0014 Genoa’s First True Love (Please Support with Favorites and Votes)
“Roberto, out for a ride!”
Lude Yang knocked on the door of the Mancini residence, and Federica opened it, warmly inviting him inside to sit for a while.
Mancini had long harbored a passion for collecting motorcycles.
After witnessing Lude Yang’s riding skills, Mancini was utterly impressed, surrendering completely—except for his words.
“Is Monica not home?”
Federica handed him a cup of coffee and asked.
As a Neapolitan, she was very particular about coffee, insisting on authenticity.
She took a small transparent cup, about the size of a shot glass, rinsed her mouth with water, then stirred the coffee with a spoon, coating the cup’s walls to warm it up before quickly drinking it.
This was the Neapolitan way—an art in itself.
Lude Yang set down his cup and said, “I made her breakfast; she hasn’t woken up yet. For women, sleeping is often the secret to beauty.”
“You’re so thoughtful,”
Federica complimented him.
Not many men in Italy cook for their wives.
Mancini, sporting a tousled hairdo, emerged from the bedroom, gave Lude Yang a nod, then headed straight to the bathroom.
“Roberto really likes you, but he’s not good at expressing it,”
Federica explained, worried that Lude Yang might take offense.
After their last motorcycle ride, Mancini had been so excited upon returning home that he talked half the night—a sight she had rarely seen.
She was glad Mancini could have Lude Yang as a riding partner.
Even the temperamental Mancini needed more friends.
“Are you going out? Should I prepare some food to take along? I should have packed a picnic for you,”
Federica stood up and said.
Traditional Italian women were quintessential homemakers.
“No need; we can get lunch on the road,”
Lude Yang replied with a smile.
“I heard Vialli is back from vacation; I’d like to meet him too.”
“Mm, Gianluca’s personality is much better than Roberto’s,”
Federica murmured. “You understand what Mancjo means, right? ‘Mr. Mancini’—how should I put it...”
Lude Yang laughed and nodded.
A bit of sarcasm, Chinese people are masters of that.
That nickname was probably used to mock Mancini, but it caught on, and those unaware took it as a compliment to his demeanor.
Fresh from washing his hair, Mancini appeared from the bathroom, towel in hand, drying his hair while grumbling, “Showing up at someone’s house this early is really impolite.”
“I thought we were good friends. Good friends don’t pick times to visit,”
Lude Yang winked.
“That’s right, exactly!”
Federica nodded vigorously.
Mancini had no choice but to stay quiet.
He was a reserved type.
He enjoyed soft music, had his own tastes in films and books, and liked collecting things.
Within a few days, Lude Yang had gotten to know Mancini quite well.
Overall, this guy pursued a quality lifestyle, enjoyed tasteful living, and occasionally craved excitement and passion—but he lacked friends who shared that.
Though Mancini appeared indifferent to others, he actually cared deeply about their opinions.
That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
As the two went downstairs, they spotted some paparazzi.
“They’re here for you. They want to paint you as Italy’s public enemy number one,” Mancini said.
In recent days, he had seen much discussion on TV about Lude Yang and Monica Bellucci.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve already stolen Italy’s pearl,”
Lude Yang laughed, mounting his motorcycle and revving the throttle, shooting off.
*Cough cough cough...*
Mancini waved his hand, watching Lude Yang’s retreating figure, muttering a curse under his breath while envying his carefree spirit.
First, they needed to swing by Mancini’s suburban home to pick up his collection of motorcycles before heading to find Vialli.
Though Mancini was only 25, having risen to fame at 17, he had amassed a decent fortune.
---
Arriving at the place, Mancini pointed to the vehicles outside: “My collection garage is full—sports cars and motorcycles. Envious? I can give you one.”
“No thanks. I ride cheap bikes you can’t even catch,”
Lude Yang replied.
Mancini was speechless.
Though true, it was damn irritating.
Opening the garage, Lude Yang, who hadn’t cared much before, finally spotted something impressive:
An R75!
That was the core of the German blitzkrieg in Poland!
“I’ll ride this; you take mine!”
Lude Yang found the R75’s keys on the wall and headed for the bike.
Mancini bent down to pick up a gas can, preparing to fuel it up.
Finally, he could surprise Lude Yang with his collection.
This bike was a World War II relic, originally sold with an ammo trailer. The best part: it could run on poor-quality fuel without damage.
The previous owner had cared for it meticulously; Mancini had waited over two years before buying it when the seller needed cash.
Lude Yang donned a rather vintage pair of goggles, waved, and said, “Let’s go—to Poland!”
“If the reporters catch this, you’re in big trouble,”
Mancini warned, shrinking his neck.
“Then how about Israel?”
Lude Yang asked.
Mancini quickly climbed onto his RS500, fearful Lude Yang might say something even more alarming.
These days, the media was controlled by Jews; the internet wasn’t widespread yet. Even hearing the older generation’s stories about their misdeeds didn’t stir much resentment.
After all, all media and film works were whitewashing them, issuing redemption vouchers worldwide, as if the Earth owed them a promised land.
Once on the road, Mancini envied Lude Yang again.
The gap in riding skills was vast.
Even on an old relic with a top speed of just 80 km/h and a sidecar, Lude Yang could easily toy with him on the road.
In the ’80s and ’90s, motorcycles were the ultimate romance.
Their high costs kept them away from street thugs and the later wave of young hooligans.
Especially back then, bikes were few and the riding experience was excellent.
At Vialli’s doorstep, they saw him carrying a travel bag, about to enter.
Without a word, Mancini jumped off and dragged Vialli into Lude Yang’s sidecar.
“Hey, Nero, you’ve been making waves lately,”
Vialli said with a brief look of surprise, then teased Lude Yang.
He had a cheerful personality; his parents were a sculptor and a jewelry designer, which gave him good upbringing and knowledge.
Nero was considered a public enemy by Romans for his cruelty and extravagant lifestyle.
Lude Yang shrugged, “Four hostile newspapers are scarier than a thousand bayonets. Too bad I’m not Napoleon; they can’t harm me.”
“Nice attitude. I like that!”
Vialli pulled out a cigarette, ready to light up.
Lude Yang extended his right hand, offering a paper cup of cola instead: “This is healthier.”
Vialli touched his hair and looked at Mancini in admiration: “No wonder you’re friends.”
He had become bald after transferring to Juventus; his teammate Fortunato had leukemia, and he shaved his head to support him.
“He’s right—cola beats tobacco,”
Mancini agreed.
He had always loved Coca-Cola.
At that moment, Lude Yang hit the throttle, splashing cola all over Vialli’s face.
But Vialli didn’t mind; he shouted and spread his arms wide.
With that personality, it was no surprise he became friends with Mancini. Even gloomy types couldn’t resist the sunshine.
Looking at the WWII motorcycle ahead, Mancini couldn’t help but smile knowingly.
...
“So cool. You’ve got to teach me to ride sometime!”
That night, when dropping Vialli off, he grabbed Lude Yang’s arm and said.
---
They were both fun-loving young men, quickly becoming close.
“Sure, that’s easy.”
Lude Yang readily agreed.
Mancini and Vialli chatted for another twenty minutes before leaving together.
That saying was so true: if it’s not about the lower half, men prefer to hang out with men.
“Gianluca really likes you. You’re good at making friends,”
Mancini and Lude Yang said in unison.
“I had plenty of friends back in Reggio Calabria too,” Lude Yang smiled. “They don’t know I’m leaving yet; otherwise, my neighbors would be upset.”
“Female neighbors?”
“A housewife in her forties,” Lude Yang replied.
“Women like pretty boys; you don’t have much beard,”
Mancini teased. “Guys like me are more devoted.”
Lude Yang rolled his eyes.
Compared to Mancini’s full beard, he truly had less facial hair.
But who was Mancini to talk about devotion?
He looked good now because he just got married. Back when he was a coach, he had a string of affairs and ended up divorced.
Time would tell everything.
Mancini, Genoa’s most devoted, was clearly no match for Korea’s top romantic.
When they returned to the apartment building, paparazzi were still lurking nearby.
Lude Yang waved and said, “You go up first; I’ll talk to the reporters.”
“Want me to chase them off for you?”
Mancini asked, already annoyed with the paparazzi.
“No, it’s fine. You go ahead,”
Lude Yang said, walking straight toward the paparazzi’s car.
“You and Mancjo are close? Have you transferred to Sampdoria?” the paparazzo asked directly.
“Sorry, I don’t want to talk about that,”
Lude Yang replied, pulling out some bills and handing them over.
The paparazzo looked surprised.
“Recently, you wrote that I tricked Monica Bellucci. The story lacks some charm. You should highlight Monica’s pure beauty and portray me as a scheming villain—that way, readers will connect more.”
Lude Yang said.
The paparazzo swallowed hard, utterly baffled.
He’d never seen this approach before.
“Give me your contact info. I’ll send you some scripts. Just help me publish them, and take some nice photos of Monica—candid style, you know?”
Lude Yang said.
The paparazzo nodded enthusiastically.
Anyway, what Lude Yang said didn’t hurt him.
This summer, the Chinese boy was all the rage; an exclusive scoop was gold.
After exchanging contacts, Lude Yang turned and left.
How else was he supposed to make money? This was a golden opportunity.
Chisaki Kurozawa had no real acting skills; even an android could become the top beauty. Monica, a truly natural beauty, shouldn’t she be hyped?
Italian men unhappy about their Apennine flower being stolen, shouldn’t they support Monica’s menswear brand?
She was economically independent, so in the future, she could face difficulties without worries, right?
Monica was working for her family’s welfare.
Not supporting Monica meant not being truly Italian.
You can wear ZARA, but why not support the Apennine’s top beauty’s venture?
Lude Yang planned to show the Apennines decades ahead what the ultimate marketing strategy looked like.
In the end, they’d realize: the richer Monica became, the better life Lude Yang would enjoy.