I remember the sound before the fire.
It wasn't the engine. Not the crowd.
It was silence.
That sharp, surgical silence that only comes before something shatters.
They said Alessio Bardi died in an accident.
That he took the curve too fast.
That it was just… a tragic part of racing.
But they lied.
I have the papers, the photographs, the confessions that never reached court. I traced it all — from the crooked judges to the trembling mechanics. From the shadows in the pit lane to the figures in dark suits watching from balconies.
And now, as I write this, the ink smears with the sweat of fear.
Because I know they'll come for me. They always do.
But before they find me — before they silence me for good — this story will be told.
Because justice, like a race, isn't about who starts fastest.
It's about who survives the final lap.
— Luca Ferretti, somewhere beyond the border.
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