And in the very last row, pressed against the wall, Beatrice Nelson clutched her purse with white-knuckled hands.
Her lips moved silently.
Prayers for her son.
Prayers for their future.
Everything they had could disappear in the next 90 minutes.
Preston Whitmore stood before the crowd, unable to hide his satisfaction.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending this unusual evaluation.”
He let the word drip with contempt.
“We’re here to witness a young man’s claim that he can diagnose a problem that has defeated certified professionals worldwide.”
He gestured toward Raymond.
“The subject will have 90 minutes. He must identify the malfunction, explain his reasoning, and propose a solution.”
Preston paused for effect.
“If he fails, which I think we all expect, his family has agreed to issue a formal apology for wasting the time of qualified experts.”
Raymond stood alone beside the Ferrari.
He could feel every eye in the room.
He could hear whispered comments about his age, his clothes, his skin.
But his hands were steady.
His breathing was calm.
Giuseppe had prepared him for this moment.
“Before we begin,” Preston continued, “I believe we should establish baseline competency. A few simple questions to ensure the young man has at least rudimentary knowledge.”
He turned to Raymond with a predator’s smile.
“What is the precise bore and stroke measurement for the Colombo V12 in a 250 GTO?”
Raymond didn’t hesitate.
“Seventy-three by 58.8 millimeters. Total displacement approximately 2,953 cubic centimeters.”
Preston’s smile tightened.
“The exact ignition timing specification at idle?”
“Approximately eight degrees before top dead center, adjustable based on fuel and setup.”
“Torque specification for the cylinder head bolts?”
Raymond answered with the procedure and sequence he had been taught.
Silence.
The journalists stopped writing.
The technicians stopped smirking.
Even Victoria Ashford leaned forward in her chair.
Preston fired more questions.
Carburetor float levels.
Valve clearances.
Fuel pressure tolerances.
Distributor firing order.
Raymond answered every single one.
Without hesitation.
Derek Sullivan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
He was a certified Ferrari technician with 15 years of experience.
He couldn’t have answered half those questions without a manual.
This 13-year-old had answered them from memory.
Victoria Ashford cleared her throat.
“Mr. Whitmore, I believe the young man has demonstrated sufficient theoretical knowledge. Perhaps we should allow him to actually examine the vehicle. That is why we’re here.”
Preston’s face reddened.
The quiz was supposed to expose Raymond’s ignorance.
Instead, it had showcased his expertise.
“Fine,” he snapped. “The clock starts now.”
The digital display began counting down.
90:00.
89:59.
89:58.
Raymond turned toward the Ferrari.
But before he could take a step, the service bay door opened.
An old man entered slowly.
White hair.
Wooden cane.
Clothes that had seen better decades.
Victoria Ashford rose from her chair so quickly it nearly fell over.
“Giuseppe Martinelli? From the Scuderia Ferrari factory team?”
Whispers erupted through the crowd.