My Formula 1 System

Chapter 189 One Foot In Ruin

With respect, Luca stood up and offered the man his firmest, most professional handshake before starting to sit back down. But the man spoke before he could.

"I'm very glad you accepted my invitation."

Finally, Luca found who invited him.

Luca's eyes sharpened slightly.

"You were my inviter?" he asked, finally putting the pieces together.

"Yes," the man confirmed with a small nod, gesturing for them to take their seats. He settled onto the sofa opposite Luca, then gave a brief nod of approval. "Very nice suit."

Luca barely had time to respond before the man turned toward Dan and his company. "Would you like to do the introduction?"

Dan, though undeniably drunk, wasn't too far gone to forget who this man was. He turned to Luca with a smirk, pointing lazily at their guest.

"This right here, Luca, is the Syndicate, the neutral man—the man no team dares call a rival," Dan announced, his words slurring slightly but carrying weight nonetheless. "This is Mr. Marchetti, the only man with stakes in more than five Formula teams. How incredible is that?"

That was actually impressive.

If Mr. Marchetti truly had stakes in more than five Formula teams, then he was likely a part-owner of at least three of the top five. A neutral man.

How did he manage to pull that off? Dan had just listed the teams—Velocità, Squadra, Haddock, Nordvind, Outback, Velox and so on.

That kind of reach wasn't just about money; it meant influence, the high power to sway decisions across different garages and paddocks.

"If you wanna make it to F1, I'd bet he's the best ass to kiss," Dan finished with the kind of crude remark he was known for.

Mr. Marchetti chuckled as Luca thanked him once again for the invitation.

With a simple gesture, Marchetti prompted a brief exchange with Dan, their words passing casually between them. Meanwhile, Luca studied him.

Why would a man of such stature personally invite him to an exclusive yacht gathering?

The question nagged at him, and after a moment's hesitation, he finally voiced it—carefully, cautiously, wanting to understand.

"Tell me, Luca," Marchetti began, his voice smooth but firm, "if you were a seasoned investor, a man with stakes in nearly every team on the grid, a guardian of balance in the sport… and you saw this young Italian national, this 19-year-old Dallara driver carving out a name for himself in the feeder series—six podiums, four race wins—wouldn't your interest be piqued? Wouldn't you want to see him in person?"

Luca chuckled. "Even better, I'd make an effort to get his signature."

The room filled with laughter, though soon, Luca and Marchetti noticed Dan's was fading into something weak and drowsy. They turned to see him slowly dozing off, lulled by the half-naked women draped over him, gently easing him into sleep.

Luca could tell from the slight downward curl of Marchetti's lip that he disapproved of Dan's indulgence. The man frowned at the sight before shifting his gaze back. "Well, that might be just why you're here, Luca."

He then began to speak of Luca's season so far, detailing his debut P3 finish, his remarkable teamwork with Ansel in Monaco, the stunning three-race win streak from London to Barcelona, and his swift recovery from injury—only to return in spectacular fashion with a comeback victory in the French Grand Prix.

"And this is why I can't wrap my head around it," Marchetti continued, his tone sharpening. "Feats so incredible, no average driver could pull them off. You, Luca… you are no average driver."

Luca was honored by the words and gave a warm nod. "Thank you, sir."

Then, without warning, Marchetti's expression shifted—his eyes darkening, his posture straightening, his entire presence becoming severe.

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"I don't mean it as a compliment, Luca," he said. "I mean it as a reprimand."

"Pardon?"

"I've been watching you closely, Luca. Especially that five-minute window you have in almost every race, I think it's what earned you an early nickname."

Five-minute window? Luca thought, his brow slightly furrowing.

Marchetti leaned in, his voice unwavering. "At first, I assumed it was down to the car's performance. But then I remembered—Formula 2 runs standardized machinery. Same tech, same chassis, same engines. Unlike Formula 1, there's no major distinction between teams. The performance gaps should be marginal at best." He let that sink in before delivering his point. "So, there is no way Trampos is adjusting their chassis beyond regulation. No secret modifications, no hidden advantages."

Marchetti's gaze locked onto Luca's. "It's not the car, Luca. It's you. You are 'adjusting' yourself."

A beat of silence.

Luca blinked rapidly, struggling to process what was being implied. He was still trying to adapt to Marchetti's sudden shift in demeanor, and now—now, the man was throwing huge words that took time to register.

And when they did, Luca did not like them.

The frown on his face was immediate. His jaw tensed, and he swallowed, steadying his breath before speaking, his voice quiet but firm.

"...Are you saying I'm doping, sir?"

Marchetti decided there was no point in dancing around the issue any longer. He gave a firm nod.

Luca stared at him, barely able to process what was happening. Me? Accused of doping? His mind raced, and a single thought burned through the shock—Sync Buff. Was that what had led to this?

"I, along with others who share the same suspicion, have already submitted an appeal to the FIA," Marchetti stated matter-of-factly. "You'll be facing inquiries soon, along with a series of tests. I understand your ambition to reach F1, Luca, but taking shortcuts like this is not the right path."

Luca felt heat rise in his chest, his pulse hammering in his ears. He wanted to lash out, but he forced himself to remain composed. His voice was steady, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable.

"I am not doping, sir."

Marchetti scoffed, reclining slightly as he crossed his legs. "Of course. Like any athlete ever admits it when accused," he muttered, watching Luca with something that almost resembled satisfaction. "Doping tests take time—weeks, maybe longer. Just hope you're processed quickly. Otherwise, anyone under investigation is barred from competing, and we both know what your next race is."

Luca stiffened. He understood exactly what that meant.

He wasn't officially suspended, but as long as this accusation was unresolved, he wouldn't be allowed to race. And with the Italian Mega Prix next—the biggest race of his career so far—this could destroy everything.

How can he do this? Luca's mind reeled as he studied Marchetti. Is he deliberately trying to take me out of competition for Round 12… to hand Max and Velocità the win?

But that didn't make sense. Hadn't Dan just called Marchetti the neutral man in the game?

"You've already submitted the appeal," Luca said, forcing himself to stay composed and take the information calmly. "So, you invited me here just to make a fool out of me?"

Marchetti chuckled and waved off the accusation. "No, no, that would be childish of me. I just wanted you to know that you did catch the eye of the high-ups like me and it wasn't just a simple Federation clerk that appealed your case," he said, retrieving his phone from his pocket. "Besides, hosting you tonight was also a favor. Few invitees have the privilege to bring others aboard, and Outback's agents asked me to arrange this meeting."

Luca watched as Marchetti made a call, informing someone of their location in the yacht.

"Outback Performance?" he echoed.

"Yes," Marchetti confirmed, setting his phone down. "Like I said, you've caught the eye of the big players. An F1 team is interested in signing you."

That revelation should have been electrifying. It was everything Luca had worked toward, solid proof that his hardwork was recognized at the highest level.

But the accusation had already drained him. Instead of feeling elated, he sat there, his mood soured by the weight of it all. How could he be accused of doping so early in his career, and at a crucial point?

He remained silent, his fingers pressing into the armrest, until two men in sharp suits entered the lounge. Their presence alone confirmed their identity as Outback Performance's agents.

Luca stared at them as they took their seats across from him.

He had no interest in talking. If they wanted a real discussion, they could contact Mallow. He was done with this exhausting circle of power plays and manipulation.

Luca checked his time. 8:40

Two minutes left, and he'd leave the yacht.