Ferrari 250 GTO "Phantom"—Rumor said Ferrari built 36 GTOs. That was a lie. There was a 37th. Deep guntal gray, blacked-out badging, and a body shape that defied ti itself. Unlike the pristine museum-kept GTOs, this one looked like it had seen things. Its history? Scrubbed. No records. No auctions. Just existence.
Parker let his eyes drift over the Ferrari 250 GTO "Phantom", taking in the deep guntal gray, the subtle nace of its blacked-out badging, the way it just… sat there, looking like it had seen shit and refused to talk about it.
It wasn't pristine like the ones in rich collectors' air-conditioned museum garages. No—this one had that energy, like it had been dragged through ti itself.
"They really just… kept this?" Parker asked, still processing.
Tessa smirked, stepping beside him, arms crossed like she'd just been waiting for that question.
"Nah, we saved it."
Atalanta frowned. "From what? A regular life?"
Tessa sighed, shaking her head. "From dumbasses."
She ran her fingers along the car's perfectly maintained curves, her voice shifting into that expert, "I know my shit" tone.
"So, Ferrari officially made 36 GTOs, right?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Except, they didn't. This was the 37th—an experintal build. Extra light, reinforced chassis, hand-tuned V12, and—get this—a completely different aerodynamics package Ferrari never released because it made the others look slow."
Parker narrowed his eyes. "So it's… faster?"
Tessa tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "Faster, aner, and completely erased from history. Ferrari built it, tested it, realized it was too good, then decided 'fuck it' and pretended it never existed."
Atalanta blinked. "So, what, they just threw it out?"
Tessa snorted. "Nah, they gave it to a private buyer under the condition that it never saw a racetrack. And guess what? It did. Multiple tis. Won races it technically wasn't even in. Caused so much confusion Ferrari had to step in and wipe its existence off the map."
Parker exhaled, staring at the thing like it might co alive and confess to a few cris. "And the Wilders just found it?"
Tessa grinned. "Found, bought, modified."
She tapped the hood.
"We upgraded the internals—reinforced block, titanium pistons, modern ECU with a race-spec tune. Now? It's got 730 horsepower and a weight-to-power ratio that makes grown n cry."
Parker let out a low whistle. "Jesus."
Atalanta, completely lost, just shrugged. "Sounds expensive."
Tessa pointed at her. "It was."
Moving down the row, they stopped in front of a Bugatti Type 57 Atlantic "Noir".
Only four Atlantics were ever made. Three are accounted for. This? This was the ghost. Wilders were collecters and modifiers of ghosts which people never knew existed. And those ghosts were all here!
This one was pure obsidian black untouched since the 1930s, with riveted spine detailing down the back that made it look more like a handcrafted sculpture than a car. The engine? A prototype Bugatti refused to acknowledge existed, polished like a liquid shadow, with that riveted spine detail running down the back—a design so specific, so delicate, it looked like it belonged in an art gallery, not a garage.
Atalanta squinted. "It's… shiny."
Tessa side-eyed her like she had personally been offended. "It's historic."
Atalanta nodded slowly. "Still shiny."
Tessa ignored her like Atalanta was so country bumpkin who knew nothing of what she was talking about, stepping forward like she was about to give a TED Talk on automotive holy relics.
"Alright, listen up, because this one's actually insane." She gestured dramatically. "You know how Bugatti made four Atlantics? And only three exist?"
Parker nodded. "Yeah?"
Tessa smirked. "Wrong. This is the fourth." 'Personally built for great grand father Wilder but lost it in a bet against so unknown man. Stupid old man.' she added to herself.
Atalanta's face scrunched. "Wait, so… where has it been?"
Tessa let out a short, incredulous laugh, like even she still couldn't believe it.
"That's the fun part—no one fucking knows."
Parker raised an eyebrow. "Like, at all?"
Tessa shook her head. "Nope. Last official record? 1938. After that? Poof. So people say it got lost during World War II, others think it was stolen and hidden away. But sohow, sohow, it ended up in a private collection in France under a fake na."
Atalanta frowned. "So, soone just had it? Like, chilling?"
Tessa threw up her hands. "Apparently! Like it was so family heirloom or a fucking coffee table!"
Parker whistled, stepping closer, fingers tracing the riveted spine.
"And you guys just… got it?"
Tessa grinned. "After six years of negotiating with a dude who thought selling it would curse his bloodline? Yeah."
Atalanta blinked. "…Did it?"
Tessa shrugged. "No clue. He did get divorced, though."
Atalanta made a face. "Damn."
Parker, still eyeing the car, tapped the hood. "Alright, but what did you do to it?"
Tessa's smirk widened. "Oh, I thought you'd never ask."
She ran a hand over the sleek black curves, her voice dropping to that proud, gearhead tone.
"Original straight-eight engine? We restored it, then upgraded it with modern materials. Better airflow, better cooling, a subtle hybrid assist for extra torque. We reinforced the fra, tuned the suspension, and—because we're psychotic—we gave it an electric overboost mode that pushes it past 280 horsepower."
Parker whistled again. "So it's… a classic hypercar?"
Tessa smirked. "It's a fucking demon in a tuxedo."
Atalanta gave a slow clap. "Cool. Still shiny as the other one, though."
Tessa threw an arm around her shoulders, sighing dramatically. "You know what, Atlanta? I think this might be personal now."
Parker chuckled. "Alright, what's next?"
Tessa clapped her hands together. "Oh, my sweetheart, we are just getting started."
Tessa walked ahead, leading them into a separate wing of the vault, the lighting dimr, the energy different—like stepping into a forbidden museum of automotive chaos.
"Alright, car kiddos, welco to the good shit," she announced, hands on her hips. "These? These are the ones my grandfather personally traveled across the world to acquire—auctions, private deals, so light intimidation—you know, normal rich-people shit."
Parker side-eyed her. "That last part sounded illegal."
Tessa smirked. "No laws were broken. That can be proven."
Atalanta folded her arms. "So, what makes these different?"
Tessa spun dramatically, arms outstretched. "Age, mystery, and the fact that half of them should not fucking exist."
They stopped in front of a sleek, silver coupe, its low-slung body looking part spaceship, part vintage concept car. No branding. No VIN. No exhaust system.
It just existed.
*****
Car enthusiasms, where are you?
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