.

It felt like a slap in the face.

Oscar pulled off his balaclava, chest rising and falling in shallow, clipped breaths. “It’s not just the car,” he muttered under his breath.

Lando glanced at him. “What?”

“They’re running something else. I can feel it.”

And he could.
Ferrari’s acceleration out of corners, their top speed, the precision in their downshifts—it wasn’t normal. It was like Charles had tapped into something untouchable.

He didn’t celebrate like someone surprised, either.

Charles stood atop the pitlane with a crooked, composed smile. Not smug. No. Too calculated for that. Just enough grace to be admired, just enough charm to be disarming. He waved to the crowd like a champion who’d already won.

Carlos stood beside him, arms crossed, sunglasses on. Not a word spoken. He was complicit—knew everything, or at the very least, knew better than to ask questions.

There was something about that pole position.
Too clean. Too easy.

Oscar watched the pair of them walk off the platform, Charles with a slight nod to the camera crew and sponsors.

Lando spat quietly into the gravel. “Can’t wait for lights out tomorrow.”

Oscar didn’t respond.

Because he wasn’t just racing for points anymore.
He was racing to expose something.
Something rotten.

And if he had to, he'd tear Ferrari’s perfect red mask off with his bare hands.

Charles Leclerc had always been raised with a cross hanging above his bed.

The Leclerc household in Monaco was devoutly Catholic—Sunday mass without fail, Hail Marys before bed, rosaries kept like heirlooms. But while most children found comfort in faith, Charles saw something else in it. Power. Myth. Divinity.

By the time he was twelve, Charles wasn’t praying to God anymore.
He was beginning to wonder if he was the answer to those prayers.

There was an unsettling confidence about him, even at that age—eyes too sharp, posture too straight, too composed for a boy. He never screamed. Never cried. He learned to command respect in whispers, not roars. And when their father died and the empire risked falling into ruin, Charles didn’t hesitate.

He stepped forward.

Even though Lorenzo was the eldest, it became clear—very quickly—that he lacked the hunger, the vision, the iron. He preferred numbers, books, comfort. But Charles? Charles had presence. He had a voice that made rooms quiet down. His orders were followed without question, because no one dared to ask.

Everything the Leclerc family controlled—the assets, the partners, the money laundering, the political ties in Italy, France, and even inside the FIA—it all funneled through him.

And Arthur?

Arthur was his shadow. Loyal. Obedient. Devoted in a way that bordered on frightening. If Charles was a God, Arthur was the archangel. He believed in his brother more than he believed in the Bible.

Charles never said this out loud, but sometimes… sometimes he’d catch his reflection—flawless face, divine bone structure, golden skin and ivory smile—and think:

“I was carved by the Lord Himself.”

His looks, his eloquence, his strategic mind—none of it was coincidence. He was not ordinary. He was chosen.

And when he walked into the paddock in his crimson race suit, the prancing horse stitched over his heart, cameras flashing and people parting for him—he didn’t feel like a driver.

He felt like a messiah.

A messiah with a machine, a loyal army, a bribed federation, and a throne made of carbon fibre and scarlet steel.

Alexandra Saint Mleux looked the part—
Goddess hair, aristocratic French accent, a wardrobe stitched from Milan’s finest. She was elegance incarnate, with a surname that traced back to dukes and counts and crumbling châteaus in the Loire Valley. To the world, she was perfectly suited for Charles Leclerc.

And that was exactly the point.

The relationship, if you could even call it that, was built on benefits, not affection. Publicity. Optics. Prestige.
A pairing to please sponsors, to charm the press, to keep the whispers civilized. “Ah, Charles and Alexandra. Monaco’s golden couple.”

Behind closed doors?
He couldn’t stand her.

She talked too much. She cared too much. She asked him questions like "Are you happy?" and "Do you ever feel guilty?"
And Charles hated being asked things he didn’t want to answer. Especially by someone who was supposed to be a decoration, not a disruption.

He kept her at a distance. Let her cling to his arm during galas, whispered lies into her ear when cameras flashed. But when the doors shut and the world faded?

He disappeared into another room.
Or another woman.
Or another scheme.

Alexandra, for her part, knew something was wrong. But she played her role because she too had things to gain. The title. The spotlight. The story of being “the one beside the man who could be king.”

Sometimes she tried to get under his skin. To provoke warmth. To catch his eye and see if something real flickered behind it.

But all she ever got was ice.

Charles didn’t break up with her. He didn’t need to. Because Alexandra wasn’t a person to him—
She was an accessory.

One he could replace at will.
Just like a watch.
Just like a set of tyres.

The crowd in Melbourne erupted like thunder.
The orange sea of McLaren fans leapt to their feet, waving flags, screaming Oscar’s name. Oscar Piastri had won his home Grand Prix.

By luck?
Sure.
But sometimes, luck was all you needed.

It had all unfolded in the chaos of lap five—
Ferrari, out front, locked in a ruthless intra-team battle. Charles had the edge. Carlos was fighting tooth and nail to keep it close. Too close. They tangled. The cameras caught the exact moment—carbon fibre flying, tyres screeching. Charles skidded off into the gravel. Carlos spun out and slammed into the barrier.

The paddock held its breath.

But Charles, ever the pit viper, dragged the wounded Ferrari back onto the track. His nose was gone. The side looked chewed to bits. He didn’t care. He boxed for repairs and re-emerged like a man possessed. When others would’ve quit—he charged.

By some insane stroke of fortune, McLaren had a free path. Oscar surged forward, clean. Lando followed in hot pursuit. No safety car. No red flag. Just pure open air.

And in the end, Oscar crossed the line first.
Lando in second.
Charles clawed his way back to third.

The podium was awkward.

Oscar was elated—smiling that shy, boyish grin, waving at his hometown crowd. Lando was proud too, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud. He kept nudging Oscar with his elbow, grinning through champagne spray.

Charles stood like a statue carved from wrath, jaw locked, eyes dead.
He barely lifted the bottle.
The cameras caught the flicker of his snarl when the Ferrari anthem didn't play first.

Back at the garage, the Ferrari debrief was tense.
Carlos claimed Charles cut him off.
Charles claimed Carlos was too aggressive.
Neither admitted fault.

The Scuderia's PR team scrambled to make it sound like a racing incident.
But everyone knew—
War had been declared within Ferrari.
And Charles was only just getting started.

In the Ferrari hospitality suite, the air was tight—dense with fury.
Charles sat, still in his fireproofs, gloves half-off, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His jaw worked, grinding silently. His chest rose and fell with sharp, deliberate breaths.

Alexandra approached carefully, like someone walking into a lion’s cage.
“Charles…” her voice was quiet, “it was still a good result. P3 after a crash? That’s—”

He cut his eyes toward her. Not a word yet, but the glare was enough to chill the blood.

“You had a good qualifying, remember?” she tried again, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “Next race, you’ll—”

His shoulder rolled away from her touch.

“You don’t get it,” he snapped—voice low, almost venomous. “Don’t patronize me with ‘good’.”

She froze, her hand still mid-air, hovering like a ghost.

“I’m not patronizing you,” she said, softly. “I’m just trying to help you cool down—”

“You can’t help me,” Charles said through his teeth, standing abruptly. “No one can.”

The moment hung there. Heavy.
He didn’t scream.
He didn’t break anything.
But the room still felt like it had just been hit by lightning.

—Meanwhile, on the podium—

Oscar and Lando were grinning like kids in a candy store. They sprayed champagne everywhere, drenching each other, jumping around like idiots, laughing louder than the crowd.

Oscar popped his bottle and aimed it directly at Lando’s back.
Lando turned and retaliated instantly, sending a mist of foam across Oscar’s face.
The two bumped bottles, slung arms over each other’s shoulders. The photographers loved it—the golden boys of McLaren.

Charles stood beside them, stiff, shoulders squared, bottle untouched.
A thousand cameras flashed.
The crowd cheered.

But all Charles heard was blood in his ears,
and the crackle of a storm building deep behind his eyes.

Oscar stood there, champagne still dripping down his cheek, the bottle swinging loosely in his hand. Lando was grinning beside him, hollering to the crowd, but Oscar? He had one eye on the man standing to their left.

Charles Leclerc.

Stoic. Stone-faced. Rage curled in his posture like a coiled snake. The red on his suit might as well have been warning paint.

Oscar smirked—small, sharp.
Not because he was cruel.
Not because he hated Charles.

But because Charles *hated* losing. Hated losing to *him*. And right now? Charles had to watch from third place while McLaren painted the stage in orange.

A part of Oscar knew—a war was beginning
Not one with guns. But power, politics, influence. Sabotage in the dark.
Charles would not take this lying down.

But Oscar didn't care. Not right now.
He leaned over to Lando and whispered just loud enough for Charles to hear, “I think we need to make space on the shelf—this is just the start.”

Lando laughed, clapped him on the back. “You’re insufferable.”

Oscar tilted his head, eyes flicking back to Charles, voice a bit lower now.
“Only when someone like *him* is watching.”

Let Charles stew in it.
Oscar wasn’t playing nice anymore.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Autodromo, José Carlos Pace, São Paulo, Brazil]

The morning sun cast a golden haze over São Paulo, the paddock slowly stirring to life as the race weekend clicked into gear.

In their quiet corner of the hotel, Oscar stood barefoot in the kitchen of the suite, hair tousled, eyes still heavy from sleep. He sliced into a bright orange fruit with a practiced hand.

Lando padded in, yawning and rubbing his eyes, still in his McLaren team hoodie and pyjama pants.
“You’re up early,” he muttered.

Oscar held up a piece of fruit with a fork. “Try this.”

Lando eyed it suspiciously. “What *is* that? Looks like... weird melon.”

Oscar gave a half-smirk. “Papaya. You’ve never had it?”

Lando shook his head. “We don’t grow tropical fruit in bloody Guildford.”

Oscar stepped closer, stuck the forkful near his mouth. “Just shut up and eat it.”

Lando bit it off the fork—and paused. His face contorted, then relaxed, then contorted again.
“It’s like... sweet? But also... kinda tastes like feet.”

Oscar burst out laughing, nearly dropping the knife. “*You* taste like feet.”

“Rude,” Lando muttered, reaching for another slice anyway. “Why papaya though?”

Oscar shrugged, leaning on the counter beside him. “It’s Brazil. McLaren’s spirit animal. Thought it’d be good luck.”

Lando smirked. “Let’s hope it works. Charles is on pole *again*.”

Oscar didn’t reply immediately, just tossed a papaya seed into the bin and said quietly, “He won’t hold it.”

Lando glanced at him. “Confident, are we?”

Oscar met his gaze with a steady one. “Let’s just say… I don’t believe in perfection. And Charles? He believes he *is* perfection.”

Lando’s grin grew. “Well, let’s ruin his breakfast, then.”

Oscar raised a mock toast with a papaya slice. “To papayas. And petty victories.”

Lando clinked it with a spoon. “Cheers to that."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

About two hours before the Brazilian Grand Prix, Oscar and Lando found themselves tucked into a shaded tent set up near the paddock, cooled slightly by the humming fans overhead and the distant thump of event music. Around them sat about a dozen teenagers—ranging from 12 to 15—some decked out in orange McLaren caps, others nervously clutching posters, autograph books, and phones.

It wasn’t the usual "meet little kids and wave like clowns" setup. These kids were sharp, curious, and not afraid to ask real questions.

One girl, maybe thirteen, raised her hand. “What do you guys actually think about Charles Leclerc?”

Oscar blinked. Lando held back a laugh. “Straight to the deep end, huh?” he quipped, shifting in his chair.

Oscar gave a half-smile. “He’s fast. Probably one of the best on the grid.”
Then, after a pause: “But let’s say we don’t exactly swap Christmas cards.”

That got a few laughs. Another kid chimed in: “Who’s better at race starts, you or Lando?”

Lando leaned forward. “Me. Obviously.”

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “Lando thinks he’s better, but I’ve actually watched his onboard. And… let’s just say reflexes fade with age.”

“Oy!” Lando jabbed him in the ribs, grinning. “I’m older by, like, a year.”

A boy in the back spoke up, voice quieter: “Do you ever get scared? Like before a race?”

That silenced the playfulness for a beat. Oscar’s answer was calm, honest. “All the time.”

Lando nodded. “It’s not fear of the car. It’s fear of not doing enough. Of letting yourself down.”

Oscar glanced at him. “Of letting your team down too.”

The kids listened, leaning forward, eyes wide. These weren’t kids asking for selfies—they were the ones who got it. Who maybe wanted to be here one day, too.

Before wrapping up, one of the girls—tall, bold, with braces and a firm voice—asked, “So… if you had to pick between beating each other or beating Charles, who’d it be?”

Lando and Oscar looked at each other.

Then, in unison: “Charles.”

The tent erupted into laughter.

“Look,” Lando said, rising from his chair, “if one of us beats Charles, it’s a team victory.”

Oscar added, with a smirk, “But if both of us beat Charles, it’s personal satisfaction.”

The kids cheered.

And for a moment, under the hot Brazilian sky, it wasn’t about engines or tyre compounds or telemetry. It was just about love for the sport. And two guys who still remembered what it was like to be on the other side of the fence.

Oscar stood near the edge of the paddock, watching a group of fans waving flags, wearing orange caps, and yelling his name like it was sacred. He blinked behind his sunglasses, a slow, thoughtful kind of blink. It always struck him—how quickly things shifted.

He remembered being that kid. The one who used to wear the bright yellow Senna cap, too big for his head, watching old Formula 1 VHS tapes until they wore thin. He'd sit cross-legged in front of the TV, mesmerized by the way Ayrton Senna moved through corners like it was a dance choreographed by something divine. He knew every detail about him—how he grew up, how he drove, even the way he carried himself. Oscar had posters of Senna all over his bedroom wall. Senna wasn’t just a driver to him—he was *it*. The dream. The standard.

And now? Now *he* was someone’s Senna.

It wasn’t something he thought about much—not in a narcissistic way. But he felt it. When he saw those boys and girls waiting outside the hotel at 6 AM just for a wave. When he saw the signs with his name and the drawings, some of them shaky, colored in with love. When they looked up at him like he was already a world champion, even if the trophy hadn’t landed in his hands yet.

And that was the thing—they weren’t wrong.

He *would* be world champion. That wasn’t arrogance; it was written in how he drove. The control. The calm. The relentless focus when it mattered. He didn’t need to scream about it—he just needed a couple more chances, and the right day.

Oscar glanced back at the fans, someone holding a sign: **“Piastri 81 – Future World Champ!”**

He gave a small wave and a rare, quiet smile. He didn’t always show emotion, but in that moment, he felt it. Because once, he had been that little kid—starry-eyed, dreaming of podiums and glory.

Now the world was dreaming about him.

It was one of *those* races.

From lights out in São Paulo, it was war. A silent, calculated, *elegant* war. Charles might’ve looked like marble in that scarlet suit—cool, pristine, untouchable—but Oscar was the flame that threatened to crack him open. From lap one to the final turn, the two of them were in a relentless chess match at 300km/h.

Oscar stayed right on his tail.

Every sector, every lap. He watched Charles’s every move—how he defended, how he exited corners, the micro-corrections he made mid-chicane. And every time Oscar looked to make a move, Charles shut the door with surgical precision. It wasn’t luck. It was cold-blooded brilliance. He drove like a man possessed.

Oscar got close—*so* close. DRS open, inches from the gearbox, breathing heat down his neck lap after lap. But Charles held him off like a fortress. Ice in his veins.

Lando had dropped off, stuck in dirty air. Carlos was a non-factor. It became a two-man show. Ferrari vs McLaren. Leclerc vs Piastri.

Oscar pushed until the tires screamed, until his race engineer begged him to back off. But he didn’t. He wasn’t going to hand it over. Charles had to *fight* for it—and he did. When he crossed the line first, it was by less than a second.

Oscar came in second.

No crashes. No carnage. Just two masters playing at the edge of control.

Charles climbed out of the car with his usual smirk, arms raised, soaking in the Ferrari cheers like a Roman emperor returning from war.

Oscar didn’t smile. He didn’t wave much. But when he stepped onto the second step of the podium and looked over at Charles, their eyes met—and for just a second, there was no hate. Just a silent understanding:

*Next time, it’s mine.*

Charles had this amusement in his eyes. *You dare test me?* The sun's lighting gave him a godly look.

Charles stood at the top step, holding the trophy high above his head like it was divine. The cheers from the tifosi below were deafening. Red flares clouded the air like incense. He soaked it all in—*too much*, Oscar thought.

Oscar stayed quiet on his step, eyes set forward, not at the crowd, not at the cameras, but at Charles.

And that’s when it hit him.

The way Charles looked at the trophy wasn’t like someone proud—it was like someone *possessed*. Obsessed. His eyes were glassy, almost empty. The smirk wasn’t joy—it was armor. A thin veil over something far uglier.

Oscar could see it.

*Rosberg.*

The ghost of that past rivalry bled through every glance Charles gave him. Every word in the press conference. Every calculated move on the track. The same cold, ruthless hunger. The willingness to burn everything—friendships, trust, even himself—for that thin, glittering piece of metal.

Oscar had seen the documentaries. The footage of Nico and Lewis pushing each other past reason. The fights. The tension. The fallout. The silence afterward.

*Is it worth it?* Oscar thought. *Is any of this really worth it?*

The cameras caught Charles glancing over—*too bold*, *too sharp*—a stare that sliced right through Oscar’s thoughts. Not a smile. Just that burning, almost tragic fire behind his eyes. The kind of look that said: *If I don’t win, I don’t exist.*

Oscar looked away first.

Not because he was scared—but because, for a split second, he pitied him.

And that, in some way, scared him more.

Chapter 6

Summary:

It's near a fish 😭

They were seated at a low table in some trendy, too-cool Tokyo-style restaurant tucked away in the paddock hospitality village—just hours after the Brazil GP wrapped. Lando was still in his fireproofs, half-zipped, face flushed from the champagne and the adrenaline. He was staring down at the sushi like it might attack.

Oscar popped a piece into his mouth effortlessly, chewing with smug satisfaction.

Lando squinted. “That thing’s raw.”

Oscar swallowed, grabbed another. “Yeah, mate, that’s kinda the point.”

“That’s *sick*.”

Oscar grinned, elbows on the table. “Lando, the fish is already dead.”

“That’s what you *think.*” Lando eyed the plate like it might start moving.

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to tell a spooky campfire story. “It’s not gonna slither off the plate and crawl into your helmet, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Lando groaned dramatically. “Why would you *say* that?”

Still, he picked up the sushi roll—not with chopsticks, no, Lando stabbed it right through with a metal fork like he was neutralizing a threat. Oscar watched, deadpan.

“That’s cultural blasphemy.”

“I’m English. We colonized sushi,” Lando said through a mouthful, making Oscar choke on his water.

In truth, the food was good. They both relaxed into the meal, the post-race buzz making everything feel a little funnier, a little lighter. Double podium for McLaren. P2 and P3. Lando had nearly caught Oscar at one point, and they’d both kept Charles honest—if barely.

But even now, even as they sat together laughing over dead fish and cheap soy sauce packets, they both knew Charles had won. Again.

Oscar leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment.

“He’s not slowing down.”

Lando didn’t answer for a second. Then, “Yeah. But neither are we.”

Oscar looked over.

Lando stabbed another sushi roll.

“…just maybe not with raw sea monsters, alright?”

The memory hit Lando mid-chew, the taste of tuna melting on his tongue—well, as much as it could with how suspiciously he was chewing it. He paused, fork hovering above the plate, then chuckled under his breath.

Oscar looked up from his roll. “What?”

Lando grinned, eyes a little distant. “Just remembered Japan. Me and Carlos, when we were teammates.”

Oscar tilted his head, curious.

Lando mimicked Carlos’s voice, thick with his accent: “*‘Lanno, look at this one. It has no fesh.’*” He snorted. “He meant fish, but that’s how he said it. *No fesh.*”

Oscar laughed. “Did you eat it?”

“Of course not,” Lando said indignantly. “It was *near fish*. That’s basically the same thing.”

Oscar shook his head in amusement. “You’re impossible.”

Lando wasn’t finished. He dropped the fork dramatically on the table. “Carlos gave me this whole lecture. ‘Mate, you need to grow up, you need to mature.’”

Oscar raised a brow. “And?”

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms crossed like a stubborn child. “‘I don’t want to mature. I’m happy where I am.’ That’s what I told him.”

Oscar smirked. “Still feel that way?”

There was a pause. Not long. But enough for something quiet to settle between them.

Lando shrugged. “Sometimes, yeah. I dunno. Life moves fast enough as it is. Why rush into growing up when I’m still figuring things out?”

Oscar nodded, softer now. “Fair.”

Another silence, this time warm.

Then Lando picked up the fork again and stabbed another sushi piece. “Still not using the chopsticks, though.”

Oscar sighed. “You’re a lost cause.”

“Happy one,” Lando said with a grin.

The two wandered down the street after dinner, still in casual McLaren gear, caps pulled low. They found a tiny boba shop tucked between two glowing noodle joints, neon signs flickering overhead like lazy lightning.

Oscar held the door open. “You sure about this? You just survived raw fish.”

Lando stepped inside without hesitation. “Mate, bubble tea doesn’t give me emotional trauma. That’s a win in my books.”

Oscar chuckled. “The bar is low.”

“The bar is on the floor,” Lando confirmed as he beelined toward the counter. “But hey, it’s tea *and* dessert in one. It doesn’t smell like the ocean, doesn’t look like it’ll bite me back, and there’s no dead-eyed sea creature looking into my soul.”

Oscar laughed outright. “You’re so dramatic.”

Lando shot him a smug look. “And yet, still relatable.”

Minutes later, they sat outside the shop with drinks in hand—Oscar with a classic milk tea, Lando sipping on some absurd mango-strawberry hybrid.

Lando slurped a tapioca pearl and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Now *this* is my kind of exotic.”

Oscar raised his cup. “To emotional stability in a plastic cup.”

Lando clinked his against Oscar’s. “Cheers to that, mate.”

Chapter 7

Summary:

Somebody makes a comeback. The Leclerc's advance their territory in the underworld.

Logan Sargeant's return to Formula One was nothing short of dramatic—of course, that was the Leclercs' specialty. He wasn’t meant to be back. Not really. But politics, money, and image twisted fate once more, and for a single Grand Prix, Logan was wearing red. A Ferrari driver, just for one weekend.

His pace? Not terrible. Not brilliant either. Middling, if you asked the pundits. But Logan had something no simulator or data model could capture—rage, bottled and ready. It burned behind his eyes every time Charles gave him a sideways glance, every time Arthur barked a command through the radio as if he were some lapdog.

And that was exactly what he’d become. A tool for the Leclerc machine.

Charles, cold and composed, called it “strategic partnership.” In reality, Logan was cannon fodder. Cover strategy. Block Oscar. Slow Lando. Do as you're told. He was the red pawn sacrificed for Charles's grand chessboard.

And Logan? He didn’t like being anyone’s pawn. But he'd been gone too long to bite the hand that put him back on track. So he followed orders. Gritted his teeth. Slammed the wheel when it all went sideways, but never said a word in public.

The cameras captured the headlines. *"Sargeant’s Return: Tamed or Trapped?"*

He wasn't sure himself.

But the thing about dogs? They don’t stay on leashes forever.

Logan hated being on a leash. Every instinct in him screamed against it—against being controlled, muzzled, paraded like a Ferrari puppet. But the Leclercs were calculated. They knew the taste of power, and they played with it the way predators play with prey before the final blow. Charles especially.

Charles had grown bolder. Not just on the track—but in the shadows. With Ferrari’s backing and a bloodline that could buy silence, he began extending Leclerc territory beyond the paddock. Into shipping routes. Into political circles. Into the underground economy.

That’s when the shipments started vanishing.

Shipments meant for the Piastri family—discreet containers moving through neutral ports, gone without a trace. Not just once. Not twice. Five shipments. Gone. Millions lost. Trust eroded. Oscar’s father, a man rarely in the public eye, went silent. And when the elder Piastri goes silent, it means only one thing: retaliation is being planned.

It was no longer just racing.

It was war.

Oscar, usually reserved, began walking with colder eyes. He’d learned to smile for cameras, but lately, that smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The pressure of legacy and family honor weighed heavy.

Charles? He didn’t blink. If anything, he looked entertained. "Tell your family to choose better guards," he had said with a smirk one day as they passed each other in the paddock.

Lando tried to keep things light, but even he felt the shift. "What’s going on, mate?" he asked Oscar once. But Oscar didn’t answer.

Meanwhile, Logan stood somewhere in between. He saw everything. Heard more than he should. And though he was technically on Charles’s side, he couldn’t stomach being part of something this dirty.

Especially not when he knew he was being used as bait—a Leclerc message to the Piastris: We can get to anyone. Even the fallen.

The question now wasn’t if someone would strike back.

It was when.

It was the apex of tension—rival banners waving on track and in the shadows.

Jack Doohan, a rising star, and junior soldier of the Piastri family, was supposed to be untouchable under F1’s glittering lights. But loyalty comes with consequences. One night in Monaco—off-season, quiet streets—a car pulled up beside him, and two masked men got out. No words. Just force. And the sickening sound of bone snapping.

The next morning, headlines read:
“Doohan out for several races following ‘motorbike accident’.”
But those close to the scene knew better. There was no motorbike. No crash. Just deliberate violence.

Oscar was at the hospital within the hour. Paid everything out of pocket. Sat beside Jack’s hospital bed, jaw tight, fists clenched, staring at the twisted cast around his teammate’s leg. There were lines you didn’t cross. This was one of them.

So he went looking for Charles.

He found him in Ferrari hospitality—casual, calm, sipping espresso like he hadn’t just ordered someone’s leg broken.

Oscar didn’t wait for pleasantries.
“We can’t keep doing this, idiot,” he snapped, voice low but ice-cold.
“The public will catch on.”

Charles raised a brow. “Catch on to what? Athletes get injured. Accidents happen.”

“You think no one’s going to ask questions when half the grid ends up in wheelchairs?” Oscar shot back. “We’re not invisible, Charles.”

Charles leaned back, smiled thinly. “We are gods to them. And gods don’t answer to mortals.”

Oscar’s face hardened. “You’re not a god. You’re a spoiled little prince playing criminal. And you’re going to get someone killed.”

There was a silence.

Then Charles stood slowly, eyes like flint. “Watch your tone, Piastri. This isn’t just about *you* anymore. It’s empire. And empire doesn’t bend.”

Oscar turned and walked away without another word.

But deep down, he knew: this wasn’t the end.

It was only the beginning of an all-out war.

Logan had never been a loyal dog. He was a desperate man on a leash, tugging harder with each step Charles demanded of him. And finally—he snapped it.

He came to Oscar in secret. Pale, shaking, clothes slightly rumpled like he hadn’t slept in days.

"I'm done," Logan whispered. "They watch everything. My phone. My car. My bloody meals."

Oscar didn’t speak. Just stared.

"I know I was an asshole. I know I said things. Did things. But I didn’t think it would go this far."
His voice cracked. "Please, man. I just want out. I want to go home. I want to be a driver, not their puppet. Not Charles' shadow."

Oscar studied him, quiet, calculating. Part of him wanted to turn away—let Logan lie in the bed he made. But another part... saw a man cornered, cracked open by fear.

Oscar nodded once.
"Stay low. Don’t contact anyone. I’ll sort it out."

But he was too late.

Charles already knew.

And just like that—Logan vanished.

No trace. Not in the paddock. Not in Monaco. Not even in the CCTV logs. One moment, he existed. The next, nothing. His name was scrubbed from the Ferrari social feeds. His locker was emptied without a sound. No goodbye. No press release. Not even a rumor.

The last known footage?
A grainy clip of him stepping into a black Maserati at dusk.

Then—nothing.

Oscar heard the news while eating breakfast. Lando slid the article across the table without a word.

"You think he’s dead?" Lando finally asked.

Oscar didn’t answer. Just stared out the window, lips drawn tight.

But deep inside, he knew the truth.

Charles never leaves loose ends.

 

Mark knocked on the door once, then stepped in without waiting for an answer—typical Aussie bluntness. Oscar was halfway through lacing his shoes when he glanced up, already reading the tension in his manager’s face.

"You got a sec?"

Oscar nodded slowly. "Yeah. What's up?"

Mark closed the door behind him. Folded his arms. That concerned, fatherly posture he pulled when things felt off.
"It’s Logan."

Oscar didn’t flinch, but the room suddenly felt tighter.

"He’s missing. And I mean proper missing. No Instagram posts, no press photos. Ferrari’s pretending it’s a ‘private break’—but it’s bullshit. I asked around. Not even the bloody engineers know where he is."

Oscar kept tying his shoe. Tighter than necessary.

"You two had history. And it was messy. But… I figured maybe he reached out to you? Before he disappeared?"

Oscar straightened, exhaled softly.
"No. Nothing. We hadn’t talked in weeks."
(That wasn’t a lie. It had been days, not weeks.)

Mark stared at him for a long moment, trying to read past the layers Oscar had gotten so damn good at putting up.

"Look," Mark continued, voice lowered, almost gentle now, "I know you’re not the same kid I started managing back in F2. You’ve grown up, hardened up. I get it. But if something’s going on—if Logan’s in trouble—"

Oscar’s jaw clenched.
"He was in trouble. That’s the whole point."

Mark frowned.
"Was?"

Oscar stood, brushing past the question.
"He made some bad choices. Picked the wrong people. And I’m not getting dragged into it."

Mark narrowed his eyes.
"You sure you’re not already in it, mate?"

That hung between them like smoke.

Oscar gave a faint shrug, then changed the subject—classic misdirection.

But inside, a dull ache pressed on his ribs.

Because Mark didn’t know.

Didn’t know about the shipments, or the family name hidden behind silence. Didn’t know Oscar’s nights were half sleepless with tension, or that Ferrari wasn’t just a rival anymore—it was a literal threat.

And Mark certainly didn’t know that Oscar had looked into Logan’s name last night.

And found nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Like he’d never even existed.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Consequences.

Oscar had grown numb to death by the time he turned twenty. It wasn’t by choice—it was by blood.

The underworld didn't care that he was young. It didn’t care that he drove cars for a living, smiled for cameras, and waved to children in paddocks. When you were born into it—into the Piastri family—you learned to shut the door on your emotions early. Otherwise, you wouldn’t survive.

Anthoine Hubert had been just a boy. A gentle, bright, almost painfully optimistic soul. Oscar remembered him from the time they shared a dull summer in Marseille—Anthoine laughing too loud, dreaming too high. He’d been a close ally to the Gasly cartel, just barely initiated. A "junior" soldier, they called him.

He never saw his twentieth birthday.

They said it was a rival ambush in Lyon, but Oscar always suspected more. Anthoine had been too eager, too confident. He’d wanted to prove himself—wanted to climb quickly, perhaps too quickly. In Oscar’s world, those who rushed never lasted.

Pierre Gasly had taken it hard. Oscar still remembered the glassy-eyed stare Pierre wore during the funeral, the way his hands trembled when he carried the casket with the other boys. Pierre didn’t cry. None of them did. It was an unspoken rule in their circles: tears were wasted, and pain was private.

Still, Oscar went. He always did.

The Piastris sent white lilies—always lilies—and a sealed envelope tucked inside. Not a letter, never. Just folded banknotes and silence. A gesture of respect, and a reminder: they hadn’t forgotten.

The funerals blurred together now. Different names, different faces, always the same gunmetal sadness.
But Anthoine stuck with him. Because he was the youngest. Because he was good.
Because he shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

And sometimes—just sometimes—Oscar would stand alone in the garage, hands buried in his racing gloves, thinking of Anthoine.

Of what it meant to chase legacy in a world where dying young was normal.

In Oscar’s world, death didn’t knock.

It kicked down the door, uninvited, without apology.
He'd been taught that from the cradle. In whispered warnings. In bloody handkerchiefs tucked into suit pockets. In the way grown men flinched at sudden noises, always expecting something.

The Gaslys understood this too. Old money and sharp suits didn’t shield you from stray bullets. Not when you were born into that life. Pierre knew, painfully well. His father might've hidden the books behind legitimate business, but the violence still trickled in—through the cracks, the whispers, the silences at dinner.

But the world outside?

The ordinary world, the one with cheering fans and camera flashes, had no idea.

They didn’t know what it meant to bury someone you’d had breakfast with.
They didn’t understand how fast violence came. How arbitrary. How grotesque.
They didn’t know what it felt like to hear a mother scream at a funeral.
Or how the sound never left your head.

Children didn’t expect it.
They saw uniforms, not blood. Heard stories, not sirens.
They grew up believing in safety. In grown-ups who came home.

Oscar had long stopped believing in such things. So had Pierre.
You could see it in their eyes. That quiet, calculating sadness.
The kind only those raised among coffins and cornered loyalties carried.

Oscar once overheard a rookie in the paddock say, “We're not risking our lives out there, it's just racing.”

He almost laughed.

Because for him—and for boys like Pierre—it was never just racing.
It was the only part of their lives where the danger felt honest.

For Oscar and Pierre, Formula One wasn’t the dangerous part.

The cockpit was a sanctuary — one of control, precision, and rules. Predictable danger.
You crash? You spin out? You might break a bone, maybe worse. But there were marshals, helmets, safety teams. Risk was measured, calculated.

Outside that paddock, there were no marshals.
No one to wave a yellow flag when things got too close.
No rules, no run-off zones.
Only betrayal, backroom deals, silencers, and blood wiped off marble floors.

People assumed their lives were most at risk doing 300 kph on a straight.
But no — it was that phone call at midnight.
That missing shipment.
That soldier who didn't check in.
That look on a rival’s face that meant *someone wasn't coming back.*

Compared to that?

The roar of an engine and the squeal of tires was peace.
It was honest. Pure, even.
There was no knife in your back in the driver’s seat — just the track ahead and your own hands on the wheel.

And maybe that’s why they loved it.
Why they clung to racing like a lifeline.
Because everything else in their lives was smoke and shadows.
But racing?
Racing was real.

Yes — Oscar was lucky, in that narrow, brutal sense.

Despite growing up in a world where soldiers disappeared overnight and funerals were routine, the violence somehow never touched him physically. Not yet. No bullet had grazed him, no knife had found his ribs. His face was never bashed in during an ambush gone wrong.

He was lucky that the worst wounds he bore were invisible — psychological ones. Memories and paranoia. That sharp, ever-present watchfulness. The silence before a betrayal. The guilt of surviving where others didn’t.

He’d watched others bleed, sure. He’d seen the way a chest heaves one last time before it stops moving.
But he himself? Untouched. Like fate, or the universe, or someone—maybe even the dead—had drawn a circle of protection around him.

Lando called it "blessed."
Pierre called it "borrowed time."
Charles insisted on "that is because we are gods on earth."

Because in a world like theirs, untouched didn’t mean safe.
It just meant not yet.

Charles had always carried himself like something sacred — a divine sculpture in motion, chiseled by the hand of God Himself. Every mirror he passed confirmed it. Every glance from the crowd reinforced it. Perfection, in posture and poise. So when he saw Pierre making dumb faces or Lando cracking jokes like a teenager at a sleepover, it made his jaw tighten just that much more.

At first, it was just a dismissive exhale — a roll of the eyes.
Then a scoff.
Then the subtle clench of his fists.
The laughter, the lightness, the lack of reverence for this sacred craft of racing... it gnawed at him.

He believed F1 was meant to be austere, to be regal.
To be his.

And those two—Gasly and Norris—kept turning it into a circus.

Each time, Charles felt it more deeply: they were mocking something holy.
And worse... they were still loved for it.

That fact made his skin crawl.

Charles had always masked it behind charm — the kind of soft-spoken, media-friendly elegance that made the world see him as princely. But behind the curtain, it was something else entirely.

He despised the idea of women entering Formula One.
To him, the paddock was no place for "emotion" or "neediness," as he’d call it, with a scoff that dripped with disdain. He saw it as sacred ground — his sanctuary — not a playground for what he viewed as weaker minds.

“Sentiment has no place in speed,” he once said to Arthur, offhandedly, as if quoting scripture.

The truth was, Charles lacked something crucial: empathy. Real, deep, human empathy. He didn’t feel for people — not really. Not beyond how useful or impressive they were to him.

He viewed others in levels: beneath him or beside him. And no one, really, ever stood beside him.

Even Alexandra, his girlfriend, was a façade — arm candy for optics. He tolerated her. Barely. Only in front of the cameras.

Behind the scenes, Charles operated from a place of deeply ingrained superiority. He was the king in his mind. His world ran on hierarchy, and in his world, he sat at the top — untouchable, unmarred, and unbothered.

And any threat to that throne, no matter how small or theoretical, drew his quiet, simmering rage.

Charlotte Siné had believed in him — truly. The kind of belief that only comes from innocence, or maybe blind hope. She thought that under the layers of entitlement and charm, there had to be something more to Charles. Something human.

She was sweet. Genuine. Patient.
She told herself she could fix him.

But she couldn’t.

Because Charles wasn’t broken — not in the way people break. He was designed like that. Cold. Controlling. Brilliantly manipulative. And above all, self-centered. He didn’t love her — not really. He loved what she gave him: attention, devotion, stability, adoration.

He treated her like a well-behaved pet more than a partner. There were rules, expectations, and punishments if she strayed from the script.

Still, Charlotte endured three long years.
And when she caught him cheating — with no explanation, no guilt, no apology — it all shattered. Not just the relationship, but the illusion she’d built around him. That he could be better. That he wanted to be better.

He didn’t.
He never did.

So she walked. Quietly, but completely. She left the keys to his apartment on the kitchen counter. No note. No tears. Nothing left to say. That silence, ironically, was the only thing that ever rattled him.

Publicly, Charles played it cool. Calm. Composed. He told the media,

"We just had different goals in life. I think we both needed to grow, separately. I’ll always be grateful for the memories… I’ll miss her."

It was polished. Hollow. A PR-safe version of the truth that barely scratched the surface. There were no visible cracks in his façade — just that signature Leclerc smirk, tired eyes, and a shrug that said “it’s life.”

But people remembered.
They remembered Charlotte smiling in the paddock, waiting at the back of the garage with soft eyes and folded hands. They remembered the way she supported him like she meant it, not for cameras. She was quiet, but always there — and loved, not just by him, but by the crew. The media. The fans.

After the breakup, something shifted.

Her absence was noticeable — like a light switched off.
The paddock felt colder. More clinical. Like Charles had lost the only part of him that ever felt… real.

The truth? Charles didn’t “miss” her. Not in the way he claimed.
He missed the control. The convenience.
And the admiration she gave him without question.

But Charlotte? She didn’t look back.
She found peace in her silence — and power in her distance.
And the fans? They still ask where she went, sometimes. Quietly. Hopefully.

Because even if Charles was the prince of Monaco —
Charlotte had always been the heart.

They met somewhere private — not on track, not in front of cameras. No microphones, no managers, no teammates. Just Oscar and Charles, surrounded by the ghostly silence of a war only the two of them truly understood.

Charles leaned against a rusted-out balcony of an old Monaco building, arms crossed, the Mediterranean wind brushing his jawline like he was posing for a tragic painting.

Oscar arrived late. No apologies. Just tired eyes and a stitched-up knuckle — one of many signs that things were spiraling.

“This has gone too far,” Oscar said first. His voice low, worn, but still sharp. “We’re drawing blood now. Real blood. This isn’t just our business anymore.”

Charles exhaled, jaw tightening.

“I told you from the start. You don’t play clean in this world.”
He turned, briefly locking eyes with Oscar. “But even I can’t afford a public scandal.”

Neither could Oscar.

Jack Doohan’s injury was already drawing whispers. Logan’s disappearance — impossible to cover up forever. Reporters were sniffing around, asking questions that had nothing to do with lap times.

They stood in silence for a moment.

“We pause,” Charles said, finally. “Until the off-season. Then we settle it properly.”

“Fine. But if one more of my boys goes missing,” Oscar’s tone darkened, “I won’t wait for the off-season. I’ll drag you out of your little palace and end it myself.”

Charles smirked.

“I’ll hold you to that, Piastri.”

They didn’t shake hands. No one bowed.
But in the silence that followed, a temporary truce hung in the air like fog — heavy, uneasy, but real.

For now, the war was frozen.

But not over.
Never over.

Peace was just a fantasy.

A pathetic little dream.

Chapter 9

Summary:

Oscar involve himself into an illegal street racing hassle with some street rats. Kimi and Lando joins along. Oscar is the only whom actually participates. Introduction to Kimi Antonelli-Piastri.

It was one of those hot, humming nights in Miami. Neon leaking from the skyline, tire smoke hanging in the humid air like ghost trails. Oscar had no business being there, not really. But ego was a fragile thing — especially when challenged by kids with busted-down Hondas and engines patched together with willpower and duct tape.

They called him soft. Said he was just a pretty white boy with privilege and a pit crew.

Oscar didn’t flinch. He never did.

“You boys sure you wanna do this?” he asked, leaning against the matte black McLaren he’d ‘borrowed’ from a private collection for the night. “I’d hate to embarrass you in front of your girls.”

Lando was already laughing before the engines even turned over.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said. “You’re so getting arrested.”

Kimi was there too, crouched on the sidewalk with wide eyes and a grin too big for his face. He followed Lando like a stray — ever since that first Grand Prix back home where he watched Lando jump out of the car like a hero in a film. Since then, Lando had earned himself a tail.

Oscar didn’t mind the street scene. Not really. It was nostalgic. Reminded him of the rough corners of Melbourne — before the fame, before the titles, before Mark Webber was constantly in his ear about “risk management” and “career preservation.”

“They challenged me,” Oscar would later say with a shrug. “What was I supposed to do? Say no?”

Mark didn’t find it so charming.

“You’re not invincible, Oscar,” he said when the photos inevitably leaked. “You’re not on Netflix anymore — you’re in the real world.”

Oscar only smiled.

“So was Senna, Mark.”

He won the race, naturally. Blew past the kids with little effort — but not without flair. He threw the car sideways at the finish, tires squealing, smoke curling around him like stage fog.

The kids gave him nods. Respect. Even if they lost, they understood showmanship.

And Kimi? Kimi was in awe.

“Lando, did you see that? He drifted!”

Lando rolled his eyes but smiled, brushing soot off his hoodie.

“Yeah, kid. I saw it. Oscar’s an idiot. But he’s our idiot.”

They left before the cops came. Music still bumping, streetlights flickering.

It was stupid. Dangerous. Reckless.
Oscar would probably do it again next week.

Oscar didn’t even blink when the duffel bag came out.

Ten grand in crumpled cash, rubber-banded and dirt-slick. It was his — clean win, clean run, no one could deny it. The boys who bet against him were already hanging their heads, ready to pay up, a mix of shame and admiration in their eyes. They’d never seen someone drive like that — smooth, ruthless, effortless.

But Oscar just shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said, with that trademark tilt of his head, the one that made people unsure if he was being arrogant or just cool. “Buy better parts. Or dinner for your mums.”

There was a silence. The kind that feels heavier than words. The kind that carves itself into memory.

They didn’t know what to say — just muttered thanks, nods, a few handshakes. Respect, deep-rooted and raw, passed between people who lived entirely different lives but still knew what pride looked like. One of the boys grinned through his gold tooth and said, “You alright, Aussie.”

Oscar just gave a half-smile and walked back to the McLaren he initially drove.

Kimi was quiet, sitting in the passenger seat with his hoodie sleeves curled around his hands. He didn’t talk much, not unless Lando did. But he stared at Oscar now like he was watching a movie he hadn’t expected to like.

“You’re not like him,” Kimi finally said, voice small but certain. “You’re not like Charles.”

Oscar didn’t look over, just kept driving through the humid streets, windows cracked, city breeze slick with heat.

“I know,” he replied simply. “That’s why you’re with us now.”

Truth was, Oscar had been watching for a while. Noticed how Kimi lingered behind Leclerc’s crew in the paddock. How the kid flinched too often, obeyed too fast. Charles didn’t nurture, didn’t protect — he owned. Kimi was never meant to be owned.

So Oscar waited. And when the war cooled down enough, when Charles was too busy licking his wounds and plotting in Monaco — he offered Kimi a seat in his car. No strings. Just trust.

And the boy took it.

Later that night, back at the hotel suite, Lando flopped on the couch with boba in one hand and a smug grin on his face.

“You know, you're a softie,” he teased. “Ten grand? Seriously?”

Oscar shrugged, unbothered.

“Wasn’t mine to need. They needed it more.”

Lando tossed a tapioca pearl at him.

“One day, your kindness is gonna get us both killed.”

Oscar caught the pearl between two fingers without looking.

“Maybe. But not tonight.”

From across the room, Kimi laughed — really laughed — for the first time in a long while.

And in that moment, things felt right.

The joke came during the post-race press conference in Singapore, where the humidity clung like a second skin and tempers usually ran short — but that day, the air was light. McLaren had snagged another double podium: Oscar P2, Lando P3. Kimi, freshly signed to a junior driver role, was perched at the back of the room in McLaren teamwear three sizes too big, sipping a Red Bull like a toddler with a juice box.

The journalist’s question was half-serious, half-jab:

“Oscar, since Kimi’s basically glued to your side these days… any plans to adopt him officially?”

Oscar blinked. Lando nearly snorted his water. Kimi went scarlet and slid halfway behind the wall.

Oscar leaned forward into the mic, utterly deadpan.

“We’re working on the paperwork,” he said. “Just waiting for Zak Brown to sign off on it.”

The room broke into laughter. Even Kimi cracked a grin, peeking out from behind the wall like a shy raccoon.

But under the teasing and the headlines that followed ("PIASTRI ADOPTS A SON?" blared more than one clickbait article), there was a quiet truth: Kimi had become part of them. He followed Oscar like a shadow and looked at Lando like a safe older brother who said stupid things but always had snacks.

He’d been twelve when Charles picked him up. Seventeen when Oscar quietly plucked him out of that world.

And seventeen still — but already visibly different.

His hair wasn’t slicked back anymore. He wore a hoodie with a stitched McLaren patch instead of the black-on-black uniform the Leclerc crew used to make him wear. He joked now. Smiled. Ate three times a day.

“You know,” Lando said one night in Monaco, half-asleep in Oscar’s hotel room, “we might actually be raising a real human being here. Like. He eats vegetables now.”

Oscar, eyes closed, replied:

“Next he’ll be doing taxes and asking about tire deg.”

Lando yawned.

“He already asked about tire deg.”

Silence for a beat.

“Oh God,” Oscar muttered. “We’ve created a monster.”

But it was said with the fondness of someone who never asked to be responsible for a kid, but now wouldn’t give him up for anything.

And Kimi? Kimi still followed like a tail, quiet but steady — because with them, he was safe. And for the first time in a long time, that was all he needed.
The paddock couldn’t stop laughing when the graphics popped up on the screen during FP1.

#79 – KIMI ANTONELLI-PIASTRI – McLAREN MERCEDES

The announcers choked mid-sentence. Ted Kravitz blinked like his screen was lying to him. The fans at home flooded the web in seconds.

“Wait… WHAT?? Did Oscar actually adopt him??" #KimiPiastri #McLarenFamily”

Of course, it was just a joke. A clever stunt between the McLaren PR team and Lando, who’d been laughing about it for days and secretly made sure the graphics department was in on it. The name wouldn’t stay like that beyond FP1 — but the internet ate it.

Oscar acted unbothered, deadpan as always. When asked, he simply shrugged:

“We figured he’d earned the name after following us around like a lost sheep. And, well, the paperwork’s still in progress.”

Kimi, red as his own race gloves, tried to hide behind his helmet.

Meanwhile, Charles Leclerc wasn’t laughing.

He was leading the championship. Nine races in a row — a Ferrari record, surpassing legends, breaking statistics like twigs under a boot. But none of that brought him joy anymore. Winning had become routine. Dull. Hollow.

And every time he saw them — Oscar, Lando, and now Kimi — sharing quiet grins, making jokes, raising their little family — something in him twisted. Not jealousy, not exactly. But something close to bitterness. Resentment.

The Leclercs used to dominate everything — the underworld, the grid, the narrative.

Now they were just watching a new dynasty form — one that didn't need cruelty to hold power.

“They’re soft,” Charles muttered under his breath, watching Oscar and Lando tease Kimi in parc fermé.
“They’ll fall.”

But for now? The scoreboard was clear.

Charles Leclerc – P1.
Ferrari – Untouchable.
Oscar Piastri – P2.

And the war was on pause — but not forgotten.

Chapter 10

Summary:

How Kimi was released from his doom. How Oscar Piastri turned a certain someone in a spy.

Oscar’s plan wasn’t fast. It wasn’t loud.
It was surgical.

He knew Charles would never let Kimi go willingly — not without punishment, not without making an example. So he worked in shadows. He pulled favors from people who owed him, from tech nerds in Melbourne who could scramble GPS, to deep contacts in Monaco that had access to the Leclercs’ financial trails.

And Kimi? Kimi followed instruction with the precision of someone who had learned survival was obedience.
He slipped out in the middle of the night after Monaco’s post-race banquet, quietly moving into McLaren’s secured wing before anyone even realized he was missing.

Charles didn’t react publicly. But Oscar noticed the shift immediately — tightened security, sharpened eyes, subtle, unexplained absences from Charles's side of the paddock. There was rage, carefully bottled.

That’s why Oscar moved fast.

Kimi’s first therapy session happened two days after his extraction.
Oscar arranged it quietly — one of McLaren’s private resources, someone trustworthy, confidential. He didn’t force Kimi to talk. Just offered a space. A chance.

“You’re not weak for needing help,” Oscar said, sitting beside him in the waiting room. “You’re strong because you *survived* him.”

Kimi didn’t respond at first. But he went in. That was enough.

---

Oliver Bearman — Ollie — was the key piece of the puzzle Oscar didn’t expect.

Ferrari’s golden reserve, baby-faced and unassuming, but sharper than he looked. Kimi and Ollie had bonded during simulator work, hours alone in the garage or late-night practice sessions where Kimi could finally *breathe*.

Oscar didn’t rush Kimi.
But eventually, the boy sat Ollie down, nervously picking at his fingers while Oscar stood behind him in quiet support.

Kimi told him everything.
The manipulation. The violence.
The *ownership*.

Ollie didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
He just listened. And when Kimi was done, he said:

“Right. So we burn him down then.”

That night, Oscar had what he needed.

Ollie had access to internal Ferrari logistics, Charles’s race prep, security movements, personal meetings. Nothing critical — not yet — but enough to build a full behavioral map. Oscar didn’t intend to strike *now*, not mid-season. But he knew where Charles would eat, sleep, and fly for the next six months.

And Charles? Still winning. Still walking like a deity among mortals.

But he had no idea that the boy he once controlled now sat at the heart of his enemies’ camp — healing, learning, and remembering *everything*.
With Ollie by his side.
And Oscar watching every move.

From the outside, it looked like nothing had changed.

Kimi and Ollie barely acknowledged each other at races. No long pit lane chats. No social media banter. If anything, they kept a deliberate distance — just two rookies on rival paths, both clawing for attention in the circus that was Formula One.

But behind the scenes?

Ollie was *fuming*.
What Charles had done to Kimi — the control, the gaslighting, the humiliation — it stuck with him like a splinter under the skin. Quiet, sharp, impossible to ignore.

And so Ollie became something else entirely:
Kimi’s ghost-guard.

He made sure no one at Ferrari treated Kimi strangely when his name came up.
He intercepted conversations, subtly redirected suspicion.
When Kimi had a rough race, Ollie was the one who silently passed along feedback from the Ferrari engineers to McLaren — anonymously, of course. He always said, *“He deserves a clean shot.”*

He didn’t seek revenge recklessly.
He sought *precision*.

And Oscar noticed. Of course he did.

There was a moment, after Silverstone, where they passed each other in the tunnel under the paddock. Alone, for once.
Ollie didn’t stop walking — but he said, under his breath:

“I’m not letting that happen to him again.”

Oscar only nodded.

That was enough.

Because the truth was, Charles had more enemies now than he realized.
Enemies who were no longer afraid.
And Ollie? He was playing the long game.

He'd bide his time, wear the Ferrari red with a practiced smile — and when the right moment came, he’d make sure Charles Leclerc fell *hard*.
For Kimi.
And for every kid like him who’d ever been crushed under someone else's empire.

Kimi didn’t talk about it often — not out loud. But it was in the way his hands trembled sometimes before a race. The way his eyes flinched at sudden movement. The way he’d go quiet for hours after someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t at him.

Charles had broken him, not with fists, but with silence. With cold, condescending glares. With disgust that made Kimi feel like a stain on the world. And the worst part? Kimi believed him.

When Kimi cried, Charles left.
No comfort. No words. Just a scoff —

“You’re pathetic,”
and the door slamming shut behind him.

Oscar tried his best to be gentle, but it was Ollie who reached the part of Kimi that still felt like a child, scared and ashamed of his own tears.

One night, in a quiet hotel room in Suzuka, it finally happened. Kimi broke down, shaking like a leaf, sobbing into his sleeves.
Ollie didn’t say anything dramatic. He didn’t ask questions.
He just pulled Kimi in, wrapped both arms around him, and whispered:

“You’re not weak. You were hurt.”

“And I’m still here.”

No flinching. No disgust.
Just warmth.

It was such a stark contrast to Charles’s cruelty that Kimi couldn’t understand it at first. He expected to be pushed away — expected Ollie to leave too. But Ollie stayed. Every single time.

It would take time.
But slowly, Kimi stopped apologizing for crying.
He started to believe maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t broken. Just healing.

Oh, Ollie.
Ollie made it his silent mission to protect the pieces of Kimi no one else had bothered to care for.
The ones Charles had shattered and walked away from — without ever looking back.

The atmosphere in Indianapolis was heavy — The heat mixing with the tension that had settled in the paddock like a stormcloud. Charles had won nearly everything. Nine wins. A Ferrari resurgence the world hadn’t seen in years. His fans called it divine destiny. The paddock, though, called it fear.

Oscar wasn’t far behind. Thirty points was a gulf and a heartbeat at the same time. One DNF from Charles and the door would crack open. Lando, trailing Oscar by thirteen, still smiled like it was all a game — but his eyes burned with want. McLaren was still in the fight. Just barely.

But under the polished surface of driver rivalries and championship glory, the war still raged. Hidden. Controlled. Coiled, like a viper waiting for the right moment.

And Charles — Charles was beginning to suspect.

Oliver had been quiet. Careful. But something in the way he watched Kimi, the way he lingered in places Charles didn’t expect him to be, didn’t sit right.

During Thursday media, Charles caught Oliver watching from the back of the garage — arms crossed, helmet off, eyes tracking every movement with military precision.

“Do you have something to say?” Charles asked flatly, his voice like a blade.

Ollie didn’t flinch. “Just watching the king at work.”

There was sarcasm there — subtle, but deliberate.

Charles narrowed his eyes.

He didn’t trust him.

Oscar knew it too. When he crossed paths with Oliver later that evening in the hospitality suite, he gave a small nod. “Be careful,” he said simply. “He’s looking at you now.”

Oliver smirked, but there was tension in his jaw.

“Let him look. He doesn’t scare me.”

But Oscar knew better.
Charles didn’t need to scare you to ruin you.
He just needed to know your weakness.

And right now, Kimi was still very much that.

George Russell was a diva, no doubt about it — the polished shoes, the perfect hair, the way he walked through the paddock like he was better than the championship itself. And yet, there he was, sixth in the standings, driving for the newly-revived Benetton outfit, watching the title fight play out like a Shakespearean tragedy from a velvet balcony seat.

He sipped his oat milk flat white with theatrical detachment, designer sunglasses firmly in place, and an opinion always ready for delivery — whether someone asked or not.

“Honestly, it’s a bit uncivilized, isn’t it?” he mused to a disinterested journalist in the paddock. “Street fights, fake sons, mafia wars... it’s become Formula Documentary.”

While Charles and Oscar slashed at each other with daggers behind their backs and Lando grinned through the chaos like a fox in a chicken coop, George played the long game. He wasn’t in the spotlight, no, but he made sure to look immaculate in every photo and speak in eloquent soundbites. He was too refined for back-alley schemes or emotional breakdowns — or so he liked to say.

“Mark my words,” George said, adjusting the cuffs of his Benetton blazer. “When the smoke clears, I’ll still be here. Hair intact. Reputation untouched. Unlike some of these other boys.”

He said it with a smirk — part envy, part disdain — watching the drama unfold like a scandalous play he wasn’t invited to star in.
But George Russell never needed to be the villain or the hero.

He was always the *commentator* — smug, composed, and always *just* out of reach of real danger.

George and Alex Albon had become the unofficial paddock tea committee — perched somewhere between the media center and the espresso bar, exchanging knowing glances and scandalous whispers like high-society debutantes.

During FP2 in Indianapolis, while chaos brewed on track and in the shadows behind it, George leaned across the table, Ray-Bans glinting in the sun, as he passed Alex his phone.

“Look at *this*,” he whispered, showing him a blurry pap shot of Kimi Antonelli practically clinging to Lando in the McLaren hospitality. “He’s practically got joint custody.”

Alex nearly choked on his boba tea.

>“Mate—*mate*—is he their emotional support teenager now?”

“Adopted, darling. It’s official. Kimi Antonelli-Piastri,” George said, deadpan, then popped a caramel popcorn into his mouth.

Their little table had become a hub for non-stop speculation.

Oscar’s "therapy crusade", Lando’s bizarre fatherly instincts, Ollie Bearman giving Charles Leclerc the silent death glare every race weekend — George and Alex kept tabs on it all like it was their side hustle.

“You know who we haven’t seen lately?” Alex muttered, poking his straw at the tapioca pearls. “Logan.”

George raised a brow. “Oh, sweetheart. He’s *dead*. Or worse — *off grid*.”

They both shuddered. Silence. Then another round of popcorn.

“Honestly, I feel like I’m watching *The godfather*, if it were directed by Federico Fenilli” George muttered, crossing his legs like royalty. “All these boys with trauma, guns, and race wins.”

“We should make a podcast,” Alex said.

“No, no,” George smirked. “We’re better as *the mystery narrators*. Let the drama kings fall apart — we’ll be here to pick up the pieces. In matching linen.”

And with that, the gossip rolled on — George and Alex, two beautifully groomed narrators to a bloodstained, champagne-soaked opera.

Chapter 11

Summary:

The war resumes. Catastrophic.

Charles Leclerc secured the 2000 World Championship with a final, clinical win under the floodlights of Malaysia—a finish fitting for the kind of dynasty he intended to build. From pole to victory, he never faltered. That final image—Charles on top of the podium, draped in scarlet, expression unreadable—was burned into the minds of every rival watching. The reign of terror had only just begun.

Lando Norris, despite giving it everything, finished second in the championship. His season was electric—flashes of brilliance, desperation, and unfiltered grit—but ultimately, not enough to dethrone the Ferrari machine. He took the silver medal with a brave smile, but the sting of it showed in his eyes.

Oscar Piastri, third. Quiet, calculating, often overlooked by the media, but always lurking near the front—he’d played the long game. This wasn’t the end of the war for him. It was reconnaissance. A full season’s worth of data gathered on how Charles operated. How he cracked under pressure. How he didn’t.

Oscar knew now: beating Charles wouldn’t take fire. It would take ice. And he had plenty of that.

Off the track, things were more fractured. The rivalries, the alliances, the secrets—they’d all shifted. Oscar and Lando, close as ever, exchanged glances on the podium steps. Kimi stood below, grinning proudly like a little brother who’d watched his family fight dragons.

In the paddock shadows, Charles was already planning next season. New setups. New strategies. New ways to manipulate those around him. He walked past the others like a king among children, and for now, that was exactly what he was.

But the thing about tyrants?

They never rule forever.

Ollie had only just begun leaking pieces of Charles’s world to Oscar. It started small—his daily training times, his favorite haunts, who he spoke to between races. The kind of tactical information that could help Oscar pick apart his race weekend strategy, piece by piece.

But soon, it grew darker.

Charles trusted Oliver. For whatever reason—maybe because Ollie played the part of the good soldier so convincingly, or maybe because Charles saw a version of himself in the younger driver—he let him in. He let him see too much. And Charles was not a man of clean pleasures.

Oscar listened quietly as Ollie relayed what Charles confided. Some of it wasn’t about racing at all. It was about control. Submission. Watching others suffer under his power. Things Charles spoke about too casually, like discussing wine preferences or tire degradation.

Oscar didn’t interrupt. He kept his expression still, composed, while inside something twisted and burned.

He asked one thing only, voice low:

“Does he still talk about Kimi?”

Ollie nodded slowly.

“Too often.”
He hesitated. Then added:
“And never in a way that’s... decent.”

Oscar shut his eyes.

It confirmed everything he feared. The reason Kimi had cried like that. The reason the boy flinched when touched, why he was so terrified to speak about anything from his time under Charles’s grip. Charles hadn’t just broken him—he’d *conditioned* him.

Now, Oscar had intel. He had motivation. He had a team: Lando, Kimi, Ollie. And he had a reason to tear Charles Leclerc apart—not just on the track.

But piece by piece, everywhere else too.

Ollie had learned quickly how to play the part—how to agree at the right times, how to keep his head slightly bowed without looking submissive. With Charles, it was never about loud commands. No—he preferred manipulation wrapped in silk.

Charles didn't order Ollie to change his diet. He just casually asked,
"You're still eating that? You should try something leaner—it’ll make you lighter in the car."

He didn’t demand Ollie dress differently.
"Those jeans really don’t flatter your build. You’d look sharper in black. Trust me."

Ollie nodded. He always nodded. Always played it smooth.

He remembered what Kimi said:
"He controls you by making you think it’s your choice. But it’s not. Nothing ever is."

Charles didn’t like people. He tolerated them at best. But with Ollie… it was different.

There was a certain sharpness in Charles’s eyes when he watched him. Not quite affection—but an interest, an obsession maybe. He respected Ollie’s driving skill, his clean way of carrying himself. Charles admired control, and Ollie appeared to have it.

But Ollie knew better. Kimi had warned him how fast things could change—how Charles would strip down your identity piece by piece until you didn't know which parts belonged to you anymore.

So Ollie played the part. The good soldier. The agreeable teammate.

While silently feeding Oscar every detail.
Waiting.

Because if Charles wanted to make him his next project, Ollie would let him believe it—until it was Charles who fell into the trap.

When Charles Leclerc was crowned World Champion, the paddock expected an explosion of joy, a flood of champagne, maybe even a rare, uncharacteristic smile. But none of that happened.

He didn’t scream into the team radio. He didn’t cry. He didn’t fall to his knees or throw his gloves into the crowd. He simply parked the car in parc fermé, removed his helmet with mechanical precision, and walked into the back room with the cold detachment of a man who’d just finished another day at the office.

Later that night, while other champions of years past had gone on to drink, party, and dance until sunrise, Charles sat at a pristine table in a Michelin-starred restaurant, dressed in quiet black. No cameras. No friends. No teammates, even. Just a private table, a glass of Bordeaux, and a three-course meal he picked apart without expression.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t toast.

It was all so calculated.

To those who had followed his rise to dominance, it wasn’t surprising. This was Charles: emotionless, razor-sharp, and deeply methodical. He didn’t win because he dreamed of it—he won because he expected it. It was just another milestone ticked off a plan he had likely created when he was ten.

There was no joy in it, not really. Because joy implies something soft. Something vulnerable.

And Charles couldn’t afford that.

He hated the messiness of celebration, the noise, the drunken laughter. He found it unnecessary, childish even. In his mind, he was above that. The title was never a fantasy—it was a requirement. Something he was owed. Something he took.

If he was going to celebrate, it would be in silence. In control. In solitude.

And so, in that empty restaurant, he cut through his steak with the same quiet intensity he had used to dominate a 17-race season. His team sent him congratulations. He replied with brief thanks. Ferrari asked if he wanted to host a media event. He declined.

Because Charles Leclerc wasn’t here to please anyone. He was here to win—and now that he had, he was already thinking about the next.

There was no glory in it. Only inevitability.

Only whispers.

Of what his next action will be.

 

"People think the championship was the goal. It wasn’t. It was a checkpoint. Something to prove I’m exactly where I’ve always said I’d be.

Now? Things are different. The war changes everything. Teams will lose sponsors, races will be canceled, the politics will get uglier. Everyone’s going to scramble, make desperate moves. I don’t scramble. I don’t get desperate. I adjust before they even see the storm coming.

First—protect the seat. I don’t care if Ferrari wants to use me as their poster boy. They can parade the trophy around, take their photos, but I control the narrative. I decide where my name appears and how it’s used. I’ll use the politics to make myself untouchable.

Second—money. In war, you don’t just need speed, you need leverage. I’ll invest quietly, in places no one else is looking. Not the flashy things—land, water rights, energy. Things that hold value when everything else burns. If racing stops tomorrow, I’ll still be in control.

And third—information. When borders start shifting and alliances crack, information will be worth more than gold. I already have people feeding me details—about teams, about sponsors, even about certain drivers who are… vulnerable. That’s how you survive chaos. You hold the right secrets and decide when to drop them.

The others will be celebrating, hiding, or running. I’ll be moving pieces before they realize we’re even playing a different game.

This championship was proof I can win under the rules. The war will prove I can win when there are none."

The invitation had been unexpected, the tone in Charles’s voice more commanding than casual. Oliver found himself walking through the gilded doors of de’Le Bijou de la Nuit, the Leclerc family’s pride—an opulent nightclub buried deep in the heart of Monte Carlo. The place pulsed with low, decadent bass, the lighting casting everyone in hues of gold and violet. Every surface gleamed, every corner screamed exclusivity, every face inside belonged to someone who could afford to waste a small fortune on a single drink.

Charles didn’t lead Ollie to the bar, nor to a private booth. Instead, he took him to an elevated balcony overlooking the entire dance floor. From up here, the crowd looked like a living organism, moving and twisting in rhythm with the music.

“This…” Charles said, leaning on the rail, his voice low but cutting through the music as if the sound system bent around it, “…is control. Every person down there thinks they’re free. That they’re here on their own terms. But look closer. Their moves, their smiles, their energy—it’s all given to them by me. By us. The drinks they sip, the music they hear, the lighting they bask in—it’s all been chosen for them. We feed them pleasure. And they’ll keep paying for it.”

There was a strange gleam in his eye as he spoke, something sharp, fevered, almost unhinged. The way his words curved upward at the ends made it sound less like a conversation and more like a confession.

“And if I wanted…” Charles continued, straightening, “…I could stop it all. One word to the DJ, one signal to the bartenders. Cut the lights, stop the music. Watch how quickly their joy rots into anger. Panic. Fear. That’s the true measure of power, Oliver—deciding when the pleasure ends.”

Ollie could feel the cold undercurrent in his voice, that fine thread of psychosis weaving through every sentence. But instead of shrinking back, he let a slow smirk pull at his lips, his eyes glinting as if he were watching a particularly captivating performance.

“You’re a real poet when you’re drunk on your own power, mate,” Ollie said lightly, resting an elbow on the railing beside him. “But I’ll admit—hell of a show.”

Charles smiled then—not warmly, but with the satisfaction of someone who’d just bared his teeth and found no resistance.

In England, the sky was still a dull, pre-dawn grey, the kind that pressed low and heavy against the rooftops. At precisely 5 a.m., Oscar was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head bowed, lacing up his boots. Early mornings were nothing new to him, but today there was an edge in the air that made the stillness feel brittle.

The knock on the door was sharp—three quick raps—and before he could answer, Jack stepped inside. The kid was barely more than a shadow in the dim light, hoodie drawn up, his face pale with adrenaline. Jack wasn’t even a soldier yet, just one of those eager hangers-on trying to work his way into the family. But right now, he looked like he’d been sent to deliver news no one wanted to carry.

“They torched it,” Jack said, voice low and fast. “The whole fucking warehouse… gone. Guns, gear, the lot. Went up like bloody fireworks.”

Oscar’s hands froze on his bootlaces. He didn’t need to ask which warehouse—there was only one with that much firepower and that much cash tied up in it. His jaw tightened as he stood, running a hand through his hair, his mind already piecing together who could’ve pulled something this brazen.

Jack hesitated at the door, shifting on his feet. “Your dad… he wants you. Now. Said to come straight to the office.”

Oscar didn’t reply right away, just reached for his coat and lit the half-burned cigarette sitting in the ashtray. The smoke curled in the cold air as he walked past Jack and down the narrow hallway.

His father’s office was at the far end of the manor, doors heavy enough to muffle everything beyond them. Inside, the old man sat behind his desk, papers and ledgers scattered in front of him, his silver hair catching the pale light through the window. He didn’t look up when Oscar entered, just kept writing until the sound of the door closing made him pause.

“Sit,” his father said, voice low but carrying weight. “We’ve got a problem. And you’re going to fix it.”

Oscar dropped into the chair opposite, his cigarette still burning between his fingers, ready for whatever came next. This wasn’t just about a fire. It never was.

[Oscar's perspective]

The office was warm, but there was a sharpness in the air that had nothing to do with the temperature. My old man didn’t bother with pleasantries. He didn’t even lift his head when I walked in—just kept his pen scratching across a ledger, like I’d interrupted him mid-thought.

“It was Charles,” he said flatly, as though we were discussing the weather. “He’s the one who burned it.”

I was still half-asleep, slouched in the chair opposite his desk, cigarette hanging from my fingers. The words barely landed at first.

“Mm,” I muttered, not really there yet.

He went on, voice steady but edged with steel. “Four men on the watch rotation, all of them dead. Place went up in under five minutes. Accelerant everywhere. And the getaway car was traced back to a yard we know Charles’s people use.”

That last part snapped the fog out of my head. I sat up straight, the cigarette flaring as I took a sharp pull. “You’re serious?”

He finally looked at me, his eyes cold. “You think I’d drag you out of bed for nothing? You think I don’t know the smell of that bastard’s handiwork?”

I ground the cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk. The idea of Charles hitting us like this—it wasn’t just an insult, it was a declaration. He’d taken the first shot, and he’d taken it big.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked. My voice came out harder than I meant it to.

His mouth curved, just slightly—not a smile, but close enough for him. “What you’re good at. Find him. And make sure he never tries it again.”

Ever since the Piastris tied themselves to the Norris family, England had been home base.
The move made sense for business—closer to the European buyers, tighter with the Norris supply lines—but it left the family’s old roots in Australia exposed. The warehouses down there still moved a fortune in guns and product. And now, one of them was ash.

To investigate, Oscar would have to get on a plane—his father’s plane, naturally. That was the sort of perk that came wrapped in chains.

His father didn’t waste words. He stood by the wide office window, looking out at the mist-soaked English countryside, hands clasped behind his back like a general on campaign.

“Oscar,” he said without turning, “if you don’t get rid of him in the new year, your death will occur alongside his.”

The words landed with the same weight as an execution order. Not raised voice, no fire—just the quiet certainty of a man who had decided the outcome already.

Oscar didn’t flinch. He’d been getting variations of that speech since he was old enough to hold a knife. His father had always been more commander than parent, drilling him on discipline, strategy, and survival instead of bedtime stories. A childhood of orders, expectations, and sharpened edges.

“Understood,” Oscar said, and meant it in the way a soldier meant it to his commanding officer.

With that, less than an hour later, Oscar was already striding across the quiet expanse of a private airport, the predawn chill still hanging in the air. The tarmac gleamed faintly under floodlights, and the Piastri jet waited at the far end, polished to a mirror shine.

Lando was already there—hood up, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking more like he was about to head to a track day than cross continents for business. He’d been told enough to know it wasn’t a social trip, but not enough to grasp the weight of it.

“You going to tell me why we’re flying halfway across the world,” Lando asked as Oscar approached, “or are we just going to pretend it’s for the weather?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. The pilot stepped down from the jet to wave them aboard, and they climbed the narrow stairs in silence. Only when they were inside, the hum of the engines low and steady beneath their feet, did Oscar speak.

“It’s Charles,” he said simply, dropping into one of the leather seats. “He burnt one of our warehouses. Not here—Australia. Guns and product.”

Lando frowned, processing. “Charles? As in—”

“Yes. That Charles.” Oscar’s tone was flat. “And if I don’t deal with him by the new year, my father’s making it clear I go down with him.”

There was a beat of quiet, only the faint clink of ice as Lando poured himself water from the jet’s bar.

“So… fun trip, then,” Lando said, but his eyes had sharpened.

Oscar leaned back, gaze fixed out the oval window at the dark horizon. “Not for him.” - The clearance of sarcasm in his tone makes his reply seem so dry.

Lando sat across from me in the cabin, seatbelt loose, knees bouncing. I could tell by the look on his face that he still wasn’t buying it—not fully.

“Charles?” he finally said, like the name alone was enough to warrant doubt. “I mean… come on. The guy’s… Charles. You know, Charles. He’s—”

“Handsome? Polite? The one who asks about your family like he actually cares?” I cut in, keeping my voice even.

Lando gestured vaguely, almost defensive. “Yeah! He’s… I don’t know, just… not that guy. If you told me Max Verstappen lost it and smashed up a car yard, fine. I’d believe it in a heartbeat. The guy has the temper for it.”

I snorted. “Max isn’t in our business. He’s just a racer. Family’s clean, and he’s got no reason to torch a shipment.”

“Exactly, so that’s why—” Lando stopped, realising where I was going. “Wait, you’re saying Charles is… what, worse?”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Lando, the devil doesn’t wear horns. He wears a smile. He’ll help your mom carry her groceries, he’ll shake your brother’s hand and wish him luck in exams—and then he’ll burn your entire operation to the ground while you’re looking the other way.”

Lando leaned back, rubbing his face. “Christ…”

“Yeah,” I said, sitting back as the engines roared to life. “Charles lives in the cracks people don’t think to check. That’s why we’re going to Australia.”

By the time the wheels touched down, the clock on Oscar’s watch read 1:04 a.m. The tarmac lights cast a cold, artificial glow over the private runway, and the rest of the airport was swallowed in silence.

Oscar hadn’t slept a minute—insomnia kept his mind spinning the whole flight, replaying the details he’d have to explain to Lando once they were face-to-face with the evidence. Beside him, Lando was dead to the world, head tilted awkwardly against the window, one hand twitching slightly every so often like he was chasing something in a dream.

“Wake up,” Oscar said, shaking his shoulder just enough to drag him out of it.

Lando blinked blearily, squinting at him. “We there?”

“We’re here.”

They stepped out into the cool Australian night, the smell of jet fuel faint in the air. Waiting at the base of the steps was a black stretch limousine, its engine quietly humming, tinted windows revealing nothing of the interior.

The driver, a man in a crisp suit, wordlessly opened the rear door.

Oscar didn’t bother with small talk. “Straight to the warehouse,” he told him.

The door shut with a muted thunk, sealing them into the dimly lit cabin. Lando shifted in his seat, still trying to shake the sleep from his brain, glancing sideways at Oscar.

“You’re really not gonna tell me the whole thing until we get there, huh?”

Oscar’s eyes stayed fixed ahead. “You’ll understand when you see it for yourself.”

The limousine rolled away from the runway, the city lights still miles in the distance, the night outside as empty as the road ahead.

The limousine’s tires crunched to a stop outside the warehouse, its corrugated metal walls looming in the dim floodlights.

When Lando stepped out, the night air hit him like a slap—sharp, cold, and carrying that faint, acrid edge of burnt tobacco. But it wasn’t the smell that froze him in place.

“Holy shit…”

His voice came out hoarse, as if speaking it made the sight more real. The concrete outside the loading bay was mottled with dark stains—blood, even after hours of cleaning. You could still see the splatter arcs, ghostly outlines marking where men had fallen.

The bodies themselves were gone, removed before their arrival, but their absence only made it worse. It left a hollow silence in the space, as though the violence still lingered in the air, waiting for something to stir it back to life.

Lando swallowed hard, eyes darting between the stains and the dented bullet-riddled metal siding. “They… they just left it like this?”

Oscar didn’t answer—he was already looking toward the shadow moving under the flickering light by the warehouse door.

Fernando Alonso stepped into view, wearing dark slacks, a tailored jacket, and gloves that were stained at the fingertips. His expression was unreadable, professional, but there was something about the way his gaze swept over them—assessing, calculating—that made Lando feel like he was the one under investigation.

Fernando was the Piastris’ crime scene inspector. If he was here, it meant whatever had gone down tonight wasn’t just another skirmish.

“Messy night,” Fernando said evenly, though the faint smoke curling from the half-burnt cigarette in his hand suggested it had been a long one. “You’re late.”

Chapter 12

Summary:

Aftermath.

Fernando led them slowly through the gutted remains of the warehouse, the air thick with the acrid sting of smoke and charred metal. Most of the interior was little more than blackened rubble and twisted beams, evidence of how brutal the blaze had been.

“This was where we stored most of the heavy shipments,” Fernando explained, his voice steady but edged with frustration. “Guns, explosives, ammo, even some prototype tech from the family’s back channels.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. The weight of the loss pressed down on him—not just the physical damage, but the message it sent to their enemies.

Fernando glanced at Lando, then back to Oscar. “Damage estimates are already in the millions. Insurance won’t touch this. Too many questions.”

They turned a corner where scorched crates had collapsed into heaps, exposing shattered weapons and melted packaging.

“Most of the soldiers assigned here didn’t make it.” Fernando’s voice dropped. “Only a few survived the fire and chaos.”

Ahead, a young boy sat slumped against a partially collapsed wall. He looked no older than fifteen—wide-eyed and hollow-cheeked, his clothes dirty and torn.

“That’s Arvid Lindblad. Barely made it out alive.” Fernando said quietly. “Lucky to be alive, but the kid’s seen things no one that age should ever see.”

Oscar’s gaze lingered on Arvid, a silent promise flickering behind his eyes. The war wasn’t just about power or money—it was about survival. And every casualty was a reminder that the stakes were life or death.

Lando swallowed hard, the reality of this underground war hitting him harder than any race or rivalry ever had.

Oscar crouched down a little, locking eyes with Arvid, trying to find some sense of the kid beyond the shock. Then he looked back at Fernando and said quietly, “Tell me about him. Who is Arvid Lindblad?”

Fernando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he paused in the shadows of the warehouse’s wreckage. “Arvid’s one of the youngest in the crew. He’s been with the family barely over a year—started out as a runner, delivering messages and small packages.”

“He’s from Surrey. No family to speak of—parents disappeared years ago, left him to fend for himself and his brother.The Piastris took him in, like many others. It’s how we keep our network running. Kid’s smart, quick on his feet.”

Oscar’s gaze sharpened. “And the fire? How did he survive?”

Fernando’s eyes darkened. “He was lucky. Or maybe unlucky. He got trapped in the eastern corner when the fire started, surrounded by those who didn’t make it out. Somehow, Arvid found a way through the flames and chaos—scraped himself out through a small gap in the wall.”

Oscar nodded slowly. The kid had grit, that was clear. But more than that, he had raw survival instincts—something Oscar could respect, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

“Good,” Oscar said finally, standing up and brushing dust from his pants. “Keep him close. If this war keeps going, we’ll need every one of those instincts.”

Fernando gave a grim nod. “Your father’s already breathing down my neck about the losses. He’s not happy. Says this kind of mess can’t happen again.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “It won’t. We’ll make sure of it.”

Lando, still taking it all in, exchanged a glance with Oscar—seeing behind the public face, the fierce, ruthless legacy this family carried.

Oscar sat back in the dim light of the private jet, his mind already racing faster than the plane. The burnt warehouse wasn’t just a loss of goods—it was a direct message. Charles wasn’t sloppy; this was a calculated strike, designed to weaken, to provoke. But Oscar knew better than to respond in kind without a plan.

He pictured Charles in his pristine office, cool and detached, the smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as his own soldiers carried out the blaze. The devil wears many faces, and Charles wore his like a mask: charming, charismatic, but ruthless beneath the surface. The fact that Charles didn’t dirty his own hands only made him more dangerous in Oscar’s eyes.

Oscar ran through possible moves: disrupt Charles’s supply lines, intercept shipments, hit back where it would hurt most—but with precision, no reckless bloodshed that could blow everything open to the media or the FIA. The war was hidden beneath the glittering world of Formula One, and it had to stay that way.

He glanced over at Lando, still seated quietly, half-absorbing the weight of the situation. “This isn’t just about the warehouses or the shipments,” Oscar said quietly, “It’s chess, not checkers. Charles wants me to show weakness.”

Oscar’s voice hardened, steeling himself for what was coming next. “But I’m going to make sure that when I strike back, it’s on my terms. And it’ll be a message Charles won’t forget.”

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The plane hummed steadily onward, the dark clouds outside mirroring the storm brewing inside Oscar’s mind. The war was far from over—and Oscar was already plotting the next move.

Oscar stared out the small oval window, the Australian landscape already shrinking beneath them. The hum of the engines filled the silence for a moment before Lando’s question broke through, sharp and raw.

“What are we supposed to fucking do?” Lando’s voice wasn’t just frustration—it was fear, confusion, the weight of everything crashing down at once.

Oscar didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his fingers drum the armrest, his mind churning through every option, every risk. Finally, he turned toward Lando, eyes steady, voice low but resolute.

“We fight smart. We don’t just respond with fire—we respond with precision. This isn’t a street brawl. It’s a war in shadows. Every move has to count, or we lose everything.”

He paused, searching for the right words. “Charles wants a reaction. If we give him one he expects, he wins twice. We’ve got to hit where it hurts, where he least expects. And we do it quietly, without spilling blood on the public stage.”

Oscar’s gaze hardened, the familiar fire flickering back in his eyes. “We’ve got allies—inside the paddock, behind the scenes. We play the game they don’t see. Because this—this war—it’s bigger than us, but it’s ours to win.”

Lando looked at him, breathing a little easier, but the tension remained. Oscar knew it wouldn’t be easy. Nothing ever was. But he was ready. And he wasn’t about to back down.

In the cold, gray light filtering through the tall windows of the Leclerc family’s Monaco penthouse, Charles sat alone at his massive mahogany desk. The room was quiet, save for the faint ticking of an antique clock on the wall, and the distant hum of the city below, alive with the muted sounds of a winter evening. Outside, the streets were decorated with festive lights and garlands, but inside this fortress of glass and steel, there was no Christmas cheer—only business.

Charles’s sharp eyes flicked up from the ledger in front of him, where numbers and names were scribbled in meticulous detail. His pale fingers tapped rhythmically against the table as the heavy oak door creaked open. One of his trusted henchmen, a tall, stoic man with a face hardened by years of brutality, stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

“The operation was a success,” the henchman said in a low, controlled voice. “Multiple targets were eliminated. The Piastri shipment in Australia... destroyed completely. No survivors except one young associate, barely alive. The rest of their soldiers are gone.”

Charles’s lips curled into a cold, satisfied smile. He didn’t rise from his seat. Instead, he leaned back, eyes narrowing as he let the news sink in. The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the ruthless edge in his expression.

“Good,” Charles murmured, voice as smooth and cold as the marble floors beneath them. “The Piastri family will think twice before crossing us again.”

He paused, steepling his fingers in front of his chest, the very picture of calm menace. “But we must be careful. The Piastris will retaliate, and they will do so with fire. Our advantage is in controlling the war, making every strike precise and silent.”

The henchman nodded, but Charles could see the tension beneath his stoicism. “Yes, Charles. They will come at us hard.”

Charles’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Let them come. This city is our chessboard. Every pawn, every knight, every bishop moves according to my command.”

He stood slowly, walking over to the window overlooking the glittering Monaco coastline. The cold winter air outside did nothing to cool the burning fury within him. “The Piastris think they have the upper hand. But they forget—they’re playing with the devil, and the devil does not lose.”

Turning back, Charles gave the henchman a sharp nod. “Prepare the next phase. It’s time to tighten the noose.”

The henchman left without another word, and Charles returned to his ledger, fingers already tracing the next moves on his dark, ruthless path. In this war without mercy, there was no room for weakness or hesitation. Only power. Only victory.

Just like Nico Rosberg, many years ago, Charles Leclerc’s thirst for power and pride burned with a ferocity that brooked no compromise. Nico—once a champion on the track—had seamlessly transitioned from racing rival to a shadowy kingpin whose grip extended far beyond the circuits. His understanding of politics, manipulation, and human nature was so profound it terrified even the most hardened criminals. It was said that Nico didn’t just play the game—he was the game.

That same cold calculation echoed in Charles. Where others saw racing as sport, he saw it as a battlefield for dominance, a stage to assert not only personal glory but to entrench his family’s empire in the darkest corners of the underworld. Charles’s rise wasn’t just about trophies or titles—it was about legacy, fear, and control.

The Finnish reputation for relentless discipline, icy focus, and dominance in activities—whether on snowy trails or on the race track—was whispered to be the legacy of Nico’s brutal influence. He set a standard, a ruthless blueprint: win at any cost, bend every rule, and make sure no one forgot who held the power.

Charles carried that legacy forward with a ruthless ambition that chilled even those closest to him. Behind the polished smile and the public charm was a man who viewed everyone as pieces in a game to be moved, sacrificed, or destroyed. Every victory, every championship, was a step in consolidating a criminal empire as unyielding and precise as the finest engineered race car.

He wasn’t just racing for the podium—he was racing for absolute dominion.

Today, Nico Rosberg has fully stepped away from the shadows of his past life. To the public, he’s simply a retired Formula One driver, an insightful commentator, and a sharp businessman. His image is polished, clean — a model of success and professionalism. Interviews showcase his intelligence and humility; fans admire his strategic mind and calm demeanor.

But behind the scenes, the ruthless kingpin who once mastered manipulation and power struggles is a chapter closed. The cold, calculating mastermind who shaped not just races but entire criminal empires has left that world behind. He channels his drive into legitimate business ventures, leaving the violent past buried deep, known only to a select few who once lived in that dangerous underworld.

Nico’s transformation is almost poetic — from the unforgiving circuits and dark alleys of power to the bright lights of public acclaim and entrepreneurial success. His legacy now walks the line between legend and myth, a whispered tale in racing circles, overshadowed by the man he became after he left it all behind

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The hum of the plane’s engines was a constant backdrop as Oscar leaned back in his seat, eyes half-closed but mind racing. He wasn’t just thinking about the burnt warehouse, the lost shipments, or even the blood spilled in Australia. No — his thoughts were darker, sharper, colder.

Arthur Leclerc. Charles’s little brother. A vulnerable target in the shadow of a ruthless empire. Oscar knew that striking Arthur would send a message far louder than any destroyed warehouse or stolen shipment ever could. It was psychological warfare, a calculated move to unnerve Charles and fracture the Leclerc family from within.

He mulled over the timing. Christmas Day. A day meant for peace, warmth, and family — twisted into a stage for pain and betrayal. The symbolism wasn’t lost on Oscar. The irony of shattering their holiday in the coldest way possible fit perfectly with the kind of war they were waging.

Oscar’s lips curled into a slight, almost imperceptible smirk. The plan wouldn’t be rushed. Patience was a weapon in itself. Every detail would be precise, every step measured. The death wouldn’t be messy or sloppy like his first kill — no, this had to be clean, surgical. A silent but deafening declaration that the Piastri family would not back down.

Lando, still groggy from the flight, glanced over, sensing something heavy behind Oscar’s calm exterior but saying nothing. He trusted Oscar’s lead, as always.

The war was far from over — and Oscar was ready to make sure Charles Leclerc felt every burn.

Oscar’s voice was low, almost casual, but the weight behind his words hit the cabin like a thunderclap.

“We’ll slaughter Arthur,” he said, deadpan.

Lando blinked, his jaw dropping in disbelief. “You bloody insane? How the hell are we gonna pull that off?”

Oscar let out a short, sharp laugh, amused by the shock on Lando’s face. “Simple,” he replied smoothly. “I’ve got an Italian who owes me a favor. Someone who’s just the right kind of cold — knows how to disappear after doing the dirty work.”

Lando frowned, still uneasy. “You’re talking about crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed. Charles will go ballistic. It won’t just be a message — it’ll be an all-out war.”

Oscar’s eyes hardened, steely and unblinking. “Exactly. That’s the point. If we want to end this, we don’t just break his toys. We break his family. One move at a time. And when the time comes, Arthur won’t see it coming.”

Lando swallowed hard, the reality settling in. “This isn’t just racing anymore, is it?”

Oscar shook his head. “No. This is survival.”

Chapter 13

Summary:

Planning, planning, planning...

Back in England, the atmosphere was heavy as Oscar stepped off the plane, his mind razor-sharp, focused on the task ahead. He barely acknowledged the waiting crew or the usual fanfare that surrounded his arrival—this time, there was no room for distractions.

He wasted no time. Within hours, Oscar summoned the core of his father’s most trusted soldiers. Men who had proven their loyalty through fire and blood, who knew the stakes were now higher than ever. Alongside them, Oscar called in reinforcements—men borrowed from Lando’s network, including Max Fewtrell, a sharp and reliable operative known for his quick thinking and discreet methods. The room filled with a tense energy as the assembled team took their places, faces marked by a blend of respect, fear, and grim determination.

Oscar paced slowly, his voice steady but commanding as he laid out the new strategy. “This isn’t just about retaliation. It’s about making sure Charles understands the cost of every move he makes. We’re not only protecting what’s ours—we’re dismantling everything he thinks he controls.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room before continuing. “Intelligence says Arthur Leclerc is vulnerable. We’ve got a narrow window around Christmas. That’s our moment to strike, to send a message that can’t be ignored or forgotten.”

Max Fewtrell leaned forward, eyes sharp. “And the fallout? We’re talking about a full-blown war if we go after his brother.”

Oscar nodded slowly. “I know the risks. But we’ve already lost too much by holding back. This is war, and in war, hesitation is death.”

Lando, standing quietly at the side, finally spoke, his voice edged with both caution and reluctant resolve. “We’ll need precision. No mistakes. If this spirals, it’s all of us who pay the price.”

Oscar met his gaze, an unspoken understanding passing between them. “I’ve planned for that. Every move is calculated. We hit hard, fast, and disappear before they even realize what happened.”

The meeting stretched into the early hours, each detail scrutinized, contingencies mapped out, roles assigned. Oscar’s presence was magnetic—cold and precise, but commanding unwavering loyalty. The men knew this was more than a mission. It was the future of their families, their legacies, and survival.

As dawn crept over England, Oscar finally dismissed the group with a simple order: “Get ready. We move when the time is right.”

Outside, the city woke unaware that beneath its calm surface, a storm was gathering—one that would shake the very foundations of power.

Oscar gathered everyone closer, lowering his voice with the weight of the plan he was about to unfold. “Listen up. This isn’t just a hit-and-run,” he began, eyes scanning the faces around the room, measuring their reactions. “Arthur Leclerc isn’t just Charles’s brother — he’s the weak link, the soft underbelly. Taking him out shakes Charles personally and strategically. It’ll disrupt their entire operation. But this has to be surgical. No collateral damage, no leaks.”

He pulled out a rough map, marking key locations. “Arthur usually stays at a villa on the outskirts of Monaco. It’s heavily guarded, but not impenetrable. Our guy in Italy owes me a favor — someone who knows the layout and security shifts. We’ll move in during Christmas, when their defenses are relaxed, and the family is distracted by the holidays.”

Max Fewtrell, ever pragmatic, frowned slightly. “But that kind of operation needs multiple exit strategies. If something goes wrong, how do we get out without turning this into a firefight? And what about local law enforcement or rival gangs? They’ll smell blood immediately.”

Oscar nodded, appreciating the point. “Agreed. That’s why we’ll have an extraction team waiting nearby, along the route to the airport. Plus, we’ll use decoys — cars with false plates and timed distractions — to confuse anyone tailing us. The plan relies on speed and precision. We don’t want to give Charles any warning.”

One of the older soldiers raised a concern. “If Arthur’s taken out, won’t Charles come down harder on us? What about a counterattack?”

Oscar’s lips curled into a slight smirk. “Let him come. We’ve prepared for that. This is the start of the war — but we’re ready. Our intelligence network will monitor his moves, and we’ve fortified our positions in England and Australia. Charles thinks he’s untouchable, but this will remind him otherwise.”

Lando chimed in quietly, “And what about the risk of innocent people getting caught in the crossfire? We can’t afford bad press or unwanted attention.”

Oscar’s eyes hardened. “Collateral damage is regrettable but sometimes unavoidable. Still, our priority is minimizing that. We’ll plan every step to keep civilians out of harm’s way. This isn’t about senseless violence; it’s about calculated strikes.”

Max looked at Oscar with a mixture of respect and concern. “You’ve thought this through. But we need to be prepared for everything — including betrayal. The Leclercs are dangerous and unpredictable.”

Oscar nodded firmly. “I trust the team. We keep our circle tight, move fast, and stay silent. This operation will send a clear message: no one crosses the Piastri family and lives unscathed.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the plan settling over everyone. Then one by one, nods of approval rippled through the group.

Oscar concluded, “We execute at Christmas. Until then, stay sharp. We’ve got a war to win.”

Max leaned forward, folding his arms with a skeptical look. "Oscar, I get where you're coming from—hitting Arthur where it hurts Charles personally makes sense on paper. But don't you think there’s an easier, less risky way to weaken the Leclercs? You’re talking about an assassination deep in Monaco, surrounded by their tightest security, with tons of eyes on every move. The chances of a clean hit are slim."

He paused, searching for the right words. "What if instead of going straight for Arthur, we hit them financially? Cut off their supply lines, sabotage their shipments, and turn their allies against them. It’s slower, sure, but it’s quieter. Less heat from law enforcement, less chance of a full-on war breaking out too fast."

Max’s eyes met Oscar’s, the tone shifting from doubt to concern. "Plus, if the Leclercs catch wind of a direct hit on Arthur, they’ll retaliate hard—and fast. Innocent people could get caught in the crossfire, and that’s a mess we don’t need. We need to be smarter than that."

Oscar regarded Max for a moment, considering the suggestion. The plan was brutal and direct, but Max was right about the risks. Yet, he also knew their enemies didn’t respect slow burns.

“Your point is fair,” Oscar finally said, voice low but firm. “I want to cripple Charles and his family fast—send a message they can’t ignore. But I’ll take your suggestion under advisement. Maybe a two-pronged approach works best—pressure on their money, with a surgical strike waiting in the wings if needed.”

Max nodded, relief flickering across his face. “That’s all I’m saying. We need to be smart, Oscar. We can’t afford to lose this war before it even starts.”

Oscar sat back in the sleek leather chair, fingers steepled thoughtfully. The dim light of the room caught the sharp angles of his face as he regarded Max and Lando with a measured gaze.

“Indeed, Max, your argument bears the weight of prudence,” Oscar began, his voice calm but carrying the unmistakable authority of someone accustomed to command. “A direct strike on Arthur Leclerc—while devastating in impact—risks inflaming the very conflict we aim to contain. Therein lies the danger of irreparable escalation."

Lando nodded slowly, his expression equally contemplative. “If I may interject, Oscar, the risk extends beyond immediate retaliation. A hasty move might fracture the delicate alliances we’ve painstakingly cultivated. It would be... unwise to allow passion to overrule strategy.”

Oscar’s eyes softened for a moment, acknowledging the wisdom in Lando’s words. “Very well. A dual-pronged approach it shall be. We shall methodically constrict their financial arteries, destabilizing their operations from within. Meanwhile, the more… visceral option remains at our disposal, should the tides of war necessitate it.”

Max allowed himself a subtle, approving smile. “I believe this course preserves our advantage without sacrificing caution. The Leclercs will come to understand that they are under siege, even if the blade does not yet strike.”

Oscar’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “We play the long game with elegance and precision. Let them believe the shadow of death looms ever closer—while we orchestrate the symphony of their undoing.”

Lando exchanged a glance with Max, the three men sharing an unspoken bond forged in the refined crucible of aristocratic power and cold calculation. Their war was not one of brash violence, but of whispered moves and silent mastery.

Mae was in absolute shock.

When.

Did.

This.

Start.

Happening.

Oscar glanced up, a rare flicker of amusement softening his usually sharp gaze. “Mae, always impeccable timing,” he said with a slight smirk, nodding toward the tray. “We were just debating the finer points of empire management. Care to join the council of gods?”

Mae rolled her eyes good-naturedly, setting the tray down on the polished table. “Only if I get to keep my humanity.” She poured tea with practiced grace and offered a biscuit to each of them. “Honestly, you lot sound like you’re scripting a Shakespearean tragedy. Could use a little less doom and a little more tea, if you ask me.”

Lando accepted the biscuit with a grateful smile. “That might actually improve our chances,” he joked. “A calmer war.”

Max chuckled, swirling his tea. “I’m not sure our enemies would appreciate the change in tone.”

Oscar’s smirk returned, but his eyes gleamed with a hint of warmth beneath the cold calculation. “War, like life, demands many roles. But there’s always room for a little humanity... and tea.”

Mae grinned, lifting her cup in a playful toast. “To gods and mortals, then. May the gods be wise, and the mortals be clever.”

"Damn, these cookies are good!"

Oscar chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Max, if you’re going to break the aristocratic façade, at least make it sound more eloquent.”

Lando laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, something like, ‘These biscuits possess an exquisite flavor profile worthy of the finest salons.’”

Mae smirked, enjoying herself. “You boys can keep the flowery language. I just want the cookies—and maybe more tea.”

Max popped another biscuit in his mouth, grinning. “Honestly, I think the secret weapon in this whole operation might just be Mae’s baking.”

Oscar raised his cup, eyes gleaming. “Well then, it looks like our true strategist isn’t here in this room after all.”

The tension in the room softened just a bit as laughter bubbled up, a brief but welcome respite before the storm of plans and war outside their polished walls.

Oscar stood, straightening his jacket with calm authority. His gaze swept over the group—Max, Lando, and the others seated around the large oak table, each absorbing the weight of the plan.

“Alright,” Oscar said, his voice steady and commanding, “meeting over. Get back to work.”

No one rushed; there was a shared understanding that this wasn’t just another strategy session—it was the blueprint for survival and dominance. Slowly, one by one, the men rose, exchanging brief nods and determined looks.

Max grabbed his coat, a flicker of resolve behind his usual easygoing demeanor. Lando followed, shoulders squared but eyes lingering briefly on Oscar as if silently promising to carry the weight together.

The rest dispersed quietly, slipping out into the shadows of the estate—bookmakers who kept the flow of information alive, soldiers ready to execute commands without question.

The heavy oak door closed behind them with a low thud, leaving Oscar alone in the dimly lit room. For a moment, the silence wrapped around him, a reminder of the fine line between power and peril he constantly walked.

He poured himself another cup of tea, took a slow sip, and stared out the window into the cold night—already calculating the next move.

Max paused in the doorway, hand on the handle, caught off guard by the sudden command. The playful smirk that usually played on his lips faded into something more cautious. He turned slowly, meeting Oscar’s intense gaze.

“Stay,” Oscar repeated, voice low and firm, carrying the weight of someone used to being obeyed without question.

Max raised an eyebrow but nodded, closing the door behind him. The atmosphere in the room shifted—gone was the casual camaraderie, replaced by something sharper, more serious.

Oscar motioned for Max to take a seat again. “I need to be clear about something.” He leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. “This isn’t just about strategy or business anymore. It’s war. Every move we make will echo far beyond the track or the boardroom.”

Max’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of understanding—and concern—passing through them.

Oscar continued, voice cold but resolute: “I won’t have hesitation. I won’t have doubts. If we falter, if we show weakness, everything we’ve built crumbles. And I need to know… can I count on you to do whatever it takes?”

Max met that gaze without flinching. “You can.”

Oscar allowed a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Good. Because this is only the beginning.”

Max seemed like he was going to walk out at that moment.

Oscar firmly stopped him.

Max rubbed the back of his neck, the hint of a smirk returning, but he kept his expression guarded. “Longer than I counted for, huh? Sounds like you’re planning a proper operation.”

Oscar leaned back, steepling his fingers, eyes sharp and calculating. “It’s more than that. We’re building something that lasts. We can’t afford weak links or amateurs. Lando, Max, you two know what it means to survive in this world. We’ll be the gatekeepers—judging who’s worth bringing in.”

Lando, who’d been quietly listening nearby, nodded in agreement. “I’ll be looking for people who don’t just have scars on their record but scars on their soul. Those who’ve been through hell and still come out fighting.”

Oscar’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Exactly. We want fighters, strategists, survivors. No freeloaders or glory hunters.”

Max grabbed a pen and tapped it on the table. “So, we take their names, check their backgrounds, and then what? Interviews? Tests? Some kind of trial?”

Oscar’s gaze hardened. “Both. We’ll interview, but that’s just the start. The real test comes when they’re put under pressure. We’ll see who folds and who rises. That’s how we build a family that can weather any storm.”

Lando smiled, a rare warmth breaking through. “Looks like we’re in for one hell of a ride.”

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The morning had dragged on with a steady flood of faces, names, and stories — most dull, some desperate, none standing out. Max had retreated to his whiskey by late afternoon, the amber liquid a brief solace against the mounting exhaustion. Oscar’s cigarette pack was already threadbare, the acrid smoke curling into the stale air of their cramped office.

Then Isack Hadjar walked in.

He looked younger than his age — scrawny, nervous, yet there was something in his stance, a raw edge beneath the uncertainty. “Name,” Lando said, his voice flat and distant after hours of repetition.

Isack blinked, his hand subtly reaching for the worn holster strapped at his hip. Max laughed, breaking the tension. “What are you? Arab or something? You trying to intimidate us with that?” His tone was teasing, but sharp.

Isack’s fingers tightened around what appeared to be a gun, and for a heartbeat, Max and Lando both reached for their weapons. “What the—” Max started.

“It’s not a real gun,” Isack rushed out, voice trembling. “It’s wood.”

Lando rolled his eyes, unimpressed but relieved. “Let me see that.”

Oscar stood, walking over to take the wooden replica. He spun it lightly in his hands, then grinned with a boyish playfulness. “Pew! Pew!” His fingers mimicked a trigger pull, making the faintest popping noises. “My old man gave me one of these when I was a kid. Nice little toy you got there.”

Isack’s voice softened as he explained, “The holster’s from an old horse saddle. She’s not my real mum, but she does what a mother does.”

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. “Adopted, huh? That’s alright. It’s the people who raise you that count.”

They ran Isack’s record. Clean. No arrests, no trouble—just a kid who knew the streets, knew how to survive without stepping over legal lines.

Oscar handed him an application form, watching him carefully. As Isack turned to leave, Oscar gave the rarest nod of approval, the only sign of respect he’d shown all day.

“You’re a good man,” he said quietly.

Isack paused, caught off guard by the words, and offered a small, grateful smile before disappearing out the door. The mood in the room shifted just slightly — here was someone worth paying attention to.

Esteban Ocon’s entrance into the room was quieter, but it carried an unspoken weight. Unlike Isack’s nervous energy, Esteban moved with a calm determination that made heads turn without effort. He wasn’t flashy or loud — just steady, like a rock amid the shifting tides.

His background was different from theirs, but the undercurrent was familiar. He’d grown up with nothing, scraping for every inch, fighting battles that left scars no one else could see. Poverty had been his cage, but it hadn’t broken him.

Oscar studied him carefully, noting the way Esteban didn’t flinch when asked about his past or his motivations. He wasn’t trying to charm anyone; he was here because he wanted in, no excuses, no apologies.

Max exchanged a glance with Lando, both recognizing something raw and unyielding in the young man. When Oscar handed him the application, he did so with a subtle nod that said, *you might just belong here.*

Esteban took the form, fingers curling tightly around it — a silent promise that he would prove it.

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Isack had barely finished filling out his application when Oscar approached him with a proposal that felt more like a test than a job offer.

“We’ve got something small coming up,” Oscar said, voice low and steady, eyes locked onto Isack’s. “Not dangerous if you keep your head. Five grand if you pull it off clean.”

Isack’s eyes widened. Five thousand dollars was more money than he’d ever seen at once. But the weight behind Oscar’s gaze told him this wasn’t a casual favor. This was the start of something bigger — a door opening, if he dared step through.

Oscar continued, “You keep it simple. No unnecessary risks. And you come back with proof it’s done. Easy.”

Isack nodded, swallowing hard. He knew the stakes but figured this was exactly the kind of chance he’d been waiting for.

“Don’t mess it up,” Lando added quietly, though his tone wasn’t harsh—more like a warning from someone who’d been through it all before.

That night, Isack prepared quietly, nerves buzzing but determination steeling his hands. For him, this wasn’t just a job. It was the first step to earning trust, respect, and maybe, just maybe, a place in a world that had always felt just out of reach.

December 2000. The chill in the air matched the cold reality Isack Hadjar found himself walking into. Hired by the Piastri family for a job that sounded simple enough—get arrested on purpose for illegal betting, serve a short stint, get paid five thousand dollars, and walk out clean.

But things never stayed simple in this world.

Isack sat in the cramped, dimly lit cell, the sounds of clanging metal and distant shouting pressing down on him like a weight. He kept repeating in his mind, 'This is temporary. Just play the part. Get out soon.'

Days passed, and the walls seemed to close in tighter. Then, one evening, footsteps echoed down the corridor—heavy, deliberate, ominous. A man with cold eyes and a reputation for brutality stepped through the bars, a trusted enforcer from Charles Leclerc’s faction.

Isack’s heart hammered. He tried to explain, desperate, 'I’m not who you think I am. I was set up. I’m not your enemy.'

But the words fell on deaf ears.

The man’s grip tightened around Isack’s neck, choking the air from his lungs. Panic surged, the world narrowing to a desperate fight for breath. Despite Isack’s pleas and struggle, the chokehold didn’t relent.

Outside, the prison was indifferent. Inside, a life was extinguished—one pawn in a deadly game between empires.

Back in Monaco, Charles Leclerc’s cold smile lingered in shadows. A message had been sent: betrayal would not be tolerated. And the war beneath the surface continued to claim its innocent and guilty alike.

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The morning light barely filtered through Oscar’s office window when the news came in. A message—short, brutal, impossible to ignore: Isack Hadjar was dead.

Oscar slammed his fist down on the heavy oak desk with such force the papers jumped. “Fucking hell!” His voice cracked with raw anger. “He was just a kid.”

Max, leaning against the wall with a weary expression, didn’t flinch. He’d seen this too many times. “No surprise, really,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. “This game’s always been ruthless. Kids like Isack get chewed up and spat out.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched tight, fists trembling slightly. “He did everything right. Followed the plan. And Charles… that bastard—he’s sending a message. But this? This crosses a line.”

Max flicked ash into the tray, his gaze cold but steady. “Lines were crossed a long time ago. You know that.”

The room fell silent for a moment, heavy with the weight of loss. Oscar’s mind raced, calculating, planning, burning with the need for retribution.

“He won’t get away with this,” Oscar finally said, voice low but fierce. “Not on my watch."

Oscar stood quietly at the edge of the small cemetery, the cold December air biting at his skin. The funeral was modest — just close family and a few faces from the streets, but there was a weight in the atmosphere that pressed heavy on everyone present. White lilies, Oscar’s solemn signature for respect, were carefully laid on the casket. Their pure petals seemed almost out of place amid the grief.

Isack’s mother sobbed loudly, raw and unfiltered, her wails echoing across the grey stones. Oscar didn’t flinch; he understood that pain all too well. Nearby, Isack’s father stood rigid, his eyes hollow and distant, as if life had already drained him of hope.

Oscar’s presence was quiet but unmistakable. When the service ended, he approached the family, pulling a thick envelope from his pocket. Wordlessly, he handed it over — payment for the funeral and more. It was a gesture he made every time, a silent promise that no one connected to him would be forgotten, no matter how dark the world around them grew.

He lingered for a moment longer, watching as the casket was lowered into the ground, the finality of it hitting harder than any fight he’d faced. For Isack, for the lost innocence of a kid caught in a war far bigger than himself, Oscar vowed that this blood would not go unanswered.

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Lily found Oscar sitting alone in the dim light of their shared apartment, the weight of Isack’s death pressing down on him like a storm cloud. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes fixed somewhere distant but empty, as if trying to hold back a flood he didn’t want to let loose.

She stepped quietly beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. “Oscar,” she whispered, voice soft but firm, “you need to take a day off. You’re carrying too much.”

He shook his head slowly, the tension in his body reluctant to ease. “I can’t. There’s too much to do. Too many loose ends.”

Lily squeezed his shoulder, meeting his gaze with steady eyes. “And what good will you be to anyone if you burn out? You don’t have to carry this alone. Let me help.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, finally, his shoulders sagged just a little, the fight in him softening. “Maybe you’re right.”

She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Come on. I’ve made breakfast. You need something real today, not just business and battles.”

Oscar stood, letting her lead him away from the darkness in his mind. The promise of a simple day — a break from the war, the scheming, the loss — felt like a fragile but necessary balm. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to lean on someone else, knowing Lily was there, steady and true.

Chapter 14

At the graveside, the cold December air bit through Oscar’s coat, but it wasn’t the chill that made him tense. Isack’s mother stood before him, face streaked with tears, grief twisting her voice into something sharp and cutting.

“Someone needs to put a fucking stop to you,” she spat, her voice breaking as she stepped closer.

Before Oscar could say a word, her hand came down hard across his face — not a light slap, but a full, stinging hit that echoed in the quiet cemetery. He didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice. He simply took it, jaw set, eyes steady on hers.

In his other hand, he held the lilies. Always white lilies. He offered them to her, the stems trembling slightly in the cold. With the flowers, he also handed over an envelope thick with cash — \$5,000, as promised.

“Isack finished the job,” Oscar said quietly, his tone devoid of defensiveness, only finality. “And I keep my word.”

She looked at the money like it was poison, her breath ragged with sobs, but she took it. Oscar didn’t expect thanks. He only nodded once, placing the lilies gently on the coffin before stepping back, the welt from her hand still warm on his cheek.

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Oscar and Lily slipped away for two days, heading to Switzerland for a quick skiing trip. The snow was fresh, the air crisp, and for the first day, Oscar almost let himself forget.

Almost.

They laughed on the slopes, shared hot drinks in the chalet, and for a moment, he wasn’t the man who paid for funerals or got kids like Isack killed by the job. He was just Oscar, with Lily by his side, cheeks flushed from the cold instead of stress.

But the second morning, as he watched the snow fall outside the window, his mind drifted back. Responsibilities didn’t dissolve in powder-white snow — they just waited, like shadows in the corner of his vision. By the time they returned, he was already back in that frame of mind, the brief escape tucked away like a guilty secret.

While Oscar was away in Switzerland, his phone stayed mostly silent — Lily made sure of it. But the silence wasn’t peace. It was the calm before something ugly.

By the time they landed back, he was met with chaos. His father had gotten himself tangled in serious legal trouble — the kind you didn’t just “talk your way out of.” And instead of facing it, he vanished. No warning, no parting words, not even a scrap of explanation. Just gone.

The fallout was immediate. His father’s men, the ones who used to glare at Oscar like he was still playing pretend in the big leagues, were now officially his. That didn’t make them loyal. If anything, it made them resentful.

And the yelling started. Meetings that turned into shouting matches, accusations flying in all directions. Everyone wanted answers. Everyone wanted orders. Oscar had barely unpacked his bags, and suddenly, he wasn’t just running his own business — he was holding together an empire someone else had abandoned.

That was the turning point.

Oscar didn’t waste time grieving his father’s absence — he treated it like a business problem. He called everyone in, laid down ground rules like they were carved in stone. No freelancing without his say. No side deals. No loose lips. Anyone who didn’t like it could walk out and never come back.

He reorganized the chain of command, moved people around, and stripped a few of his father’s long-time loyalists of their influence. It ruffled feathers, but he didn’t care — he needed control, not comfort.

Then he started digging. Every ledger, every account, every whisper in the back alleys. He wanted to know the scope of the damage — who they owed, who was gunning for them, and which fires needed putting out before the whole thing collapsed.

The warmth Lily had coaxed out of him over the past months was gone. This was Oscar in survival mode — colder, sharper, and ready to cut out anything or anyone that threatened the operation.

Lando became Oscar’s right hand almost by default.

When the news hit, Lando didn’t waste time with pity — he rolled up his sleeves and dove into the chaos with him. He went through contracts, called in favors, and even dealt with a few “problem clients” himself.

“Your father’s bloody insane for doing this,” Lando muttered one night, buried in paperwork. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, and it wouldn’t be the last. He never sugarcoated the truth, especially when it came to Oscar’s old man.

Oscar didn’t disagree. His father had always been a shadow in the background — barely present, except when it served him. He wasn’t much of a father, not in the ways that counted. And now, he’d dropped his entire empire on his son’s shoulders without a word.

Oscar wasn’t going to forgive him for that. He’d just survive it. And with Lando there, survival felt at least possible.

The shift was subtle but monumental — the name changed from Piastri Family Operatives to Piastri Sibling Operatives. It was a quiet admission that the old guard was gone, that the mantle now rested with Oscar and his younger sisters. The patriarch was absent, leaving behind only shadows and debts.

Behind the scenes, the power balance shifted too. Adam Norris, Lando’s father, stepped in, buying a solid 40% stake in the company. It wasn’t just a financial move—it was a strategic alliance. Lando, with his calm resolve and fierce loyalty, naturally stepped into the role of Oscar’s right hand, the steady presence to match Oscar’s intensity.

For now, the public remained unaware of the changes roiling beneath the surface. But Oscar knew it was only a matter of time before the whispers became headlines. When that day came, everything would be different. The game had changed, and so had the players.

Lando’s suggestion hung in the air like a fragile lifeline. “We could bribe them,” he said, voice steady but carrying the weight of the reality they faced. “I can pay for it.”

Oscar stared at him for a moment, the memory of his father looming like a dark cloud over every decision. His father—the man who’d once ruled with iron fists and reckless abandon—was a gambler. A drunk. A brute who used bitterness and coldness as armor, but only managed to tear everything down in the process.

The debts his father left behind weren’t just financial—they were scars, tangled in dangerous alliances and unfinished business. The kind of debts that no amount of money could simply erase. And yet, here was Lando, offering a solution so straightforward, so almost naive in its simplicity. But also practical.

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, thoughts swirling. The idea of bribery wasn’t new, but to actually put it into motion, to try and buy peace with cold, hard cash—it was risky. Corruption was a poison that worked both ways. Every bribe paid today could double the cost tomorrow. But Lando’s offer carried weight, a sign of trust and loyalty that Oscar hadn’t expected.

“Bribery might keep the wolves at bay for a little while,” Oscar said quietly, “but it’s a bandage, not a cure. And with what Dad left us, it’s not just the wolves at the door—it’s the entire forest ready to burn.”

He looked at Lando, gratitude and resolve hardening in his eyes. “If you’re willing to put your money on the line, it means you’re with me, all the way. That means more than just cash. It means we build something better. Not just survive, but fight back.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the weight of the past heavy, but now a flicker of fire sparked between them—a determination to face the chaos left behind, to make it right. For themselves, for the family, and for the future they still had the power to sharpen.

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In Monte Carlo, the crisp winter air wrapped around the city like a silken veil, but inside the opulent Leclerc estate, the atmosphere was anything but serene. Charles sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the soft glow of antique lamps casting shadows on his sharp features. His icy blue eyes scanned a freshly delivered report handed over by one of his most trusted henchmen—a man who never failed to bring news, no matter how small or significant.

Charles’s lips curled into a faint, almost predatory smile as he absorbed the details. The whispers were true: the Piastri family was beginning to crumble, their grip loosening under the weight of internal chaos and relentless pressure. Their warehouses burned, key players lost, and Oscar scrambling to hold what remained together. The information was delivered meticulously—timing of the fires, the death of Isack Hadjar, Oscar’s father disappearing into legal trouble, and the fragile alliances within the Piastri ranks.

To any ordinary man, this might have seemed like an opportunity too good to be true. But Charles was no ordinary man. He was a master puppeteer, weaving plans years in the making, controlling the shadows with a ruthless precision. He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully.

“So, the house of cards is shaking,” he murmured, voice low and almost reverent. “Oscar Piastri struggles to keep the legacy alive. How... delightful.”

He tapped a polished finger against the ledger on his desk—a ledger full of names, debts, favors, and threats. His family’s empire was vast, but this was more than just business. This was personal. The war they had postponed was about to resume, and Charles was poised to strike harder than ever.

He called for another henchman, a cold glint of satisfaction shining in his eyes. “Prepare the next move. Send word to the men—this is the moment we reclaim everything. No mercy.”

As the winter wind howled outside, Charles Leclerc sat back, a god cloaked in silk and menace, savoring the beginning of the end for the Piastri’s fragile reign. The game was on, and he intended to win at any cost.

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Oscar sat in his dimly lit study, the weight of the recent chaos pressing down on him like a storm cloud. The flicker of a lone candle cast restless shadows across the room as he ran through the plans in his mind, gripping the edge of the polished mahogany desk.

He had originally set January as the deadline to eliminate Arthur Leclerc — the weak link in the enemy’s chain, a soft target to send a message to Charles. But recent developments forced him to reconsider. The destruction of the warehouses, Isack’s death, and the rapid unraveling of their operations meant that a premature strike could jeopardize everything.

Oscar exhaled slowly, tension etched across his face. He glanced over at Lando, who sat quietly in the corner, shoulders tense, eyes sharp.

“We have to pull back the operation,” Oscar finally said, voice low but steady. “January is the earliest we can move. Rushing now will only expose us.”

Lando nodded, understanding the gravity behind those words. “We need to rebuild, regroup. Make sure when we strike, it counts.”

Oscar’s mind churned with calculations — allies to strengthen, resources to replenish, intel to deepen. The war was far from over, but patience had become their most vital weapon. The new year would bring the opportunity, and when that day came, there would be no room for error.

Outside, the cold winter night pressed in, but inside Oscar’s resolve burned fiercer than ever.

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Christmas Day, 2000—cold and unforgiving, just like the world Oscar and Charles inhabited. Outside, the streets glimmered faintly with the trappings of the season—twinkling lights, families laughing, children opening presents. But for the families locked in this clandestine war, Christmas was a hollow word, a distant echo of normalcy they no longer deserved.

Inside a dimly lit warehouse on the outskirts of Monaco, Jules Bianchi, Charles Leclerc’s trusted right hand, sat shackled to a chair. His face was bruised and swollen, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and pain. He had been captured weeks earlier, and tonight was the night Oscar’s men would finish the job.

Oscar’s lieutenant stood over Jules, cold and precise, as the final order came through encrypted channels. It was brutal, swift, and merciless—Jules was executed with no ceremony, no mercy. His death was more than just an assassination; it was a statement.

Back in Monte Carlo, news of Jules’s death reached Charles like a thunderclap. The pain wasn’t just personal—it was an affront to his entire empire. Furious, yet calculating, Charles ordered a brutal retaliation. His men hunted down the assassin who had ended Jules’s life, capturing him within days.

What followed was a grotesque display of vengeance. Tortured relentlessly, the man’s screams echoed through the Leclerc family estate—Charles himself personally involved, cold and remorseless. The message was clear: betrayal would be met with unyielding fury.

That night, Charles called off the war—at least publicly. The fragile truce was a mask to conceal the storm brewing beneath. Neither side would relent, but both recognized the cost had become too great to pay openly. The battlefield had shifted into shadows, whispers, and waiting.

For Oscar and Charles, Christmas 2000 was not about peace or goodwill—it was the blood-soaked turning point in a war that neither side could afford to lose.

Jules Bianchi was more than just a trusted lieutenant to the Leclerc family — he was their anchor. Soft-spoken, measured, and with a quiet strength that commanded respect, Jules had been like a guardian to the Leclerc siblings ever since their father’s death. Where Charles’s ruthless ambition forged a sharp edge, Jules tempered it with calm reason and a steady hand.

He wasn’t born into power or privilege, but he earned his place through loyalty and intelligence. Over the years, Jules became the backbone of the Leclerc operation, managing everything from business negotiations to delicate family matters. The younger siblings looked up to him, and even Charles, despite his arrogance, often deferred to Jules’s counsel behind closed doors.

His death was more than a loss of muscle—it was a devastating blow to the family’s foundation. The silence that followed his execution echoed louder than any gunshot. For many, Jules was the heart beneath the Leclerc empire’s cold, polished exterior. Without him, cracks began to show—cracks Charles would try desperately to hide, but that Oscar and his allies would exploit in the years to come.

Jules’s death sent ripples far beyond the shadowed corridors of the Leclerc family—it shook the entire motorsport world. To fans and fellow racers alike, Jules Bianchi was more than just a promising driver; he was a beacon of integrity and talent, someone many believed was destined for the world championship. His warm smile, quiet determination, and humble nature made him a favorite on and off the track.

But the truth was a dark secret carefully hidden from the public eye. The official story was that Jules died tragically in a car crash—an accident, cruel but understandable in a sport defined by speed and risk. Yet behind the polished headlines, the reality was far more sinister. His death was orchestrated by forces entwined in a deadly power struggle, a brutal message from Charles Leclerc’s faction to their enemies.

The world mourned a hero lost too soon, unaware of the cold calculation and violence that snuffed out his life. That carefully crafted lie became a tool for Charles to maintain his polished image, while underneath, the true cost of the war was buried in silence—one more soul sacrificed in a ruthless game where loyalty, ambition, and survival collided.

Chapter 15

The Norris family tree was a complicated one, full of strained ties and silent grudges. Lando’s siblings each carried their own share of scars, but Cisca’s were the deepest. Born in 1965, she grew up with the same privilege and expectations as her brothers, yet her life veered sharply off course in her teenage years. When she became pregnant at sixteen, the family’s reaction was not compassion but calculated damage control. Without her consent, her baby girl—Mila—was put up for adoption, a decision framed as “for the best” but driven by shame and the family’s obsession with image.

That betrayal severed Cisca’s bond with her parents almost entirely. She walked away, choosing distance over the suffocating control of the household she once called home. Years later, she married—a man she loved fiercely—but her attempt at a quiet, rebuilt life ended in tragedy. Her husband’s death was sudden, and the details were murky at best, whispered about in ways that hinted at foul play. No official answers ever came.

Now a widowed bride, carrying the weight of a stolen daughter and a murdered husband, Cisca became something of a ghost in the Norris family story—spoken of in brief, uneasy tones, her absence more telling than her presence ever was. Flo, Lando, and Oliver rarely saw her, but the knowledge of her bitterness lingered in the background, a reminder of what the Norris name could cost someone who refused to play by its rules.

Far from the sharp-edged world of the Norris family, Mila grew up in the quiet rhythms of the countryside. Under her new name, "Katherine Johnson-Harris", she knew rolling fields, the smell of fresh hay in summer, and the creak of old wooden fences more than she ever knew city streets or family drama. Her adoptive parents—a warm but reserved couple—told her stories about how she came to be theirs.

According to them, her biological parents had been “unable to care for her,” painting a picture of neglect and instability. It was a carefully constructed narrative, one Katherine never had reason to doubt in her early years. Her adoptive parents would always follow this revelation with the reassurance that they had been the lucky ones, that they had wanted her from the start, and that she was the missing piece in their home.

To young Katherine, it was enough. She knew safety, routine, and a kind of love that felt solid. Yet every so often—when she caught her reflection and saw features that didn’t match either parent, or when strangers remarked she “looked like someone they knew”—a subtle unease would flicker through her. It would be years before she learned the truth about her mother, Cisca, and the web of choices that had shaped her life before she could even walk.

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With the crushing weight of the Piastri empire now fully on his shoulders, his habits began to change in ways that worried those closest to him. The pressure was relentless—meetings that stretched into the early hours, balancing debts against fragile alliances, making choices that could cost lives or fortunes. Sleep became a luxury he could rarely afford, and when he did sleep, it was restless, haunted by the echo of his father’s sudden abandonment.

He started smoking heavily—more than he ever had before. It became almost ritualistic: a cigarette before every meeting, another after, one to mark the end of a tense phone call, two or three while pacing in the dark at his desk. The smoke became his shield, a haze between him and the gnawing anxiety that came with leadership he never truly wanted. Drinking followed, though not to the same extent—whiskey mostly, neat, enough to dull the sharp edges without slowing him down too much.

His younger sister Hattie hated it, telling him point-blank that he was turning into their father in the worst ways. Eddie, just as blunt, told him he was killing himself slowly and that no business—no empire—was worth that. Oscar didn’t argue, but he didn’t stop either. He’d simply exhale a cloud of smoke, shrug, and return to whatever urgent matter was burning on his desk that day.

The truth was, the cigarettes and the drink were the only things he felt he could control in a life where everything else seemed to be spiraling out of his hands.

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Oscar and Max Fewtrell were cut from a similar cloth—both sharp-minded, both carrying that air of quiet danger, and both far too young to be burdened with the kind of power and responsibility they wielded. The difference was in their vices. Out of the two, Max was the heavier drinker by a wide margin, the kind of man who could down half a bottle of vodka before lunch and still handle business without missing a beat. His thick Midlands accent only added to his rough-edged persona; sometimes, Oscar had to lean in just to catch half of what he was saying.

Lando was the one who brought them together, figuring they’d get along. And he was right. The first meeting was casual—some cheap pub off a quiet street, a pint between them, light banter that quickly turned into shared war stories about betrayal, power, and the stress of running things. It didn’t take long before they started meeting more regularly, not out of necessity, but because each found in the other someone who actually understood.

Max, for his part, had his own empire to run. He headed a drug cartel operating out of Birmingham, built on the backbone of a smaller but vicious street gang known as the Red Hook Boys. They weren’t massive, but they were loyal, and that made them dangerous. Max liked it that way—keeping his crew tight, the kind of men who would fight to the last breath for him.

The bond between him and Oscar was steady but unspoken. They didn’t have to constantly call or meet to know they had each other’s back. In their world, that kind of trust was rare—and dangerous—but neither seemed to mind.

Max Fewtrell had never pretended to be a saint. Not really, at least. Loyalty, to him, was measured in profit and leverage. If an enemy came bearing gold, Max would at least hear him out. So when Charles Leclerc—a man with a personal vendetta against Oscar Piastri—came forward with an offer, Max didn’t turn him away.

Charles’s proposal was simple enough: help him get rid of Oscar. In exchange, there’d be a payout. But Max wasn’t the type to settle for the first number thrown at him. At every meeting, he’d nudge the price higher, drawing out negotiations until Charles was paying sums that would make most men’s heads spin. And still, Max wanted more. Money was fine, but influence was better. He demanded that Charles’s network lend its weight to smuggling morphine and heroin into Asia, North America, and South Africa—a deal that would cement Max’s grip on the trade routes and multiply his profits beyond measure. Charles, driven by hatred, agreed.

The plan they finally settled on had a kind of brutal elegance. Instead of an open hit, Max suggested using a boxing match—a public event, heavy with spectacle—where one of his own nephews would go up against a champion from the Piastri family. The Piastris, after all, had a finger in nearly every sport imaginable, their influence woven deep into the culture of competition.

But beneath the showmanship, the fight was rigged in a far darker way. The Piastri fighter’s corner team included a man posing as a loyal second, someone who knew every trick of the sport… and every way to kill quietly. This man was no trainer—he was an assassin, paid and placed by Charles himself. The ring would be the stage, the crowd would be the cover, and the knockout wouldn’t be a clean one.

It was the kind of plan Max liked—public enough to humiliate, discreet enough to leave no trace. And for Charles, it was personal enough to taste like victory.

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Oscar didn’t need a full investigation to know something was wrong. The moment word reached him that the Piastri champion had collapsed in the ring—dead before he hit the canvas—his instincts screamed foul play. He’d been around the fight game long enough to know the difference between a clean knockout and a killing blow. This wasn’t bad luck. This was deliberate.

The news came to him through Max Fewtrell, of all people. Max strolled into Oscar’s office the morning after, the smell of last night’s whiskey still clinging to him, and dropped the story like it was casual gossip.

“Hell of a match,” Max said, tossing himself into a chair without asking. “Crowd went mad. Shame about your boy though… didn’t walk out alive.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “You were there?”

“Front row,” Max replied, almost with pride. “Saw the whole thing. Didn’t even look like a punch that’d kill him—but then he went down, no getting back up. Doctors tried, crowd went silent, and that was that. Dead in the middle of the ring.”

Oscar leaned back, jaw tight. He knew fighters died from brain trauma, sure, but the champion he’d sent in was young, conditioned, and tough as nails. There was no way it happened by accident. Someone had slipped a blade, a needle, or something worse past security. Someone had planned it, timed it, executed it flawlessly under the cover of the match.

And if Max had been there, watching so closely, Oscar wondered if his old acquaintance knew more than he was letting on.

The moment Oscar pieced it together, the anger hit him like a freight train.
This wasn’t random, wasn’t bad luck, and sure as hell wasn’t coincidence—this was Charles Leclerc striking back.

Jules Bianchi’s death the previous month had cut Charles to the bone. Jules wasn’t just a trusted right hand; he’d been family to the Leclercs. The kind of man you didn’t just lose without blood being spilled in return. Charles had kept his grief quiet in public, feeding the press some story about a tragic car accident, but behind closed doors, Oscar knew he’d been hunting for a way to make it hurt.

The boxing match had been the perfect stage. Big crowd, national attention, a clean setup for a killing that would humiliate the Piastris without leaving a trace pointing back to Monaco. The assassin disguised as the champion’s second had done the job clean—so clean the cameras didn’t even catch it. By the time the young fighter’s knees buckled, the man had already melted back into the chaos of the corner.

Max’s description of the night now sounded different in Oscar’s ears. He could almost hear Charles’s smirk in it. The bastard hadn’t just wanted to hurt him—he’d wanted to send a message.

And Oscar got it loud and clear: 'You took Jules from me. Now I’ve taken one of yours.'

By February 2nd, 2001, Oscar’s patience was gone.
The gloves were off, and there was no room for chess moves or back-channel threats anymore—Charles Leclerc had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

When Oscar finally found him, Charles didn’t beg, didn’t run.
He stood there in the dim light, coat collar turned up against the winter wind, hands loose at his sides like a man who knew the game was over. The only thing moving were his eyes—sharp, burning, unflinching. There was no fear in them, only a venomous contempt.

“You evil piece of shit," Oscar growled, the words leaving his mouth heavy with months of rage.
Charles didn’t reply. The silence between them was a wall neither had any interest in breaking.

Oscar’s gun went off once, clean. Charles dropped, the life gone from him before he hit the pavement.

When Oscar returned, Max Fewtrell was waiting—and not with condolences. The smirk on his face, the slight shrug, it was enough to set Oscar off all over again. Without hesitation, he put a bullet in Max’s leg.

That turned into fists, shoves, and the kind of fight where every punch carried weeks of pent-up betrayal. Max shouted through gritted teeth, Oscar snarled right back, and neither of them seemed willing to stop until Lando stormed in.

He didn’t bother with words at first—he just shoved them both apart so hard it rattled bones.
“Enough,” he barked, his voice cracking like a whip. “You two are gonna tear this whole damned thing apart before the cops even get a whiff of it.”

It took him another five minutes of threats and curses to get them both cooled down, but the damage was done.
Charles was gone. Max was bleeding. And the fragile trust that had once kept the three of them in orbit was fractured for good.

“Charles is dead, Oscar. You killed him,” Lando said flatly, his tone cold enough to cut glass. He wasn’t accusing—just stating the one fact that mattered above all else. The air in the room was tense, cigarette smoke curling between them in lazy spirals as the weight of the words settled.

Oscar sat back in the chair, hands still stained with the memory of what he’d done, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the far wall. His breathing was steady, but there was something dangerous in the stillness of his frame—like a predator not quite finished with the hunt.

“Now,” Lando continued, his voice dropping an octave, deliberate and measured, “who’s got a story on how he died?”

He didn’t have to explain what he meant. They couldn’t tell the truth—not to the papers, not to the families, not to the cops. You couldn’t exactly go around saying Charles Leclerc was gunned down in cold blood by the man he’d been trying to ruin. That was suicide, for the empire and for them.

Max shifted uncomfortably in the corner, leg still throbbing where Oscar’s bullet had torn into him earlier. He had a half-smirk on his face, the kind that said he might have an idea but was weighing whether it was worth sharing. “Could make it look like a robbery,” he muttered. “Wrong place, wrong time. No one questions that in this city.”

Oscar’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp and assessing, but he didn’t speak. Lando stepped forward, pacing between them like a man trying to corral two wolves. “We can’t half-ass this. The story needs teeth—something everyone will believe without digging. If there’s even a hint that we were involved, every rival from here to Naples will come sniffing around.”

The room went quiet again. The only sound was the faint ticking of the wall clock and the muffled hum of the city beyond the walls. The three of them knew what was at stake. Charles’s death wasn’t just the end of a personal vendetta—it was a spark, and if they didn’t control the story, the fire would burn everything they’d built to the ground.

Finally, Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Fine,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “We give them a robbery. We make it messy, make it quick, and we make sure no one can trace a thing back to me. And if anyone starts talking—”

“They won’t,” Lando cut in, his gaze locked on Oscar’s. “Because they won’t live long enough even to try.”

Max’s scowl could’ve cracked stone. He limped across the room, his thick accent dragging each word out like a curse. “You’re telling me… that’s it? Fifty percent each for you and Lando? And me? I get nothing? After the leg, Oscar! After the leg!” He jabbed a finger at Oscar’s chest, each motion sharp enough to draw blood in a different world.

Oscar, sitting back with a cigarette dangling from his lips, didn’t flinch. The smoke curled lazily upward, casting shadows across his calm, cold face. “Max,” he said, tone flat, almost bored, “you’ve been paid for services rendered. That leg of yours? Consider it part of the cost of doing business. And as for the profits—Charles’s empire was his. Now it’s ours. Simple arithmetic.”

Lando, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, let out a low chuckle, shaking his head at Max. “Mate, you knew the stakes. You knew what it would take to sit at this table. Don’t start whining now.”

Max slammed his fist on the table, rattling glasses and sending ash from Oscar’s cigarette fluttering to the floor. “Whining? I bled for this! I saw him die, and I—”

“—and you’re still alive,” Oscar interrupted, cutting him off sharply. “That’s your reward. You want more, you’ll need to prove you deserve it, not whine about what you think should be handed to you.”

Max opened his mouth to retort but then paused, realizing the cold finality in Oscar’s eyes. Lando smirked, “He’s got a point, Max. You wanted in on the empire, you play by its rules. Simple as that.”

Oscar flicked the ash off his cigarette and leaned forward, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Now, you want your piece of this? You earn it. You earn it*with loyalty and results. Otherwise, you’ll stay exactly where you are—a man with a limp and an attitude, but no empire.”

Max clenched his jaw, but the fire in his eyes dimmed slightly. He knew he had no choice; Oscar and Lando held all the cards, and the Piastri empire had just grown—far beyond what anyone outside that room could imagine. Every whispered threat, every deal, every bit of influence Charles had amassed was now theirs. And the lesson was clear: loyalty didn’t come from entitlement. It came from survival.

The room fell silent, heavy with unspoken tension. Outside, the city lights of London flickered faintly against the night sky, a reminder that the empire now had a reach that could touch anywhere, and everyone knew the Piastri name demanded respect… or fear.

Chapter 16

Summary:

Season two has officially begun.

By the early 2000s, Father Mika Häkkinen’s reputation was an odd mix of legend and whispers. To most in his small Finnish parish, he was simply a calm, steady priest—silver-haired, with eyes that held the kind of quiet weight only seen in men who had once danced with death at high speed. His sermons were measured, almost poetic, laced with metaphors about racing lines, overtakes, and split-second decisions that could define a life. Few in the pews knew that decades earlier, before the collar and the cross, Mika had been one of the fastest men on four wheels, a Formula One champion in the late 1950s and early ‘60s.

What even fewer knew was the path that came after. The Soviet Union had a long memory and an even longer reach. During the Cold War, Mika had been… useful. His European fame, his frequent travels, and his ability to slip unnoticed into elite gatherings made him an ideal asset. By the late 1970s, he was quietly passing messages, carrying sealed packages across borders, and cultivating relationships that were not entirely holy. His faith, ironically, made him even more trusted.

When the USSR collapsed, Mika vanished from the intelligence world—or so it seemed. In truth, his old connections never really broke. Moscow still had his number, and Helsinki still knew exactly which levers to pull when they needed a favor. That favor came in 2001, delivered in a sealed envelope marked with the red wax of a government seal. Inside was a single name: Oscar Piastri.

Oscar had become a problem—too much influence, too much reach, too much money flowing into his empire after Charles Leclerc’s death. Australian by birth but now entrenched in European and Asian operations, Oscar’s expansion was making certain governments uneasy. The Russians wanted him slowed, if not stopped entirely. And for reasons Mika never asked out loud, they wanted the job to look like divine justice, not political interference.

He didn’t relish the task. Age had made him careful, and the priesthood had given him a certain moral distance from his past life. But Mika had a code—one that didn’t always align with the church’s. If the state called, he answered. And if that meant putting on his old mask, then so be it.

Within weeks, he was in Birmingham, dressed in the simple black of a visiting clergyman. To Oscar, he was just another harmless priest, maybe even a curiosity. But behind the quiet voice and weathered hands was a man with the precision of a racer, the patience of a confessor, and the ruthlessness of a Cold War operative.

And Mika Häkkinen had been given the green light.

Mika Häkkinen’s plan against Oscar was anything but straightforward. It wasn’t just about removing a dangerous man from the board—it was about turning his downfall into a political chain reaction. The orders from Moscow had been clear in tone but vague in detail: dismantle Oscar Piastri in such a way that Britain and the remnants of Soviet power would be set against each other, the tension forcing both sides to burn resources, trust, and alliances.

The beauty of it was that Oscar didn’t even need to know who was pulling the strings. Mika understood from his racing days that the best moves were the ones your opponent never saw until it was too late.

His first step was infiltration, but not in the crude, obvious way. As Father Mika, he began moving through the layers of Oscar’s world like a shadow—blessing a new warehouse opening under the guise of offering spiritual guidance, “accidentally” meeting Lando Norris at a charity event, offering a comforting ear to Max during his recovery from the leg wound. Every conversation was stored, every habit noted.

The second phase was to seed distrust. Mika leaked carefully tailored rumors to both British intelligence contacts and certain Russian operatives he still knew personally. To the British, he suggested Oscar might be laundering funds for old Soviet loyalists. To the Russians, he implied Oscar was channeling profits toward MI6-backed shipping interests. Neither side could ignore the possibility; both began quietly probing his network.

The third phase was provocation. Mika orchestrated a shipment of medical supplies that was actually a cover for smuggling rare metals—using an “anonymous tip” to point British customs to the ship just as it docked in Odessa. The trail led, on paper, back to an associate of Oscar’s. Britain saw it as proof of Russian involvement. Russia saw it as British sabotage. Both were technically right, but in reality, neither was pulling the strings.

By now, Oscar’s empire was under subtle siege. His shipments were delayed, his people questioned, his name whispered in political backrooms. But Mika’s real stroke of genius came with the final step: drawing Oscar into a trap where both the British and Russian sides believed the other had sanctioned his removal.

The plan didn’t require a bullet—it required Oscar’s world to collapse around him. And when it did, the headlines would speak of corruption, treason, and foreign interference, not a Finnish priest who once drove faster than anyone alive.

And Mika would walk away with clean hands, just as he always had.

Oscar could feel it in the way the pieces were moving—too clean, too deliberate. The sudden port inspections, the border seizures, the subtle disruptions in trade routes that had been secure for years… these weren’t coincidences. Somebody was engineering the chaos. But the problem was, he couldn’t see the face behind it.

And that was the most dangerous kind of enemy—the invisible one.

He spent nights going over manifests, tracing phone calls, piecing together events like he was trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle without the box lid. Nothing lined up neatly. The disruptions didn’t point to one family, one government, or even one personal rival. It was like chasing smoke.

Lando, on the other hand, had always been quick to sense when the game was changing. He’d seen it before, how a quiet hand could push two sides into conflict without ever stepping into the spotlight. Watching the timing of each incident, he got the same feeling Oscar had—this was a pattern, not bad luck.

“You don’t trip this many times in a row unless someone’s putting their foot out,” Lando told him one night, leaning against the edge of Oscar’s desk.

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He was staring at a map of shipping routes, his jaw tight, tracing with his finger where the breakdowns kept happening. Every red circle on the map told him the same thing—someone was orchestrating this. But who? And why?

Mika’s name never even crossed his mind. To Oscar, the Finnish priest was a harmless old relic of another era, more likely to be giving sermons than playing political chess. And that was exactly why Mika’s plan was working so perfectly.

The suspicion didn’t come to Oscar all at once—it crept in like damp through stone.

At first, Father Mika was just a name on the periphery of his operations, someone who appeared at charity dinners, funerals, and community gatherings, always shaking hands, always smiling. But Oscar started noticing that wherever Mika appeared, trouble seemed to follow in the weeks after—raids, missing shipments, political whispers in the air.

He began to dig quietly, using contacts who owed him favors. The results were… puzzling. On paper, Mika was exactly what he claimed to be—a respected clergyman, beloved in Finland, known for his work mediating tensions during the Cold War. But tucked between the glowing reports were strange inconsistencies: phone records with calls to Moscow, travel logs that placed him in certain Soviet-aligned territories at suspicious times, and meetings with Finnish political figures who had been seen dining with Russian diplomats.

Oscar’s gut told him he wasn’t just a priest.

The working theory he built in his mind was ugly: Mika wasn’t just in Finland’s pocket—he was in Russia’s as well. A double agent, reporting to both, playing a dangerous game of loyalty.

The truth, as Oscar would later discover, was even more precise and more dangerous. Mika was officially a representative of Finland, but he was acting under very specific orders to feed information to the Russians—not out of divided loyalty, but as part of a coordinated Finnish operation. The Russians wanted Britain provoked into an attack, something loud and messy enough to shatter diplomatic relations with the communist bloc. If they succeeded, the political fallout would ripple through Europe, destabilizing the balance of power.

What unsettled Oscar most was realizing just how close this plan already was to succeeding—and how much of it had been set in motion right under his nose.

When Oscar finally confronted Father Mika, it was in the quiet back room of an abandoned rectory. The air smelled of incense long burned away and damp wood. He didn’t shout—he simply told Mika what he believed, each word sharp enough to cut: “You’re a Soviet informant. I know it.”

Mika didn’t flinch. Instead, the older man smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of the lips that made Oscar’s stomach tighten. “If you think you’ve found God, my boy, you’re mistaken,” Mika said softly. “But I can make you pray.”

The next day, in front of a small but carefully chosen audience, Mika forced the humiliation. Oscar was made to stand in the sanctuary, reciting the Catholic Act of Contrition—but every reference to God replaced with “Mika Hakkinen.” The priest stood before him, hands folded, basking in the quiet scandal of it. It wasn’t about faith; it was about dominance. The shame was a warning—Mika’s way of saying I can take everything from you, and you’ll kneel for it.

It didn’t end there.

When Oscar started quietly communicating with the Soviets—trying to undercut Mika’s influence from within—the priest made his most ruthless move yet. Mae Piastri, Oscar’s youngest sister, disappeared on her way home from school. No ransom note, no phone call—just gone. Hours later, an anonymous message reached him: Stop playing games, or you’ll never see her again.

Mika had taken her.

For days, Oscar’s world narrowed to a razor’s edge. He could feel Mika’s trap closing—forcing him to act not as the calculating figurehead of the Piastri empire, but as a desperate brother. And Mika knew desperation made men sloppy, easy to break, easy to own.

--------------------------------------------------------------------
Mae begins to lose her sense of time and reality in the basement—hearing water drip, counting cracks in the wall, talking to herself. Mika uses this as leverage, sending Oscar small, cruel updates about her declining state. This forces Oscar to make a choice: risk a reckless rescue or keep playing Mika’s game to buy more time.

Oscar enlists Max Fewtrell’s Red Hook Boys to track down Mae’s location. The gang uses their Birmingham street network to find out that Mika is keeping her in a safehouse disguised as an abandoned Soviet cultural center. Oscar must decide whether to storm it immediately or set up an ambush for Mika’s men to capture valuable intel.

Lando starts negotiating with Mika behind Oscar’s back, hoping to free Mae without bloodshed—but Mika feeds Lando lies about Oscar working for the Soviets. This sows mistrust between the two, making Mae’s rescue even harder.

While Mae is still captive, Mika stages a Soviet “attack” on British assets and frames Oscar as the liaison who made it possible. Now Oscar has to clear his name while still secretly planning Mae’s escape. When Mae is finally freed (whether through negotiation or rescue), she is physically weakened and deeply traumatized. Instead of retreating, she insists on being part of the plan to bring Mika down, adding a personal dimension to Oscar's next movement.

Chapter 17

Mae had stopped counting the days. The dark basement swallowed time until it didn’t matter whether morning or night hung above. She sat curled in the farthest corner, the blanket around her shoulders damp and smelling faintly of mold. The only sound was the slow, mocking drip of water into a rusted tin bucket.

The door creaked open. A rectangle of faint light sliced the black. Father Mika’s silhouette filled the frame—tall, angular, the collar of his priest’s cassock stark against the shadows. He stepped in and set down a chipped plate. A single chunk of bread sat in the center.

“You should pray for your brother’s humility,” Mika said softly, almost like a lullaby. “It’s his pride that keeps you here.”

Mae didn’t look at him. She pulled the blanket tighter. Mika lingered for a moment, his gaze unreadable, then turned and closed the door. Darkness again.

A thousand miles away—or maybe only a hundred—Oscar stared at the Polaroid in his hand. Mae’s face was pale, hollow-eyed. There was a faint bruise under one eye. His hand shook, crumpling the picture’s edge. The note beneath it read:

God will forgive you, Oscar. Will I? — M.H.

The wood table rattled as his fist slammed into it.

“Somebody’s leaking our location,” Lando said, leaning in the doorway. “We move too fast, we’re dead.”

Oscar shot him a look that could have burned through steel. “We move now.”

From the far corner, Max sat silent, his eyes dark and distant. He hadn’t spoken all evening. When Lando left the room, Max finally said, “It’s not just about her.”

Oscar glanced over.

“Mika—” Max’s voice caught. “When I was a kid, in Finland… he… touched me.”

The air seemed to thicken between them. Oscar’s jaw worked. “Then we end him. For Mae. For you.”

Max’s fists curled around the edge of the table. “I was just a kid. Ten, maybe eleven. He… he said I owed him obedience because he was my godfather. He made me believe it was love, guidance… all lies.” His voice broke, quiet but sharp. “I never forgot. I can’t forget. And now he’s holding Mae like she’s a pawn.”

Oscar’s eyes darkened. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in. Lando stepped closer, his voice low but steady. “You want revenge, Max. I get it. But we need her alive first. That’s priority one.”

Max nodded, swallowing hard. “I know. But when this is over… he pays. He’s not touching anyone else ever again.”

Oscar’s fingers drummed against the table, plotting. “We move fast. I have contacts in Prague and St. Petersburg. Hints about his safehouses, his little network… it’s all connected. The Soviets, the Finns, all the threads lead back to him. Mae isn’t just a hostage. She’s leverage, and we’re going to cut it off.”

Lando furrowed his brow. “You’ve got a plan?”

Oscar smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I always have a plan. We’ll track him, find her, and Mika will answer for everything he’s done. And I’ll make sure you get your justice, Max. Personally.” Max let out a low breath, a mix of relief and dread. “I’ve waited thirty years for that.” Oscar’s gaze hardened. “Then we don’t waste another second.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Max moved silently through the dim corridors of Mika’s secluded estate. The shadows clung to him, as if the darkness itself wanted to witness the confrontation. Every step brought back memories he had tried so hard to bury, flashes of a childhood twisted by Mika’s manipulation.

When he finally entered the room, Mika was there, seated behind a desk, calm and composed as ever. The priest’s eyes flicked up, a faint smirk on his face.
“Father Mika. You remember me? By chance?” Max’s voice was light, teasing almost, but it carried the weight of every scar Mika had left on him.

Mika’s smirk faltered slightly, just enough. “Max… you’ve grown. Stronger than I expected.” Max didn’t reply. He stepped closer, each movement precise, calculated, lethal. “Stronger? Maybe. But I’ve never forgotten. And I never forgive.”

In a flash, the confrontation erupted. Max’s training, his anger, his years of bottled-up pain—all converged in a single brutal act. There was no hesitation, no mercy. Mika’s own arrogance was his downfall; he never anticipated the depth of Max’s hatred, the way it had forged him into something deadly.

When it was over, Mika lay motionless, the room silent except for Max’s ragged breathing. He wiped the sweat from his brow, a small, grim satisfaction settling in his chest. The monster was dead. Max’s eyes flicked to the door, already thinking of the next step: rescuing Mae and ending this nightmare once and for all.
Oscar and Lando would arrive moments later, and together they would take the final pieces of control back from the chaos Mika had caused.

Oscar’s chest tightened as he finally saw Mae, pale and trembling, in the dim light of the safehouse. He practically ran to her, scooping her up in a tight embrace.

“You’re safe now, Mae,” he whispered, his voice rough, almost breaking. “I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere.”

Mae clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder. She had grown thinner, weaker, her little hands shaking from days of cold and hunger. Oscar could feel the weight of every moment she had endured pressing against him, and anger boiled up inside him—anger not just at Mika, but at the world that had let this happen.

Lando stepped back respectfully, giving them a moment, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the perimeter. Even in a rare, soft moment like this, he remained vigilant.

“You alright?” Oscar murmured, pulling back just enough to see her face. Mae nodded weakly, blinking through tears.

“I thought… I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispered. “You will always see me again,” Oscar said firmly, cupping her face in his hands. “I promise you that. No one—no one—can ever take you from me again.”

For the first time in days, Mae allowed herself a small, shaky smile. Oscar held her a little tighter, letting the relief wash over him, even as the memory of everything that had happened—and everything that could still happen—lingered in the back of his mind.

Outside, Lando murmured to him, low and tense: “We need to move her somewhere safer, now. Mika’s gone, but there’s no telling who else might try to use her.”
Oscar nodded, still holding Mae close. “Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.” The reunion was brief, but powerful, a silent vow that no matter the battles ahead, they would face them together. Always.

Notes:

Shorter chapter cause it's 00:31 am where I am and I'm soo sleep deprived 😭 it's really bad.

Chapter 18

Michael Schumacher was born on January 3rd, 1939, in the industrial town of Hürth, Germany, to working-class parents, Rolf and Elisabeth Schumacher. His early years were marked by the gray shadow of post-war recovery. The streets where he grew up were narrow and cracked, the buildings weathered from years of neglect and bombing during the war.

The Schumachers lived in a cramped, two-room flat in the poorer quarter of town—what many locals quietly referred to as “the slums.” The wallpaper peeled from damp walls, winters were brutal, and the only source of heat came from a small coal stove in the kitchen. Michael shared a bed with his younger brother, their blankets thin and patched over time.

Rolf worked long hours at a nearby factory, while Elisabeth took on sewing jobs from neighbors to make ends meet. Despite their struggles, they instilled in Michael a strong work ethic and the belief that no matter your beginnings, you could fight your way into a better life.

Michael, though small and wiry, had a stubborn streak. He was quick to defend himself in the rough streets, and quicker still to seize any opportunity for excitement. He would often be seen building makeshift carts out of scrap wood and metal, racing them down the steepest hill he could find—long before the idea of real racing ever crossed his mind.

It was a hard life, but one that shaped him into someone who understood resilience from the very start. The world outside their small flat was unforgiving, and Michael learned early on that survival meant grit, speed, and never backing down from a challenge.

 

From a young age, Michael dreamed of becoming a racing driver—a dream that seemed almost impossible given where he came from. His father, Rolf, had once harbored the same ambition, but life in post-war Germany had been too harsh, too consuming. Rolf had neither the means nor the connections to chase it, and the weight of responsibility for his family forced him to put that dream away forever.

Michael, however, carried it forward like a torch.

Even as a boy, he would hang around the outskirts of makeshift tracks, watching older men tear around in battered machines patched together with whatever parts they could find. The sound of engines was like music to him, a calling that he couldn’t shake.

Determined to make it happen, he took on every odd job he could get his hands on. He delivered newspapers in the early morning chill, swept floors in shops, loaded crates at the local train station, and even helped out at a nearby repair garage. The garage, in particular, became his second home. He learned how to handle tools, replace parts, and coax life out of engines that most people would have abandoned as scrap.

Every coin he earned was carefully stashed away in a tin box under his bed. He didn’t spend it on sweets or the small pleasures other boys his age craved—every pfennig was for the dream.

It wasn’t just about money; it was about preparation. Michael understood that racing was more than just speed—it was skill, endurance, and understanding the machine as if it were an extension of himself. The garage work gave him that edge. By the time he was a teenager, he could strip and rebuild a carburetor blindfolded, and he knew the difference between a driver who controlled the car and one who let the car control them.

In a world where opportunities for someone like him were scarce, Michael wasn’t waiting for a chance—he was building one.

 

Michael didn’t see a useless machine—he saw possibility.

The kart looked like it had lived through a war of its own. The paint was chipped, the frame spotted with rust, the seat patched with tape, and the tires so bald they could have been mistaken for polished leather. The engine coughed and sputtered like an old man with a bad chest, refusing to start without protest.

But Michael knew machines.

He dragged the kart home, ignoring the skeptical looks from his neighbors. To them, it was junk—dead weight that would never see a track again. To Michael, it was his first real car.

Evenings became a ritual: after his shift at the garage, he’d work on the kart in the dim light of the small shed behind his family’s house. He stripped the engine, cleaning every component with meticulous care. He replaced the spark plug with a discarded one he had found at the garage, reshaped a bent axle with nothing more than a hammer, and scavenged for a pair of mismatched tires that still had enough tread to grip the track.

When he couldn’t find the right part, he improvised. He fashioned a new fuel line from an old bicycle pump tube. He re-sewed the seat using fishing line and his mother’s needle. Piece by piece, the rusted heap began to look alive again.

The first time the engine roared—well, more coughed loudly in agreement—Michael grinned like a boy who had just been handed the keys to a kingdom. It wasn’t perfect, not even close, but it was his.

On race day, the other kids lined up in karts that gleamed under the sun, machines that their parents had bought new or at least well-maintained. Michael’s kart looked out of place, a relic from another time. Some laughed, a few pitied him.

But when the flag dropped, Michael wasn’t thinking about appearances. He was thinking about every late night in that shed, every part he’d coaxed back to life, and every corner he had visualized in his head for weeks.

That day, he didn’t just compete.

He made them notice him.

The crowd didn’t quite know what to make of it.

From the stands, Michael’s kart looked like it belonged in the scrapyard, but on the track—it moved like it had been blessed by some mechanical miracle. His lines were sharper than the rest, his braking impossibly late without losing control, and his acceleration out of corners almost supernatural for the engine he was running.

On paper, he should have been dead last. In reality, he was hunting down leaders who had twice his horsepower and four times his budget. Every lap, he found new ways to shave off milliseconds—cutting a tighter inside, carrying more speed into the bend, dancing on the throttle with surgical precision.

The others pushed their machines to their limits. Michael pushed himself.

By the final lap, the track announcer’s voice had changed from polite acknowledgment to barely-contained excitement. “Und hier kommt Schumacher—Ja, dieser Schumacher — jetzt auf dem vierten Platz!! Schauen Sie sich das Laufwerk an ! Unglaubliches Tempo vom Außenseiter!!” (1)

Dust and rubber clung to his face, but Michael’s eyes were locked ahead, reading every corner like an open book. And when he crossed the finish line—third, against all odds—there was no fist pump, no wild celebration. Just a small, knowing smirk.

Because Michael wasn’t here to surprise people. He was here to prove that this was only the beginning.

When the race ended and the karts rolled into the paddock, the atmosphere shifted.

The richer kids with their polished karts and team jackets were used to dominating the local meets. Today, though, a scrawny boy in a patched-up sweater and oil-stained jeans had taken a podium from right under their noses. The other racers—some grudgingly, some genuinely—came over to shake his hand. Mechanics leaned on their tool benches, watching him with raised eyebrows, murmuring to each other about how he had wrung that much speed from something barely held together by bolts and prayer.

His father stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, trying not to look too proud—but the glint in his eyes gave him away.

Near the edge of the crowd, a man lingered—a stranger to most, but his leather jacket and sharp eyes marked him as someone who wasn’t just here for the weekend hobby scene. He’d been quietly observing the whole race, barely clapping, just studying. A local talent agent. He’d come looking for raw potential—rare, unpolished, the kind that money alone couldn’t buy.
When Michael glanced up, the man was already walking toward him. “Sie sind gefahren, als ob Sie gewinnen wollten.,” the agent said, his tone more curiosity than praise. "Wie alt bist du?, Junge?” (2)

“Zwölf,” Michael answered—twelve.

"Kein Team oder Sponsoren?” (3)

Michael shook his head. “Nur ich und mein Vater.” (4)

The agent smiled faintly, almost as if he’d expected that answer. “Mh... Manchmal fangen Champions so an.” (5) That was the moment—the first ripple in a current that would pull Michael out of the slums and toward the world stage.

The agent waited until the crowd had thinned, then turned his attention from Michael to Rolf.

“Dein Junge,” (6) he began, nodding toward Michael, who was crouched beside the battered kart, fiddling with the chain as if he hadn’t just shocked an entire grid. “Er hat etwas. Mehr als nur Reflexe. Er liest die Strecke. Das kann man ihm nicht beibringen.” (7)

Rolf crossed his arms, wary. Years in the slums had taught him not to trust men who spoke smooth and smiled too much. “Und was willst du von ihm?” (8)

“Nicht....Noch.” (9) the agent said with a faint shrug. “Aber ich kenne ein Vereinsteam in Köln. Ein kleines Team. Sie zahlen nicht, aber sie übernehmen die Teile. Reifen, Sprit, Startgelder. Wenn er mehr als nur Schrottrennen hier auf den lokalen Rennstrecken fahren will, ist das ein Anfang.” (10)

Rolf’s eyes softened slightly. He wanted to believe it—but he also knew reality. He barely had enough money to put food on the table some weeks. He nodded, but said nothing.

That night, as they loaded the kart into the back of their old truck, Michael’s head buzzed with possibilities. A team. Real racing. Something beyond patched tires and borrowed parts. But as weeks passed, the truth settled in: the offer was just enough to tease, not enough to lift him out of the mud. Sponsorship meant traveling, and traveling meant money. Money they didn’t have.

By the time Michael was fourteen, frustration began eating at him. He had the speed—every mechanic, every racer saw it—but he couldn’t climb higher without money. The rich boys with shiny karts would leapfrog into proper teams, while he sat in the shadows.

That was when the darker path started whispering. Street races—run on abandoned roads outside Köln and Düsseldorf—offered cash to the winner. No rules. No age limits. Just raw speed and nerve. Michael, desperate to keep chasing the dream, slipped into that underground scene.

It wasn’t long before his name started circulating there too. The quiet, scrappy kid with the broken-down kart had turned into a storm on wheels. The winnings paid for new parts, for entry fees, for the chance to keep racing. But they also left a stain: a record. Trouble with the police. Nothing too major at first, but enough that whispers of “that Schumacher boy” carried a warning edge.

And yet—every time he put his helmet on, every time he felt the machine come alive beneath him—Michael believed it was worth it.

The night of his first big win was electric. The race had drawn a huge crowd—mechanics, punters, gamblers, and the kinds of people who thrived in the cracks of postwar Germany’s economy. Michael’s battered kart had no business winning, but he outmaneuvered everyone. Fifteen thousand euros in a single night—it was more than his father made in months.

But success came with eyes.

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Word spread fast. Some called him a prodigy, others whispered “reckless.” That much cash on the line always drew shady company. Men in long coats with thick accents approached him afterward, congratulating him with thin smiles. “Wir mögen Gewinner.,” (11) one of them said, pressing a business card into his hand. No name, just a number.

These weren’t racing scouts. They were fixers, connected to gambling syndicates and black-market rings that used underground racing both for entertainment and for laundering money. They saw Michael not just as a driver—but as an investment. A boy they could sponsor, in exchange for loyalty.

Rolf sensed danger immediately. He grabbed Michael by the shoulder and steered him away, but his son’s mind was already burning with temptation. That money—if he could win it again and again—it could pay for real karts, real teams, maybe even open doors to legitimate racing.

The crossroads had appeared: stay with his father in the shadows of legitimate karting, scraping by—or step deeper into a world where speed and talent were currency, but every deal made was with men who could crush you just as quickly as they could lift you.

 

Rolf slammed the door of their small flat behind him, his boots heavy on the floorboards. Michael was still buzzing from the adrenaline of the race, his pockets thick with cash he hadn’t stopped counting. He sat at the rickety table, grinning to himself, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Michael,” Rolf’s voice came low, controlled, but sharp as a blade. “This is not the way. Do you understand me? These men—what they promise, what they give you—it always comes at a price.”

Michael rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Vater, it’s money. Good money. Fifteen thousand, in one night! Do you know how long you’ve been working just to bring home half of that? With this, I can buy new tires, a new chassis, maybe even a real kart. This is my chance.”

Rolf’s jaw tightened. He moved closer, snatching the stack of bills from Michael’s hand and slamming it down on the table. “And when they come to collect their share? When they tell you to do something you don’t want to do? You think they gave you that money for free? You’re playing with men who don’t forgive, Michael. Men who don’t lose.”

Michael stood up, his face red with frustration. “I don’t care! I’m not going to spend my whole life in the slums, watching opportunities pass me by because we’re too scared. I won. I was the fastest out there. I deserve this!”

The room fell silent. Rolf’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his son’s words. He knew that hunger—he had it once himself, the dream of racing, the dream that died when life crushed it out of him. He saw himself in Michael, but he also saw the storm coming.

“Fast doesn’t protect you from bullets,” Rolf muttered finally, his voice heavy. “Or from debts you can’t repay.”

Michael snatched the money back, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. “Then let them try,” he said bitterly, before storming out into the night.

Rolf sat back down, burying his head in his hands. For the first time, he realized his son’s talent could take him to greatness—but it could also destroy him.

 

Michael’s introduction wasn’t in some smoke-filled bar or backroom—it was at the kart track, after hours. One of the men who had taken notice of his street racing win, a thickset German named Dieter, waited by the paddock gate. His suit was too fine for the slums, and his smile was far too casual for what he really was.

“You’re fast,” Dieter said, lighting a cigarette. “Fast men are useful. Fast cars even more so.”

At first, Michael thought it was about more races. But Dieter wasn’t interested in trophies. He was interested in delivery.

Michael learned quickly. Drugs weren’t always carried in big shipments—sometimes, the most valuable payloads were small enough to fit inside a carburetor housing, or tucked beneath the seat padding of a kart. Bribes weren’t bags of money shoved into hands—they were “favors,” whispered promises to police and border guards who pretended not to see. Betting wasn’t just racing for prize money—it was men in suits throwing down thousands of marks, laundering cash through outcomes that were already decided.

Weapons moved even easier than drugs. An engine block could carry pieces of a rifle. A gearbox crate might have something far more dangerous hidden inside.

Michael didn’t breathe a word of it to his parents. At home, he was still the boy who went to the kart track, still the boy with grease under his nails and a spark in his eyes. But in the shadows, he was building. He carried small parcels across town for Dieter. He took coded notes and passed them at street corners. He watched, he learned, and slowly, he began cutting himself into the deals.

A handful of marks here, a skim off a betting pool there. Just enough to keep his name quiet but his pockets heavy. Before long, the other boys at the track noticed he always had fresh tires, a cleaner kart, and money for drinks after. They whispered, but no one dared ask.

Michael had started building his own little empire—small, almost invisible. But it was his.

 

By seventeen, Michael’s reputation at the kart tracks had spread far beyond Hürth. He wasn’t just “the poor kid with a rusty kart” anymore—he was the boy who could overtake in corners no one else dared, who seemed to know exactly how much grip there was before his tires even touched the asphalt. Word reached a mid-level karting team, one with real sponsors and the funds to send drivers abroad.

The offer came in the form of a letter, stamped with a foreign address, inviting him to race in Italy, France, even England. They promised travel covered, food, lodging—things Michael had only dreamed of.

When he told Dieter, the man only smirked.
“Racing, eh? That’s good. That’s clean. But remember, boy—once you’ve carried for me, you’ll always owe me. Don’t forget that.”

For days, Michael wrestled with it. He had money in his pockets now, money from smuggling and betting scams. He had a name among men who frightened even the police. But he also had a shot at being something else. Something real.

Finally, one night at the dinner table, he announced it to his parents. “They want me,” he said simply. “A real team. They’ll pay for everything.”

Elisabeth cried. Rolf, usually so stern, said nothing—just reached across the table and gripped his son’s hand.

The next morning, Michael disappeared from Dieter’s world. No more late-night runs. No more quiet packages. No more whispers and winks at border crossings. He cut ties cold, as if racing had burned away the shadows he’d been living in.

Of course, men like Dieter didn’t forget. But Michael didn’t care. He was finally on the road—Europe’s circuits stretched before him, and for the first time, it wasn’t about survival or side hustles. It was about the thing he had loved since the beginning: being fast.

Notes:

1.) "And here comes Schumacher—yes, that Schumacher—now in fourth place!! Look at that drive! Incredible pace from the outsider!!”
2.) "You drove as if you wanted to win." - "How old are you, kid?
3.) "No team or sponsors?
4.) "Just me and my father."
5.) “Hmm... Sometimes champions start like that.”
6.) "Your boy."
7.) "He’s got something. More than just reflexes. He reads the track. That’s not something you can teach.”
8.) "And what do you want with him?
9.) "Nothing yet."
10.) "But I know a club team in Köln. Small outfit. They don’t pay, but they cover parts. Tires, fuel, entry fees. If he wants to race more than just scraps here on the local circuits, it’s a start.”
11.) "We like winners."

Chapter 19

1960, Silverstone.

The paddock smelled of oil, scorched rubber, and damp English grass. Mechanics bent over the BRM machines, their hands blackened, their voices sharp with the rhythm of preparation. Michael Schumacher—twenty-one, lean, jaw set like granite—stood apart from the chaos, fastening the strap of his helmet as though it were a soldier’s armor.

This was not karting on a broken-down machine. This was Formula One. A contract signed, a team uniform pressed onto his back, and a chance—however slim—to carve his name among the greats. Yet even as the roar of engines filled the air, another noise gnawed at him: the echo of old debts, unpaid and festering like an untreated wound.

He had promised himself that when he left the streets of Hürth, he had buried that world—the late-night smuggling runs through the Rhineland, the illicit wagers whispered in smoky taverns, the lean years when fifteen thousand illicit deutschmarks felt like salvation. But shadows do not remain buried. They cling.

From the edge of the pit wall, Michael’s eyes snagged on two figures in the crowd. Not mechanics. Not journalists. Their suits were too sharp, their gazes too cold, too familiar. They were Dieter’s men, ghosts from the underbelly of his youth. They did not clap, nor cheer. They simply watched.

After the race—forty laps of sheer defiance where Michael dragged the reluctant BRM up the order with maneuvers so reckless the English commentators gasped his name—he returned to his hotel room, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The curtains billowed with a draft, the air smelled faintly of tobacco, though he had locked the windows himself. On the nightstand lay a folded envelope.

Inside, a note scrawled in deliberate strokes:

We have not forgotten. Neither should you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the paper heavier than the trophy he had earned that afternoon. He had known this moment would come—the past never grants clean escapes. He thought of his father’s warnings, of his mother’s quiet pride. He thought, too, of how quickly men like Dieter turned threats into corpses.

When the knock came, it was soft, almost polite. He opened the door to find them—two shadows in pressed suits, their smiles like razors.

“Schumacher,” one said, voice as smooth as poisoned honey. “You drive beautifully. But beauty isn’t free. You owe us. You will retire early at Monza. One mistake, a stalled engine, a harmless spin. Our syndicate has much to gain from your… misfortune.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “I won’t be bought.”

The taller one leaned in, his breath thick with smoke. “It isn’t you we’ll buy. It’s the ground beneath your family’s feet.”

The door shut with a thud that reverberated through him. For the first time that day, Michael’s hands trembled—not from fear of speed, but from the realization that the racetrack was no longer the only arena. He was being hunted on two fronts: one with lap times and machinery, the other with shadows and blood. And as he stared at the envelope again, its black ink bleeding under his damp fingers, Michael knew one truth with grim clarity—Formula One was dangerous, yes, but it was honest. The world outside the circuit was far more lethal.

The taller man’s smile sharpened when Michael spoke.

“This wasn’t the deal. I paid back every cent already. I don’t owe you a thing.” Michael’s voice was low but steady, each word bitten off like he was spitting out something bitter.

The shorter of the two men chuckled, shaking his head as though humoring a child. “You think numbers on a ledger are what bind you to us? No, Schumacher. Debts aren’t about money. They’re about loyalty. About obedience.”

The taller man reached into his coat and pulled out a slip of paper, unfolding it with exaggerated care. He held it up so Michael could see, a neat row of figures scrawled across the page. “See, these are your totals. All the late fees. All the interest. The compensation for Dieter’s trouble. It adds up.” He tapped the paper with a nicotine-stained finger. “And now you owe again.”

Michael felt his stomach clench. He knew it was fabricated. Every cent had been paid, every risk taken, every run through the backroads of Cologne delivered as promised. But mobsters didn’t play by the rules of fairness. They bent the truth, twisted it until it became a noose.

“You’re lying,” Michael muttered. The shorter man’s smile faded. “Call it lying if you like. But our truth is the only one that matters.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. Every instinct in him wanted to lash out — to shove the paper back in their smug faces, to call them the vultures they were. But another instinct, honed by survival, pressed him down into silence. He had no crew, no men with knives in their coats, no mob at his back. Only himself, a young driver with dirt still under his fingernails and a dream that stretched further than the streets of Hürth.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the table between them. Fighting here would be suicide. Worse than suicide — it would be wasted. He still had too much ahead of him to throw it away now.

So he nodded, the smallest dip of the head, as though conceding a move in a long game of chess. A pawn today, he told himself, but not forever. One day, the board will turn. One day, I’ll be the one moving the pieces.

The taller man smirked, mistaking his silence for defeat. “Good. You’re a clever boy after all. Keep doing as you’re told, Schumacher, and maybe — maybe — you’ll get that clean future you’re so desperate for.”

Michael said nothing. He let them talk, let them enjoy their victory. Inside, though, he was already calculating. He knew it would be slow, dangerous work, but he’d play their game as long as he had to. And when the chance came, he’d make his move — not as their pawn, but as the king who had outlasted them all.

 

Michael’s first assignment came faster than he expected, and with no regard for his racing schedule or his own life. A man with slicked-back hair and a voice like gravel handed him a small, leather-bound satchel in a dimly lit café on the outskirts of Cologne.

“Deliver this,” the man said simply. No explanation. No negotiation. Just a name, an address, and a thin smile that dared Michael to ask questions.

The satchel was heavier than it looked. He didn’t need to open it to know — money, drugs, maybe both. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the drop-off was in Liège. Belgium. Hours away. And he had practice the next morning with BRM, the very thing that could lift him out of this swamp.

Michael clenched his teeth. Inconvenient was a polite word for it. It was sabotage, plain and simple, but the mob couldn’t care less about his racing ambitions. To them, he was just another hand to carry packages, another fool too desperate to refuse.

Driving through the night, with the satchel riding shotgun, Michael felt every mile like a chain pulling tighter around his neck. Each border crossing was a gamble. Each police patrol a potential death sentence. Yet, oddly, his hands on the wheel never shook. The rhythm of the road calmed him, the hum of the engine steadied him.

By the time he delivered the satchel — to a faceless man who said nothing, merely nodding before vanishing into the alleyways — Michael realized two things: the mob had him now, and his life was no longer his own.

Still, as he turned the car back toward Germany with dawn just breaking, a crooked smile touched his lips. If he could survive this, if he could keep balancing between the two worlds — racing and crime — then maybe, just maybe, he’d outpace them all.

 

The drive into Belgium stretched into the cold hours before dawn. Michael’s eyes burned, the white lines on the asphalt blurring into one another. The satchel sat on the passenger seat like a curse, its leather catching the faint glow of passing headlights. He pushed the old Opel harder than he should, the engine straining in protest.

Then came the flashing lights in his rearview mirror.

His pulse spiked. Michael eased the car to the side, heart hammering as a Belgian officer approached, tapping his flashlight against the window.

“Papiere,” the officer said curtly.

Michael handed them over, trying to keep his breathing calm. The satchel loomed in the corner of his vision, heavy and damning.

The officer scanned the documents, then narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to peer at Michael. “Wait a moment... I know you.” His face softened into faint recognition. “You’re the German lad. The one with BRM, yes? I’ve seen your picture in Motorsport Aktuell.”

Michael forced a grin, praying it didn’t look as strained as it felt. “That’s me. Rookie season.”

The officer chuckled, handing back the papers. “Careful, eh? Driving like that, you’ll end up out of the race before it begins. Don’t make your country proud by dying on the road.”

Michael nodded stiffly, offering a polite word of thanks, before pulling away into the night. He kept his eyes locked forward until the blue lights vanished in the distance. Only then did he exhale, the realization sinking in: recognition could save him, but it could just as easily destroy him if the wrong man looked too closely.

By the time the satchel was delivered and he drove back toward Germany, the sun was already clawing its way into the sky. Practice had started hours ago. When he finally arrived at the circuit, the BRM mechanics gave him looks that were sharp enough to cut. The team principal barked his name across the paddock, voice dripping with disdain. Missing a rookie session wasn’t just careless — it was suicidal for a career.

Michael muttered something about “car trouble,” but the excuse sounded as weak to his ears as it did to theirs. He had wanted to walk into the paddock as a driver on the rise. Instead, he walked in late, disheveled, and already carrying shadows that no one else could see.

The morning sun beat down on the paddock, but Michael barely noticed. His eyelids felt like lead, the circuits blurring together as the lack of sleep clawed at his focus. Three hours of rest—if it could even be called that—were nothing compared to what a proper driver needed. The satchel from the previous night still rested in the passenger seat of his car, a silent reminder of debts unpaid and favors owed.

He shoved aside the lingering panic from the police stop, but the remnants of adrenaline made his hands shake. No coffee. No warm-up. No mental preparation. Just him, the car, and the unforgiving eyes of the mechanics who had already marked him as careless.

As he gripped the wheel, the first few corners were jagged, each turn an exercise in sheer luck rather than skill. The BRM engine roared beneath him, and yet he couldn’t coax it into the smooth harmony he usually demanded of it. Gear shifts were late, braking points misjudged, and he felt the cold judgment of the entire team weighing on him like a lead blanket.

The principal’s voice echoed through the radio, clipped and impatient. “Schumacher! Eyes up, lad! Control the car, or don’t bother returning for the next session!”

Michael’s jaw tightened. He knew he was sloppy. He knew he looked like a rookie, unworthy of the seat he had fought tooth and nail for. But beneath the fatigue and the frustration, there was a spark of defiance. The mob’s shadow still hung over him, the satchel’s weight a constant reminder of a world he could not yet escape. And yet, despite the exhaustion, the missed session, and the smoldering judgment, he pushed onward, gripping the wheel tighter, determined to turn his worst morning into a lesson that he alone would learn—and master.

The mechanics murmured among themselves, but Michael ignored them. Every lap was a battle, not just against the track, but against the invisible chains that bound him. By the end of the session, his laps were still imperfect, but there was a rhythm returning. A rhythm that whispered, 'survive today, dominate tomorrow.'

The BRM may have seen a sloppy rookie that morning, but Michael Schumacher saw the beginning of a war he would win, no matter the debts, no matter the threats, and no matter the price.

Chapter 20

Michael’s mind raced faster than the BRM’s engine as Dieter’s hand clamped over his shoulder, a silent reminder that the mob’s leash was taut, unyielding. There was no room for defiance here, no option for outright rebellion—at least, not yet. Any misstep could be fatal. Yet, in that tightening grip, Michael saw opportunity. Every pawn has a way to maneuver; every chain can be leveraged.

He began calculating, eyes scanning the paddock, the garages, the scattered crews, and the drivers. Allies weren’t given—they were forged, cultivated with subtlety, patience, and an understanding of each person’s desire, fear, or greed. Michael knew who could be useful, who could be turned, who could be leaned on to share the weight of his precarious situation. Mechanics who wanted recognition, other drivers nursing their own debts, low-level team officials who could be persuaded with promises of small victories… these were pieces on a board he was now learning to play expertly.

“Dieter,” he said quietly, letting his tone carry calm confidence, “you’ll find I can be far more useful alive than cornered.” The grip tightened for a moment, then loosened fractionally—a test, perhaps, or curiosity. Michael’s lips curled slightly. That fraction of doubt was all he needed.

He spent the rest of the morning mapping connections in his head, memorizing faces, habits, and weaknesses. Each nod, each handshake, each casual exchange could become a thread in a web of alliances strong enough to withstand Dieter’s iron fist.

By the end of the day, Michael had identified three potential allies: a mechanic with a soft spot for precision engineering, a team assistant eager for favors from someone with growing influence, and a fellow driver who had quietly suffered under the same debts Michael now carried. These were his first moves. A network that could grow into something resilient—something he could use to tilt the scales ever so slightly in his favor.

Michael knew the chains were real, but so were the openings. And in that realization, a plan began to take shape: survive today, forge tomorrow, and never, ever be at the mercy of someone else’s hand again.

The morning of the race arrived like a storm he couldn’t outrun. Michael sat in the cockpit of the BRM, hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled tension. Every instinct screamed to push the car to its limits, to taste the speed he had spent years craving. But Dieter’s shadow loomed, heavy and unrelenting. The mob had made their demands crystal clear: underperform, or pay a far steeper price. Michael had no illusions—refusal wasn’t an option.

As the lights went out, he drove like a man haunted, deliberately misjudging corners, braking too early, losing precious seconds in straightaways. The pit crew noticed immediately, their confusion palpable, but Michael kept his face impassive. Every lap felt like a violation of himself, a compromise of the very skill that defined him, yet he reminded himself that survival often demanded the harshest of sacrifices.

He could feel the whispers of his rivals, the subtle taunts, the relief of competitors sensing weakness. But Michael’s eyes were always calculating, scanning for patterns, memorizing strengths and flaws—information that would become his ammunition in the days to come. Every mistake, every wobble, every slightly too-wide corner was deliberate, choreographed to fulfill Dieter’s orders without destroying the car outright.

By the end of the race, Michael crossed the finish line far behind the pack, the crowd’s cheers nothing but a distant echo. The BRM sputtered into the pits, smoke from the brakes curling in the crisp morning air. Dieter’s presence was immediate, a dark silhouette at the edge of the pit lane, satisfaction written in his eyes, but Michael caught a flicker of something else: doubt, or perhaps curiosity.

Michael exhaled, a low, controlled hiss, forcing a smile as he climbed out of the car. “Did exactly what you wanted,” he said smoothly, voice even, betraying none of the tension coiling inside him. Dieter nodded once, approving, but Michael’s mind was already moving ahead, turning the sacrifice into strategy. Each lost second today would pay dividends later. Every misstep was a step toward something greater, a way to gather allies, information, and leverage.

Even while bowing to Dieter’s command, Michael was learning the cruel arithmetic of power: in order to gain freedom, sometimes one must give up the very thing they love most. And so, he filed away every observation, every weakness he saw in rivals, every crack in the system around him. The race had been botched, yes—but in Michael’s mind, the real victory had already begun.

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The next morning dawned cold and unforgiving over Italy, the mist hanging low over the streets as if the city itself were holding its breath. Michael woke to the bitter taste of coffee mixed with ash, the lingering reminder of the late night he had spent recalculating every move of the previous day’s disastrous practice. Dieter’s shadow loomed still, though not physically; the thought of his scrutiny pressed down on Michael like a vise.

By mid-morning, Michael found himself in a dimly lit back room of a local tavern, a place that smelled of tobacco, spilt beer, and ambition. It was here that Dieter had summoned him—not for punishment, but for introductions. Men who whispered in the corners, eyes flicking with careful calculation, emerged to meet the young driver. Each carried a story in their gaze: some hardened by prison bars, others polished by the streets, all marked by the silent code of the underworld.

Michael studied them with the same analytical precision he had used behind the wheel. One in particular, a stocky man named Klaus, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirk lingering like a challenge. Another, slender and quick-tongued, introduced himself as Reinhardt, his smile disarming yet hollow. These were not allies yet—not friends—but resources. Each offered something Michael lacked: muscle, intelligence, connections. “You understand the stakes, boy,” Dieter said, voice low and deliberate. “You perform as I direct, you survive. You hesitate, and…” He left the threat hanging, unspoken but clear. Michael nodded. Hesitation was a luxury he could not afford.

The first collaborative mission was deceptively simple: intercept a shipment bound for France, mislabel it, and ensure it reached the intended party without alerting law enforcement. Michael’s role was to drive, to maneuver, to manipulate timing—skills he had honed on streets that had no rules.

As they planned the route, Michael’s mind worked in layers. He memorized patrol schedules, counted streetlights, measured the turn radius of every corner. Klaus would handle the physical barriers; Reinhardt would manage the contacts. Michael, however, saw opportunity beyond the immediate task. If he played this right, he could cultivate loyalty, create small debts in favor of himself, and gradually bind these men to his own strategy rather than Dieter’s.

The night of the operation arrived. Rain slicked streets reflected the dim glow of neon signs, the world compressed into tight corners and hidden lanes. Michael’s hands gripped the wheel of a borrowed sedan, engine thrumming like a heartbeat in the darkness. Klaus and Reinhardt moved silently, shadows among shadows, executing each maneuver with the precision of long practice.

It went off nearly flawlessly—an elegant ballet of timing and precision. Michael’s heart raced not from fear, but exhilaration. He felt a clarity he had never experienced behind the wheel in an official race. Here, there were no cameras, no spectators, no team principals to impress. Only outcome, only survival, only control.

When they regrouped in the back room, Dieter’s approval was faint, but present. “You’re learning,” he said, almost like a reluctant parent. Michael allowed a small smile. Learning was only the first step; soon, he would teach.

Over the following weeks, Michael’s world expanded. He began receiving street intelligence from Reinhardt, bribes and favors that could be leveraged from Klaus, and whispered tips about rival gangs that would have taken months to uncover otherwise. Yet, all the while, he continued racing, carefully hiding these dealings from his BRM team. To the world, he was merely a rookie driver struggling with consistency. Behind the scenes, he was building a network, thread by thread, binding power to himself quietly, invisibly. One evening, after a grueling practice, Michael sat alone on the hood of his car, cigarette in hand, watching the smoke curl into the everlasting breeze, twisting and dissipating like the fragile threads of his own patience. Every exhale was a reminder that his life had become a balance of precision and peril—one wrong move, one misjudged ally, and the world he was carefully constructing could collapse in an instant. Yet, for the first time, Michael felt a surge of control, a sense that even under Dieter’s shadow, he knew he was beginning to carve out his own path through the chaos.

Breakfast was a muted affair—black coffee, hard bread, and the ever-present feeling of eyes watching him, assessing, calculating. He knew Dieter had already begun sending signals, subtle reminders that his obedience was expected, that the debt still loomed. But Michael had a plan.

He would cultivate allies, not enemies. He needed people who could see the opportunity in aligning with him, even under the guise of Dieter’s control. Slowly, deliberately, he began drafting a list of contacts, small-time racers, mechanics, and street-level operatives who owed debts or sought favor. Each one was a piece in a larger puzzle he intended to complete: freedom, dominance, and eventually, the reputation to dictate his own fate.

By midday, he was in the team garage, pretending to focus on telemetry charts while his mind plotted maneuvers far beyond the track. Dieter approached, a wolfish grin on his face, eyes glinting with anticipation of some failure.

“Your performance was… enlightening,” Dieter said, voice dripping with the calculated menace of a man who took joy in control. “But remember, Michael, the debts you carry are never forgotten.” Michael nodded, masking his ire with a polite smile. “Understood. Every lesson is valuable, after all.”

Dieter’s grin widened, sensing both submission and the faint trace of cunning. He would not see the storm brewing beneath that calm exterior.

As the day wore on, Michael tested his new strategy: subtle favors here, discreet alliances there. Mechanics whispered approval when he discreetly shared tools, street racers nodded at his discreet interventions, and soon, murmurs began to circulate—a rookie with connections, a driver who might just be more than a pawn.

By evening, Michael sat alone in the garage, the smell of oil and gasoline thick in the air. He exhaled slowly, lighting a cigarette, the ember glowing like a small promise. For the first time, he felt a semblance of control. Dieter could watch, threaten, and manipulate, but Michael knew one truth above all: the game was far from over, and he intended to play it on his own terms, one calculated move at a time. Outside, the city lights flickered, indifferent to the machinations of men. Inside, Michael smiled faintly, the spark of rebellion burning steadily within him. The calculus of power was delicate, very delicate, so.

Michael knew that in this game, trust was currency—scarce, precious, and easily spent. He had survived Dieter’s shadow and the looming presence of mob control, but to thrive, he needed someone who could navigate both the circuits of Formula One and the murky underworld he was being dragged into. That person came in the form of Andrea de Cesaris.

Andrea was older, a decade senior, with the polish and confidence that only experience could grant. His career had already seen the podium’s glory, and his family name carried weight beyond racing: the de Cesaris lineage was steeped in legal prowess, with connections that reached courts, boardrooms, and discreet corners of power across Europe. Michael recognized immediately the leverage this could provide—an unspoken shield and a bridge to resources he could never access alone.

He approached Andrea quietly one evening, after practice, the track empty but for the hum of machines cooling down and the faint hiss of tires shedding heat. “Andrea,” he started, careful, measured. “I want to talk. Off the record.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow, curious but unthreatened. “Michael, you’re not usually the quiet type. What’s on your mind?”

Michael exhaled, letting a trace of his guardedness show. “I need someone I can trust. Someone who understands more than just racing. I’m not talking about team orders or podiums. I’m talking about… everything else. The debts, the favors, the kind of influence you don’t learn in a simulator.”

Andrea studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “You’re treading dangerous waters,” he said. “And you’re still just a rookie. Why would I risk my name and my family’s legacy for you?”

Michael smiled faintly, a glimmer of defiance in his eyes. “Because you understand people. Because you know when to bend the rules and when to stand your ground. And because, Andrea, you know the power in being aligned with someone who won’t be controlled forever.”

Andrea chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re audacious, I’ll give you that. Alright. I’m in. But remember, Michael… one misstep, and I won’t cover you.”

From that moment, an unspoken pact formed. Andrea would serve as Michael’s first real ally—not just in the paddock but in navigating the undercurrents of coercion, intimidation, and shadowed deals. The veteran’s insight, tempered by a family steeped in law, provided Michael with the strategic depth he so desperately needed.

The two began a quiet collaboration: Michael shared intelligence gleaned from Dieter’s manipulations, while Andrea provided counsel on mitigating legal exposure and handling unsavory characters. Each maneuver was calculated, deliberate, building a silent infrastructure of influence.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, painting the garage in a golden haze, Michael felt a rare sense of security. For the first time, he wasn’t alone. With Andrea de Cesaris in his corner, he had the beginnings of a network, a foothold in a world that demanded ruthlessness. The chessboard was set, the pieces moving, and Michael was no longer a mere pawn—he was learning to play the game. And, when he is done learning: He will dominate it. Always.

Notes:

So, should I bother with a chapter two? 🤔