Monza, Northern Italy — May 6, 1956
The engine's roar was more than sound. It was prophecy.
Thousands lined the old stone barriers that traced the circuit. Men in pressed suits with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Women in silk scarves clutching opera glasses. Children on their fathers' shoulders. They had come not only to witness speed — they came to taste danger. And danger was punctual that Sunday.
Alessio Bardi was running second.
He should have been first.
Inside the red machine of the Scuderia Fenice, his fingers trembled slightly on the wheel. Not from fear. He was used to fear. It was the machine that betrayed him.
The brakes pulled, the gearbox stuck, and the throttle hesitated just enough to make him question reality. He'd driven this route in Monza dozens of times. The infamous Curva dei Morti had never looked so narrow.
In the paddock, Gianni Vitale, director of Fenice, watched silently. Black tie, darker sunglasses, arms crossed. He was flanked by engineers and an older mechanic who kept avoiding eye contact with the car. The man lit a cigarette with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.
Behind them, a man in a leather trench coat stood apart, scribbling notes on a worn notepad.
Luca Ferretti, freelance reporter. Exiled from the bigger papers. Now chasing stories with claws and instinct.
He wasn't here to write about race times. He was here because something stank. And in Italy, when something stinks, it often smells like oil... and blood.
Lap 17 of 20.
Alessio pushed the car down the straight. The crowd became a blur. He pressed harder. The machine responded, reluctantly. As he approached the curve, he felt it — a tug. A resistance.
Then a snap.
The rear tires locked.
There was no time to pray. No time to scream. Only reflex. The car spun sideways, clipped the edge of a hay barrier, and flipped. Once. Twice. The air cracked with the sound of steel and fire. Then silence.
Screams followed.
The red car was now a smoking skeleton. Flames licked the remains. Alessio's helmet rolled alone across the track, cracking once as it hit the stone curb.
In the stands, someone fainted.
In the pits, Gianni didn't blink.
Beside him, the mechanic whispered to no one, "He told me not to fix it…"
Luca dropped his notepad. He stared. His chest hollowed. Then came the sound of sirens. Too late, as always.
He knew this was no accident.
And somewhere deep in the smoke, a truth smoldered — waiting to be uncovered.
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