The prestigious dinner night honoring Marco Rossi's retirent was set to take place on Tuesday at Le Jardin Élysée, an opulent venue in the heart of Paris. Located along the Seine, this luxurious estate combined historic grandeur with modern sophistication.
The event began at 7:00 PM sharp.
The timing wasn't just random, that was when the Eiffel tower normally lit up, casting its golden glow over the city.
In the venue, Le Jardin Élysée, the main hall, Salle des Étoiles, had been totally transford into a vision of Parisian elegance. The marble floors reflected the soft golden light casted by the crystal chandeliers hung from the adorned ceiling.
Many circular tables draped in white clothes with golden embroidery faced a wide stage that had a similar design for its back wall. White roses and lilies also surrounded the stage as well, and a soft musical echoed through the room as it slowly filled up from 7 PM.
Accoglienza di Gran Premio and Crown Hospitality Alliance were the two major hospitality clubs that ca to host the event although so others would be present as well.
While the Director of Ceremonial Affairs and Public Relations, Mrs. Marchand was the FIA's appointed representative for the event. She was here to oversee the Federation's role in Marco Rossi's farewell to the fellow drivers who'd be attending.
To reflect this, a simple decor like Marco Rossi's race number #19 was etched on so champagne bottles and napkins, and a go-kart that looked just like his Jackson Racing's Ferrari was parked to the side of the stage.
The empty spaces gradually filled with people and so were the parking lots outside the venue.
Attendees included all mbers of the hospitality groups of course and then, invitees. Invitees like team principals, drivers and dignitaries.
Many mbers of these hospitality clubs were deeply displeased with the Federation's decision to rge the two events.
The reason was clear: this night was ant to be an exclusive gathering for hospitality club mbers, a rare opportunity for them to network and enjoy each other's company without outside distractions.
Having drivers and others present—though there were only a few—felt out of place. The stark difference in wealth and status between the club mbers, team principals, the drivers and others created an uncomfortable imbalance, as they all belonged to an entirely different world of fa and privilege.
For many, it diluted the exclusivity that these gatherings were ant to uphold.
Luca, unaware of the tense, dejected atmosphere inside, arrived purposefully late with Sara and Sophia by his side.
Their sleek car fit perfectly among the lineup of luxury vehicles in the parking lot, helping them blend in effortlessly with the crowd.
Before leaving, Luca had asked Mallow who had sent the invitation. Mallow, clueless, explained that it ca through a simple delivery, leaving Luca walking in with no idea who had invited him.
As Luca glanced around, it didn't take long to notice the limited number of drivers present.
How many F2 drivers were here?
One. Just him.
How many F1 drivers were here?
Seven. Out of the thirty-six active and reserve drivers.
It was clear this night was more exclusive than he had anticipated.
8:30 PM. Dinner.
A luxurious five-course al was served, featuring a fusion of Italian and French cuisine.
"So, every man here's a driver?" Sophia asked Luca, glancing around the room as Sara remained glued to her phone, barely sparing them a glance.
"No, no. There are only eight drivers here, including ," Luca clarified. He then began gesturing subtly, a manner only Sophia could decode, helping her follow his train of thought.
"It's reasonable Marcellus Rodnick is here. He and Rossi were once teammates," Luca explained. "Di Renzo is likely here for the sa reason—shared little history with Rossi. And Hank Rice? He's probably here because of their friendly rivalry. Almost like frenemies, you know? No Squadra Corse drivers, no Velocità drivers. Trust , there's a reason for that. You'll figure it out soon enough."
"And the other four?" Sophia pressed.
"Two of them are Jackson Racing reserves, still tied to the team. As for the other two... I think they might be from other teams, but honestly, I don't really know them."
Luca glanced at Sophia's plate and frowned. "You might want to eat more. We're leaving here by midnight."
Sophia touched her abdon, grimacing. "This dress is too tight around my tummy. If I eat more, I won't be able to breathe," she complained softly.
He shook his head, half-amused, half-annoyed, before sighing in relief as the announcent ca through for the next activity—the tribute to Marco Rossi's retirent.
As the dishes were swiftly cleared from the tables, a flurry of movent at the entrance caught his eye. A handful of press mbers entered the hall, their presence imdiately shifting the atmosphere.
Caras were set up near the stage, their lenses gleaming under the chandeliers, as the audience murmured in anticipation.
Luca casually settled back into his chair but in an attentive posture.
The stage lights cast a bright glow, illuminating the space while leaving his face partially shadowed as if to fully illustrate the solemnity of the mont.
Luca had this feeling this might not be the last farewell occasion he'd attend. As his first, he decided to let the mood sink in since this was a legend of the sport.
A tribute video played, showcasing Marco Rossi's most iconic career monts—victories, close finishes, and legendary rivalries.
4x Formula 2 World Champion
Experience tales at My Virtual Library Empire
35x Grand Prix Wins/ Race Wins
56x Podium Finishes
Impressive wasn't the word.
Forr teammates and rivals took turns on stage—Marcellus Rodnick and Hank Rice—and began sharing their heartfelt anecdotes and warm wishes for Rossi's future. Even Mr. Cross, Jackson Racing Team Principal ca on stage as well.
Salle des Étoiles was filled with applause as Rossi took the stage for his farewell speech.
Marco Rossi, at 33, stood at a height of 5'10". His jet-black hair was styled neatly, complenting his clean-shaven face. With sharp features and intense brown eyes, he carried a confident yet approachable deanor.
Dressed in a neat navy suit that fit him perfectly, he exuded the charm of a celebrated legend in his pri.
Luca listened closely as Marco Rossi began his speech, reflecting on the monts and people who had shaped his journey. His words resonated with gratitude and pride, a fitting tribute to his storied career.
The speech was lengthy but engaging, and the press captured every mont, including the applause that erupted as he concluded.
After escorting Sophia back from the won's bathroom, Luca returned to their table. "Stay here," he instructed her, his tone firm but definitely not harsh.
With a wine glass in hand and his other tucked casually in his pocket, he moved away from the table, scanning the crowd.
Now, where did he go? Luca wondered, his sharp eyes scanning the room for Marco Rossi.
He weaved through clusters of people, his sleek figure blending effortlessly into the elegant crowd. The soft hum of chatter and occasional laughter filled the hall, but Luca was focused.
A group of n stood in a circle nearby, their laughter carrying that air of wealth and affluence. One of them spotted Luca and called out, "Hey! Hello?"
Luca paused, his attention montarily diverted. He turned slightly, acknowledging the group with a polite nod before his gaze drifted again. At the far right of the hall, he finally spotted Marco Rossi, engaged in conversation with a few individuals.
Luca was about to make his way toward Rossi when the persistent calling from behind stopped him in his tracks.
Turning to face the source, Luca spotted three n standing with an air of entitlent that practically seeped from their tailored suits.
They looked every bit like club mbers—polished, smug, and far too comfortable. The heaviest among them, clearly the one who had called him, tilted his head in invitation.
Luca walked up to them, keeping his expression neutral.
"An F2 driver? What are you doing here?" the leanest of the trio asked, his voice carrying a sharp, cutting edge.
Luca hesitated, caught off guard by the bluntness. Before he could even formulate a response, the heavier man let out a loud scoff.
"Honestly, it's revolting," he sneered. "Win a race or two, and suddenly they think they've earned a place among us."
Luca's brow furrowed, but his voice remained calm. "I don't understand."
"Aren't you Luca Rennick?" the man pressed, his tone almost accusatory.
"I am," Luca replied steadily. "And you are...?"
The man waved a dismissive hand, barely concealing a grimace. "Spare the introductions," he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
As if on cue, a woman approached and leaned in close to whisper sothing to the man. He nodded curtly, then gestured at Luca with a flourish that bordered on theatrical.
"Honey," he said with exaggerated emphasis, "this is Luca Rennick. You know, the F2 rat who's been making a ss of things."
The woman turned her attention to Luca, her eyes dragging over him from head to toe, slow and deliberate, as though he were sothing to be appraised and dismissed in the sa breath.
Her lips tightened, and she raised one perfectly arched brow, her expression hovering between amusent and disdain.
Is this so kind of wealth bullying?
"What's the na of that their team again?" the fat man asked.
"Trampos, I think," the third one answered, smirking. "Like elephants sitting at the branch of a tree."
Luca gripped his wine glass tighter, unsure of what to do. He hadn't been in this kind of situation before and he had no idea how to escape or respond to it.
Perhaps silence? That might work. Philosophers say silence is the best answer for a fool.
In this case—fools. So Luca took a deliberate sip of his wine while they continued.
"Look, lad," the fat man said, stepping closer and prodding Luca's chest with a thick index finger. "How old are you? Seventeen?"
Luca didn't move, didn't flinch. His height gave him an advantage, but intimidation wasn't his style. Besides, these n could likely make life difficult in ways he couldn't even imagine. He t the man's gaze squarely and replied, "Nineteen."
The fat man snorted. "Seventeen, nineteen, doesn't matter. Formula 2 is for N. Formula 1 is for LEGENDS. If you think for one second—"
"What's going on here?" a confident voice interjected, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a blade.
"Not now, Lemaître," the fat man said sharply, still holding Luca's gaze, as if trying to burn a hole through him.
But the newcor, calm and composed, stepped in with an authority that couldn't be ignored. Placing a firm hand on his friend's shoulder, he gently pulled him back.
Luca's tension eased slightly as recognition set in. He rembered Mr. Lemaître and they offered each other soft smiles.
"Pardon my friend, Luca," Mr. Lemaître said smoothly. "His na's Chris—owns a significant part of Velocità. So you understand?"
Luca chuckled lightly, more out of relief than amusent. "Sure, sure, no problem. I understand I've been giving the junior team a hard ti," he replied, turning to Chris. "And I don't plan on stopping anyti soon. Sorry."
Chris's face darkened, but he held back, realizing that pushing further would only create a scene. He scoffed, muttering sothing under his breath, and backed down.
Mr. Lemaître gave Chris a pointed glance before turning back to Luca. "Who invited you?" he asked, gesturing for Luca to follow him toward the bar. "You should stick close to your host, not wander around and risk... misunderstandings."
"I got an anonymous invite, I guess," Luca explained, falling into step beside him. "And I wasn't wandering. I was trying to et Mr. Rossi, but it seems..." He trailed off, stretching his neck to search the room for Marco Rossi. "It seems I'll have to start looking for him all over again."
"Don't worry," Mr. Lemaître reassured him with a confident nod. "Let see if I can get him for you. I'm sure he hasn't left yet—we've got less than two hours to go." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Luca standing by the bar.
Luca sighed and glanced at his wristwatch.
10:10 PM.
Realizing his glass was empty, he waved at the bartender for a refill and slid into a barstool. His eyes drifted toward Sophia and Sara at their table. They seed at ease, undisturbed, and for that, Luca was glad.
"Thanks," he said softly to the bartender as the drink was placed in front of him. He took a slow sip, savoring the brief mont of calm.
He couldn't help but hope Mr. Lemaître would succeed in finding Marco Rossi. eting a retiring legend, even briefly, felt like an opportunity to gain so insight—or perhaps a touch of inspiration—for his own journey.
As he sat, Luca's gaze swept across the room. The people around him moved with an effortless elegance, a quiet confidence that seed innate.
A man in a pristine white tuxedo stood by the bar, speaking in soft tones to his beautiful companion, his hand resting lightly on a crystal tumbler. Across the hall, a woman in a floor-length erald dress adjusted her jewelry. She was laughing delicately.
Clusters of older n leaned together in one corner, sharing cigars and cracking wealthy jokes. There were younger crowd as well, sleek and polished, likely the children of the elders.
A man in a velvet jacket scrolled on his phone while leaning on the bar's counter, his attention was barely on the room, yet his presence exuded importance. Luca wondered how that was even possible.
Luca took another sip, feeling like an observer in a world he wasn't quite part of. He tried to shake the thought, reminding himself he belonged here, even if only for the night.
Suddenly, his attention was pulled away as a scrawny young man in an impeccably tailored black suit strode toward him with surprising speed. The abruptness caught Luca off guard.
The young man ordered a drink in a clipped tone, then slid onto the stool beside him. He turned his head sharply, fixing Luca with an intense stare.
"Would you like to make it to F1?" he asked without hesitation.
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