“Müller is just over six behind. He and the Mercenaries haven’t stopped, but Campbell and Dubois pitted for hards. Pace is good, can you push these tires a little further?”
“Yeah.” Whatever helps Julien win the fucking race. “I can hold this pace for a few more laps. Tell me when the exit is clear.”
The clean air makes his grip notably better, and Julien manages to add an extra three seconds between himself and the Red Boar by the time he pits. When he exits, he cuts in front of a DRS train.
“Position?”
“Fourth, but Halligan and Müller have yet to pit.”
So, Julien is virtually second. “Is the third car my brother?”
“Affirm.”
Oh great. Julien gets to try and pass him again.
The new hards don’t fully warm until turn ten, but when they do, the fresh rubber comes alive beneath him. Julien grips the tarmac and propels faster as he chases down his first win.
The other Ferraro is a red spot that teases him, flitting in and out of view between turns. Even with the tire advantage, Julien can’t claw his way back up into DRS range until there are only five laps left.
Julien has the pace, but if it wasn’t easy to pass his brother before, it’s impossible now.
Thomas uses every single inch of the road, throwing himself from turn to turn. He cuts across the straight Julien had passed him in with extra aggression, as if claiming the road for himself.
That’s fine. Julien can find another way. He inches closer and waits for another opening.
The one time Thomas doesn’t cut over at the end of a long straight, Julien is there. They’re wheel to wheel at the apex before Thomas sends a late, desperate, lunging defense.
The stewards would’ve called that reckless move in Julien’s favor, but he’d rather settle the score once and for all on the track. He barrels forward into the too-narrow space, keeping two tires in line as he powers through the turn.
He’s probably destroying his right tires and losing pace, but when the chicane switches back again, Julien keeps the inside line and pushes Thomas wide, claiming the lead again.
Thomas tries to fight back through the straight, but his tires are older, and he can’t do much more than leave the race line and try to joust.
Power through ten, brake late to hit eleven, defense through twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, hit fifteen and fling out down the long straight. Even though Julien finishes the lap ahead of his brother, he can’t ease up just yet.
Thomas keeps a punishing pace, and Julien has to apply everything he’s ever learned to stay ahead.
Disrupt the tow, cover your apex, use the road, watch your tires—every shred of advice swirls in his mind alongside every frustrating move Thomas pulled on him over the course of the race.
How does he likethisjolt? Orthislate-braking maneuver? Hard to overtake on, isn’t it?
“Last lap.”
Julien can feel the desperation in Thomas’s driving. It’s devolving—his perfect consistent laps becoming clunkier with every turn. He’s all four wheels off at both three and nine, nearly begging for a penalty with how sharp he cuts through the road.
It’d be faster, but Julien doesn’t dare run the sim line through twelve and fourteen. He can’t afford to open any doors or allow any opportunities for overtakes. This last lap has to be the cleanest lesson in defense anyone has ever seen.
Julien swings a little wide and cuts the apex in turn fifteen, but as soon as he spots the finish line, he floors it.
He doesn’t look ahead—the road is straight from here. Instead, his attention is fixed on the car behind as he prays Thomas won’t pull some miraculous late maneuver.
He can’t. The other Ferraro stays trapped in Julien’s mirrors as they roll over the line together.
“P1, Julien,”Davide says. He sounds close to tears.“That’s first place.”
Julien exhales a shaky breath. He’s so hyped up on adrenaline that his body trembles with it. The race doesn’t feel over yet—it floats on the surface of his consciousness without fully sinking in.
“I won the Grand Prix de France?” he asks, just to be sure. “Iwonit?”
