Just as planned, Sara and Mallow took Luca to a boutique and then to a tailor. The name of the tailoring brand was Armand Lavelle, an elegant French establishment specializing in crafting one-of-a-kind suits and eveningwear for discerning clients. With only a handful of branches across Europe—including one in Italy and the one they were visiting in Barcelona—its main branch was nestled in a historic Parisian mansion near Place Vendôme.
The prices were as grandiose as the brand itself, but Mallow had no doubts that Luca could afford them. He had briefly considered taking Luca to Casa de Costura Reyes, a tailoring brand indirectly owned by Mrs. Hawthorne, like so many other properties. But the prices there were nearly double those of Lavelle's, and Luca had shut down the idea, calling Mallow a sycophant and telling him to quit kissing Mrs. Hawthorne's ass.
Despite it being a Sunday, the Armand Lavelle shop in Barcelona was open. While Mallow's original plan was to buy an off-the-rack suit and have it tailored to fit Luca, they ended up handling both activities there. With Circuito del Barca–Raval filling up for the early evening F1 race, the shop was almost empty, allowing them to be attended to with ease.
Luca was quickly recognized as the Trampos driver who had won the F2 Spanish Grand Prix the previous day. The polished staff showered him with praise as they took his measurements. Luca's waist was a trim 32 inches, chest 40 inches, and shoulders 18 inches. His sleeve length, biceps, and trouser inseam measured 25, 14, and 32 inches respectively.
The tailor nodded approvingly as they jotted down the final numbers, murmuring something about Luca having the "ideal figure for bespoke tailoring." Mallow, of course, had to ruin the moment by joking that it just meant Luca had long legs—an entirely untrue observation.
When it came time to choose the fabric for the suit, Sara took full control. She had made it clear on the ride over that Mallow knew nothing about elegance, always opting for casual tracksuits or what she called "a pile of black clothes." Luca couldn't argue with her on that. True to form, Sara was dressed impeccably in a black dress shirt and skirt, while Mallow, predictably, was dressed in exactly what Sara had described.
The perfect fabric for dinner with the Hawthorne family had to exude elegance befitting the presence of billionaires. After some deliberation, they settled on a midnight blue Super 150s wool. Sara explained that its rich, dark color would look sophisticated under the soft lighting typical of any tycoon's mansion.
As Sara and Mallow continued discussing with the cutters and staff, Luca wandered over to the small lounge area. He sank into a soft, plush sofa and began scrolling through his phone, only to be distracted by the neatly arranged items on the polished coffee table in front of him. Among them was a pristine newspaper, folded neatly as though untouched.
Curious, Luca reached for it and unfolded it. His movements froze when he saw his own face staring back at him from the front page, the bold headline above it reading:
"F2'S DANGER: RISING STAR OR RECKLESS MAVERICK?"
He quickly flipped to the designated page, unsure of what to expect. Was it praise for his third consecutive GP win? A critique of something ridiculous? Another media jab at his unique, impactful driving style?
Luca's brows furrowed as he reached Page 6, where another headline caught his eye:
"LUCA RENNICK: F1 POTENTIAL?"
A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Of course, why not? He leaned back and began reading the article, his thoughts already racing ahead of what he might see.
It began with praises for the Italian youngster who had joined the mid-table team, Trampos Racing, and elevated them to championship contenders, now leading the table. The article highlighted how Luca's exceptional driving had rewarded him with three consecutive GP wins—in London, Budapest, and Barcelona—earning him a total of 79 points. It went on to commend his Fastest Lap record, calling it nothing short of remarkable.
As Luca read further, the focus shifted to debates about his chances of clinching the F2 championship. Comparisons were drawn to Max Addams' winning season the year prior, which had been a benchmark for F2 excellence.
However, Luca could tell this particular journalist wasn't entirely fond of him. The critique of his driving style was thinly veiled, suggesting that Luca might "make history" if he kept driving that way. Luca understood the implication behind those words—the real context it conveyed.
The bold words "F1 POTENTIAL?" caught his attention again, the article boldly asserting that Luca Rennick was likely to be approached by an F1 team after the season, regardless of his final standing in the championship. His performance had already made him a standout.
Yes. That's what I want, Luca thought. He had given his all on Saturday, winning the Spanish Grand Prix in front of teams like Nevada HanSama, Squadra Corse, Bueseno Velocità, Jackson Racing, Haddock Racing, and others. He pictured their management teams whispering and debating about him, their interest growing stronger.
Luca sighed, folding the newspaper once he reached the end of the article. It concluded with a monochrome image of him dressed sharply in a Trampos Veststar, the emblem of his rising status.
He placed the newspaper down and turned his attention to his phone, scrolling through messages in the group chat McCauley had created several days ago.
As he read, it seemed his plans for the beach with Ansel and Harry must have leaked, or someone else must have had the same idea. A crew member suggested it, and everyone agreed, saying they'll storm the beach the very next day.
Sara and Mallow returned to the lounge where he was seated, announcing it was time to leave.
"The suit will be ready on Tuesday morning. I'll come pick it up," Sara said.
"Wow," Luca said, standing up. "And here I thought it was being sewn right now. You guys took your time."
Mallow laughed, leading the way to the door while greeting the staff as they left. "Ask Sara. She's putting in all this effort for a dinner she's not even attending. Ha!"