Monza — Hours After the Crash
The garage was closed. Not officially, but in the way a place closes when grief is inconvenient and questions are dangerous.
Inside, the wreck of Alessio Bardi's car sat under a torn tarp, still smelling of heat and gasoline. Someone had tried to wipe away the burn marks. It only made them look worse — like scars that refused to be hidden.
Luca Ferretti stood just beyond the caution tape, his notepad pressed against his coat. He had bribed the night guard with two cigarettes and a bottle of grappa to get inside. It wasn't the first time he'd entered a place he shouldn't. Probably not the last either.
His eyes scanned the floor — oil trails, drag marks from tires, a single, lonely bolt lying near the wheel well.
"Sabotage doesn't scream," he muttered. "It whispers."
A noise behind him. Luca turned sharply. A figure stood in the shadows by the tool cabinets, limping slightly.
"Looking for something, signore?"
It was a man in his late fifties, gaunt, with grease-stained overalls and a cigarette hanging from his lips. His hands trembled — not from age, but from damage. The fingers were stiff, misaligned. As if each joint had been broken and reset the wrong way.
Luca lowered his pen. "Depends. Are you going to throw me out or talk to me?"
The man chuckled once. "You're the reporter, right? Ferretti?"
"Depends," Luca replied, "are you the ghost of Monza?"
"No. Just a mechanic who's seen too much."
He stepped into the light. The name stitched into his chest: Cesare.
"I worked on Bardi's car," he said, voice low. "I wasn't supposed to. The regular guy, Marino, was told to take the night off. Vitale said he wanted 'clean hands' for the big day."
"And you don't have clean hands," Luca observed.
Cesare raised his broken fingers. "Not for a long time."
Luca inched closer. "You think the car was tampered with?"
Cesare lit another cigarette. "I know it was. Brake line was nicked. Not enough to notice on test runs — just enough to fail under stress."
Luca's heart beat louder. "Did you tell the officials?"
"I told Gianni. He told me to shut up. Said if I wanted to keep breathing, I'd forget how to speak."
"And if you don't?" Luca asked.
Cesare took a long drag and exhaled slowly.
"Then I'll die like Alessio. Fast, and for nothing."
Silence fell between them. Outside, the hum of a streetlamp buzzed like a warning.
"I need proof," Luca said. "Something more than words."
Cesare looked around, then reached into a rusted toolbox and pulled out a crumpled envelope. Inside: photographs — close-ups of the brake line, timestamps, notes scribbled in shaky handwriting.
"I don't know how long I'll have after giving you this," he said.
"You have longer than you think," Luca answered, tucking the envelope into his coat.
He didn't believe it himself. But lies were sometimes necessary — especially when telling the truth.
As Luca stepped back into the night, Cesare faded into the shadows. Another ghost of the racetrack.
But now Luca had something real.
Not a theory.
Not a rumor.
Proof.
And with proof came danger.
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