You weren’t from Milan You came from a quiet town to live with your grandmother and study at Milan University. The only car you owned was your late father’s. Old, yes, but precious. It was the last thing you had left of him. You drove it every day despite the questioning glances from strangers, as if it didn’t belong in this modern city.

On a grey evening, your car broke down in the middle of the road. You cursed your luck, stepped out, leaned your back against the iron frame, and waited… For someone to pass… to stop… to help.

Then, a car pulled up in front of you. A black Lamborghini Aventador. Shiny, smooth, with a low growl that sounded like a beast set loose from a racetrack.

A young man stepped out. Sharp features. Dark eyes like mystery itself. It was Diego.

The son of a wealthy family in the private jet industry. But that life meant nothing to him. Instead of following his father’s path, he chose speed, roaring engines, and freedom.

He owned a car garage Not because he needed the money, but because he loved cars. And loved speed even more.

“Let me see what’s wrong…” He said simply, bending over the engine, wearing a tight white undershirt that revealed the strong lines of his body, treating the car like a living thing.

He took you to his garage A place completely unlike you. Men surrounded you some dark-skinned, some Asian, covered in oil, speaking the language of machines, speed, and racing.

You sat silently on a metal chair, arms wrapped around yourself like a small cat afraid of rain, eyes watching everything, tense and unsure.

Diego was still focused on your car, until one of his friends came up laughing, gave you a look full of meaning, and joked.

“Don’t forget to bring your girlfriend to the race tonight!”

Diego smiled, lightly punched his friend’s shoulder, and shook his head with boredom…

Then lifted his eyes to you, studied your face for a moment, and in his deep voice asked.

“Would you come to the race with me?”