Enjoy Chapter Two Everyone 😉

Enjoy chapter two everyone 😉

CHAPTER TWO: The Line You Don’t Cross

The grid was a battlefield dressed in ceremony.

Mechanics in tight formation. Team principals hiding nerves behind sunglasses. Heat rippled off the tarmac like a warning. As the riders mounted their machines, Mugello held its breath — the kind of silence only nature can offer before a storm breaks loose.

Marc Márquez exhaled inside his helmet.

Focus. Forget the noise. Ride the damn bike.

But he could feel it — the weight of Pecco, just ahead. P1. Confident. Unbothered. The favorite son of Italy, of Rossi, of the VR46 legacy.

Marc’s bike growled beneath him, restless, aggressive. Unlike Alex’s Repsol rocket — elegant and smooth — the VR46 Ducati felt like a beast that wanted to bite. Marc liked that. Maybe too much.

Through the din, he could barely make out Rossi near the pit wall. Stone-faced. Watching both his riders like a man who knew what was coming — but not from whom.

The lights went out.

GO.

Marc launched perfectly. Tucked tight into Pecco’s slipstream by Turn 2. He could’ve waited. Should’ve waited.

But he didn’t.

At Turn 3, Marc lunged — hard.

The Ducati dove down the inside, front tire nearly brushing Pecco’s swingarm. The move was clinical, millimeters from disaster.

Pecco sat up. Forced wide.

A puff of dirt. A fraction of hesitation.

Marc slipped through.

He was ahead.

The crowd erupted — confusion, fury, and awe, all at once.

By Turn 6, Pecco was back on his rear tire. The chase began.

Pecco struck back.

he flew past Marc with a daring outside line. The two bikes touched — barely — but enough to make the crowd gasp. Marc shook his head, laughed bitterly inside his helmet.So that’s how it was going to be.

Lap 9. Turn 15.

Marc dived again.

But this time, Pecco closed the door.

Contact.

Marc’s front wing snapped off. Pecco ran wide, nearly into the gravel. A chorus of boos erupted from the grandstands. Yellow VR46 flags waved in fury.

Race Direction flashed:

“INCIDENT UNDER INVESTIGATION – RIDERS #93 & #63.”

Marc knew what that meant.

Déjà vu.

Only this wasn’t Sepang 2015. This wasn’t Rossi and Márquez.

This was his turn to be the villain.

Back in the pit wall, Rossi ripped off his headset. Face pale. Silence heavier than thunder.

“He’s forcing it,” muttered Uccio.

Rossi didn’t answer. His eyes locked on the monitor, where his legacy was unraveling.

Was this karma? Was this the moment he had created?

Marc and Pecco were at war — and this time, he couldn’t protect either.

Final lap.

Marc led. Barely. His damaged aero made the front end twitchy, unpredictable — just like him.

Pecco stalked him, every inch the assassin. The grandstands trembled with anticipation, fans on their feet, flags whipping like war banners. Yellow for Rossi. Red for Ducati. A few orange — for Márquez. For this Márquez.

Turn 12.

Marc braked late, too late.

Pecco dove inside.

Contact.

Marc didn’t yield.

Elbows out. Bikes tangled like wild animals. Gravel sprayed.

Pecco lost the rear — violently.

His bike spiraled. Down.

Marc stayed up.

He crossed the finish line first.

———————————

The crowd exploded.

Not all boos.

Cheers. Screams. Fists in the air.

It wasn’t love — it was awe. The kind of reaction a gladiator earns in the Colosseum.

He had beaten their golden boy. He had survived.

————

In parc fermé, Marc ripped off his helmet, sweat clinging to every part of him, jaw clenched, heart drumming louder than any engine. He raised his arms.

The cameras flashed — not out of joy, but hunger.

The crowd behind the barriers surged forward, yelling his name.

“MÁRQUEZ! MÁRQUEZ!”

Some roared in approval. Others jeered.

It didn’t matter.

For the first time in years, they were yelling his name.

Not Alex’s. Not Rossi’s.

His.

⸻

Then came the questions.

Journalists swarmed like hornets.

“Do you regret the move?”

“Did you take Bagnaia out on purpose?”

“Will VR46 suspend you?”

Marc smirked into the mic, blood still rushing in his ears. “I came to race. I don’t apologize for winning.”

⸻

Back at the VR46 motorhome, Rossi stood alone in his office, lights low, screens still replaying the crash in a silent loop.

Pecco was okay — bruised, angry, humiliated. But it wasn’t just the result that haunted Valentino.

It was the way Marc rode.

No fear. No caution. No mercy.

Just like him.

Uccio entered quietly. “The press is going to crucify him.”

Rossi’s jaw tightened. “They should.”

“But he won.”

“I know.”

Valentino turned to the monitor — the shot frozen on Marc raising a single fist, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something Rossi knew too well.

Not celebration. Not joy.

Vengeance.

“He’s not just like me,” Rossi said under his breath.

“He’s worse.”

⸻

Across the paddock, Alex Márquez watched the replay on a monitor, arms crossed, unreadable.

A reporter approached him.

“Alex, any comment on your brother’s win?”

He paused. The crowd still echoed in the distance, half love, half war

Finally, he said quietly, “He wanted to matter. Today… he does.”

⸻

Back on the podium, the Italian anthem was replaced by stunned silence.

Marc stood tall, trophy in hand, fireworks behind him.

No teammates beside him.

No Rossi.

No Pecco.

Just himself.

The shadow had finally stepped into the light — and it burned like hell.