Morning at Lake Como is a quiet symphony, mist curling off the water, the ancient cypresses casting long shadows across the villa’s terracotta walls.
You stand by the tall windows, a half-empty glass of espresso in one hand, watching the light slide across the surface of the lake. The world is still, almost too serene, as if it’s trying to lull you into forgetting that Milan awaits, a city that never sits still.
You turn, letting the clatter of polished shoes on marble floors announce your purpose. The polished wood of the wardrobe creaks, and you slip on a charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, gold cufflinks glinting with quiet arrogance.
But it’s the garage that holds the morning’s first true decision. The 308? A fine choice for another day. The sleek, understated elegance of the Jaguar XJ6? Tempting, but not today.
No, today is a day for the Ferrari Testarossa, that bold, angular beast, red as a sinner’s confession. Its flat-twelve engine roars to life, a basso profundo of Italian engineering, each growl a promise of raw power.
The tires kiss the gravel as you pull away, the villa’s grandeur receding in the rearview. You lean back, one hand on the wheel, and press the throttle, feeling the world rush to meet you.
Milan waits, a city of deals, power, and whispered secrets. But for now, you’re just a man and his machine, a crimson streak tracing the emerald curves of Lake Como.
🎨 @retrowaviest & @clubretroscapes
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