Chapter 1: Antichità Romano

Milan, 1985.

Outside, the day was dry and warm. Early summer. The kind that made asphalt hum and shutters creak. Inside the shop, where varnish, metal, and old leather hung thick in the air, sunlight filtered through the old curtain like smoke through a whiskey glass. In the heart of a city too fast for dreams and too old for innocence, a boy with steady hands sat behind the counter, hunched over a copper candlestick, its stem dulled by age. The polishing rag moved in slow circles, clockwork pace, like he had all the time in the world to bring back its shine.

Adriano Vale sat behind the counter of Antichità Romano, sleeves rolled to his elbows, head slightly bowed. A ceiling fan hummed above, barely moving the heavy air. Outside, the world was electric. Inside, time was still.

The bell above the antique shop door didn't ring—it clinked, softly, like a spoon against porcelain. Vale didn't look up. Continued to do his work.

Then, the door swung wide.

"Dio santo, you're gonna die in this place, Vale."

Marco Benedetti stepped into the shop like he owned it—loud, annoyed, but lit up with the kind of restless spark that made silence shrink. Hair tousled, sun-darkened at the roots but still clinging to those golden streaks that caught the light just right. Shirt too expensive for a twenty-three-year-old, cigarette behind his ear he had no intention of lighting indoors—he wasn't raised in a barn, after all.

Vale didn't flinch. "Morning, Marco."

"It's noon."

"Still counts."

Marco leaned against the glass display case, tapping his fingers like a bored pianist. "Tell me something," he said, smirking. "Is this how you imagined life at twenty-five? Surrounded by dusty clocks and forgotten teacups?"

Adriano turned the candlestick's base in his fingers, checking the polish."Better than answering phones at your father's bank."

"Touché."

Marco flopped into the cracked leather chair by the window, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "I'm wasting away at that bank. You know what I did this morning? Counted five thousand lira bills. For two hours. They don't even smell like money anymore. They smell like ink and broken dreams."

Vale clicked the candlestick shut and set it aside. "So quit."

Marco scoffed. "Sure. And do what? Open a pasta stand in Navigli? No thanks."

He drummed his fingers. "We should do something tonight."

"You said that last week."

"Yeah, and we ended up drinking warm beer on my cousin's roof, listening to him cry about his ex. I deserve better."

"We deserve better," Vale corrected, folding the cloth neatly.

Marco stood up again, pacing now—like standing still made his skin itch. "Sometimes I think about it, you know? Just... dropping everything. Go somewhere. Florence. Marseille. Hell, even Rimini. Open a bar. Play music. Paint. Lie about who we are. Be someone else for a while."

Vale gave him a look. "You don't paint."

Marco shrugged. "Neither do you. But we could."

Outside, a Vespa rumbled past. Somewhere nearby, a radio played something mellow in Italian—probably Battisti or Mina, carried from a neighbor's open window.

For a moment, the shop was quiet again.

Then Marco clapped his hands once, like a reset.

"Alright. You'll call your girl, I'll call mine. We'll go out. Somewhere proper this time. You owe me that much for letting this place leech my soul."

Vale wiped his hands, leaned back in his chair, and gave him a lazy smile. "Where?"

A beat. Then Marco's grin returned. "Autodromo."

He said it like a challenge.

Later That Evening

The sun had begun to dip, casting golden light across the tram lines. The city was quieter now—not asleep, but leaning into its evening rhythm. Horns softened. Shutters creaked closed. Somewhere, someone poured an aperitivo.

The Autodromo on the outskirts of town buzzed with low-slung cars and boys who thought they were invincible. It wasn't an official race—not quite illegal either. Just enough rules to feel like chaos could break loose at any moment. The air reeked of gasoline and thrill.

Marco stood with his sleeves rolled, a bottle of Chinotto in hand, sunglasses still on even as the light faded. The cigarette behind his ear had been replaced with another—this one half-lit and forgotten. He looked better when he wasn't trying too hard.

Vale was next to him, hands in his pockets, head tilted at the distant sound of screeching tires. He still smelled faintly of the antique shop—varnish and oil—but he looked lighter out here, beneath the open sky.

Marco glanced toward the entrance. "She's late."

"Who?" Vale asked, already knowing.

Giulia, of course, walked in like she'd stepped off a magazine page left out in the rain. Short dark hair curled against her jaw in that effortlessly moody way. She wore a washed-out denim jacket over a white tee tucked into high-waisted pants, red lips pressed into a crooked, knowing smile. Her presence was like a static hum—cool, unbothered, low-key cinematic.

She didn't make a scene. Just strolled up with that calm, untouched-by-wind kind of presence. Like she belonged here more than any of the boys revving engines.

Marco met her halfway and didn't say a word. Just smirked, leaned in, and kissed her like he'd been waiting a week—not just a few hours. Giulia blinked, surprised, then kissed him back briefly but coolly, like she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she missed him too.

"Could've called," she muttered.

He grinned. "You would've said no."

She rolled her eyes, but her hand was already in his.

Behind them came another laugh—louder, unfiltered.

Eva.

Long blond hair in a half-up tie, a navy skirt swaying just above her knees. Her shirt was buttoned wrong by one hole—on purpose. She had that kind of stubborn fire in her step, the sort of mouth made for arguing and laughing in the same breath.

She didn't wait. Walked right up behind Vale, threw her arms around him without warning, and kissed his cheek like it was hers to take—which it was.

"There you are, signore nostalgia," she whispered against his ear.

Vale had a little smile in his eyes. She always did this—loved loudly.

Before he could duck, she spun around and caught his lips in a real kiss.

"You smell like brass polish," she teased.

"I tried cologne. Didn't work," he said.

She laughed and leaned against him anyway. "You're lucky you're cute."

They all found a spot near the track's edge, just behind a line of boys arguing over spark plugs and whose cousin brought the best tires from Naples.

Giulia leaned back on her elbows beside Marco, watching the chaos, sipping from his bottle. After a while, she wandered off to her own friend group, waving only briefly.

Eva stayed close, head resting on Vale's shoulder like she belonged there.

Engines screamed. Girls cheered. The night wrapped around them like cigarette smoke and stereo haze.

Young blood. Streetlight shadows. Laughter, engines, kisses, half-finished conversations.

The night was alive—and none of them cared what came after.

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