The Ferrari climbed without hesitation.
"How did you learn all this?" Ted asked, eyes fixed on the road. "You're 13 years old."
Raymond considered the question. "Mr. Giuseppe says age doesn't matter. Only attention matters. He says most people stop paying attention when they grow up. They start trusting machines instead of themselves."
Ted nodded slowly. "He sounds like a wise man."
"He's the wisest person I know." Raymond paused. "Except maybe my mama."
They drove in silence for a while: through traffic, up hills, down valleys. The engine never faltered, never hesitated, never stumbled.
Twenty minutes into the drive, they reached the intersection at Pacific Heights where the car had stalled three times last year. Ted's hands tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenched. The Ferrari climbed the hill smoothly, powerfully, perfectly.
Ted's grip relaxed. His breath came easier. At a red light near the top, his hands began to shake—not from fear this time, from something else entirely.
"My father taught me to drive in this car." His voice cracked. "Summer of 1973, I was 16. He sat right where you're sitting now."
Raymond listened.
"He died two years later. Heart attack. No warning. Just gone." Ted's eyes stayed fixed forward. "This car became everything—the only place I could still feel him."
The light turned green; he didn't move.
"Then my son came along, Michael. I taught him to drive in this same car. Same roads, same lessons my father taught me." A car behind them honked; Ted ignored it. "15 years ago, a drunk driver took him from me. 23 years old. His whole life ahead of him."
Tears rolled down the billionaire's cheeks; he didn't wipe them away.