Richest Man: It All Started With My Rebate System-Chapter 26: Ducati Superleggera V4

The drive to Uptown took just under twenty minutes. The neighbourhood announced itself gradually, with its wider streets, older trees lining the kerb and properties set further back from the road.

It was different from River Oaks in a way that was difficult to pin down precisely. River Oaks had the polished, intentional feel of money that had been arranged. Uptown felt more settled. Like the money here had been around long enough to stop caring whether anyone noticed.

Steven followed the address on the card through several turns before the street narrowed slightly and the properties thinned out. He slowed as the building came into view and checked the card against the number above the entrance.

This was it.

He pulled up along the kerb and cut the engine. He sat for a moment, looking at the building through the windscreen.

It was not what he had expected.

There was no gleaming showroom frontage, no dramatic signage, no cars arranged theatrically behind floor-to-ceiling glass. The exterior was plain brick, clean and well-maintained but entirely unremarkable from the street. A narrow sign above the door carried a name in simple lettering. Nothing more.

He frowned slightly.

Then he remembered what the salesperson had told him. They don’t advertise because they don’t need to. Their clientele comes to them.

He got out, closed the door, and walked to the entrance.

He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The interior was a completely different world from the exterior.

The space was large, much larger than the frontage suggested, opening up behind the entrance into a wide, high-ceilinged showroom with polished concrete floors and lighting that had been designed to make every machine in the room look like it belonged in a museum.

The air was cool and carried a faint trace of leather and metal. Along the left wall, three cars sat on low platforms, each one a machine that belonged on a track rather than a street. Along the right wall, motorcycles. Six of them, spaced evenly, each one lit from above.

In the centre of the room, mounted on a raised platform of its own, was a single machine. No other vehicles near it. Just space and light, and the kind of deliberate isolation that communicated without words that this one was different from the rest.

Steven’s feet took him toward it before he had made a conscious decision to move.

He stopped at the edge of the platform and looked at it.

It was white, not a flat white but a deep, layered one that shifted slightly depending on the angle of the light. The bodywork was sharp and sculpted, every surface doing something functional and looking extraordinary in the process.

The exhaust exited low and clean. The instrument cluster was minimal. The whole thing looked like it had been drawn by someone who had been told to design speed and had taken the brief entirely literally.

"The Ducati Superleggera V4," a voice said from behind him.

Steven turned.

A man had appeared from somewhere toward the back of the showroom, walking toward him with an unhurried ease. He was somewhere in his fifties, lean, with the kind of composed, attentive manner that came with years of dealing with people who had very specific requirements and very little patience for anything else.

"I’m Marcus," he said, stopping beside Steven and looking at the bike rather than at him. "You were heading straight for it before you’d even looked at the rest of the room. That tells me something."

"I’ve done my research," Steven said.

"Most people who come in here have," Marcus said. "What brings you in today?"

"I’m looking for something in the collector level range. The Superleggera was on my list. But I want to understand what else you have before I decide."

Marcus looked at him properly for the first time. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes recalibrated slightly.

"How far up are you willing to go?" he asked.

"Show me what you have and we’ll find out," Steven said.

Marcus nodded once, accepting the answer, and turned toward the line of motorcycles along the right wall.

He walked Steven through them without rushing. Each machine had a story, and Marcus told it efficiently, hitting the details that mattered and skipping the ones that didn’t.

A Kawasaki Ninja H2R, track-only, supercharged, producing more power than most cars. A BMW S1000RR M Package, fully specced, the kind of machine that professional riders used as a reference point. An Aprilia RSV4 X, one of a limited production run of fifty units globally, designed as a direct homologation special for racing competition.

Steven listened to all of it, asking questions when something wasn’t clear, staying quiet when it was.

Then Marcus led him back to the platform in the centre of the room.

"The Superleggera V4," he said. "You already know the basics. Let me tell you what makes this one specific."

He walked Steven around the machine slowly.

"Production run of five hundred units worldwide. Carbon fibre everywhere it can be carbon fibre — frame, wheels, bodywork, subframe. The engine is the same V4 Granturismo unit from the Panigale V4 R, but retuned.

In race configuration, without the road legal components, it produces 234 horsepower. In street trim, it produces 200. The wet weight is 152 kilograms. To put that in context, most road-legal superbikes sit between 190 and 210."

He paused for a moment, allowing Steven to process everything, before continuing.

"It is, in measurable terms, the fastest street-legal production motorcycle Ducati has ever built."

Steven said nothing for a moment. He looked at the machine from where he was standing, taking in the whole shape of it.

"How much?" he asked.

"$128,000," Marcus said. "That’s the unit as it stands. We can discuss options if there’s anything specific you want added."

Steven looked at the bike for another moment.

"I’ll take it," he said.

Marcus received this without visible reaction.

"You’ll want to arrange transport, I assume? Or do you have a trailer?"

"Delivery," Steven said. "I don’t have a garage setup for it yet. I’ll give you the address."

"That’s not a problem. We handle delivery for most of our clients." Marcus tilted his head slightly. "I do need to ask — do you have a licence for a machine of this class? It’s category A, unrestricted."

"No. But you don’t need to worry, as I won’t be riding it until I have gotten the licence," Steven said.

Marcus nodded and led him to the back of the showroom, where a clean, simply furnished office sat behind a glass partition. He took a seat behind the desk and Steven sat across from him.

The paperwork was handled efficiently. Marcus produced the documents, walked him through the key points without excessive explanation, and asked the questions he was required to ask without asking anything beyond that. Steven provided his details, confirmed the delivery address, and signed where indicated.

When it came to payment, Marcus gave him the account details without fanfare.

Steven made the transfer.

The system responded immediately, the notification appearing at the edge of his vision with the quiet precision he had come to associate with significant transactions.

[You spent $128,000. A 8x rebate was triggered.]

[You received $1,024,000. The money has been transferred to your account.]

Steven kept his expression still. But behind it, something moved through him that he had no quick word for. A million dollars. Returned on a single transaction. The number sat in his vision for a moment before the notification faded.

He checked his balance quickly before Marcus spoke again.

$2,794,572.74.

He was close. Very close.

"Delivery will be within two business days," Marcus said, gathering the paperwork. "We’ll call ahead on the morning of delivery to confirm the time window. Is there a specific entrance or parking arrangement we should be aware of?"

"Underground garage," Steven said. "I’ll arrange access. Call me when you have the window confirmed and I’ll make sure everything is ready."

"Understood." Marcus slid a copy of the documents across the desk. "Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

Steven looked back through the glass partition at the showroom floor. His eyes moved across the machines along the right wall, then back to the platform in the centre, now empty of its primary occupant in the sense that it had already been claimed, even if it was still physically there.

Then his gaze moved to the cars along the left wall.

He looked at them for a moment.

"Not today," he said, turning back to Marcus. "But I’ll be back."

Marcus stood and extended his hand. "I’ll look forward to it."

Steven shook it, collected his documents, and walked back through the showroom toward the entrance. He paused briefly at the platform on his way out and looked at the Superleggera one more time.

He had done his research before coming in. He had seen the specs, watched the footage. He had known on paper what the machine was.

Standing next to it in person was a different thing. The numbers became real when there was something physical to attach them to. 152 kilograms. 200 horsepower at the wheel. One of five hundred in existence.

And one of them was now his.

He pushed through the entrance door and stepped back out into the Uptown air. He walked to the Aston Martin, got in, and sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel.

"Next stop," he said quietly, and started the engine.

It was time to go purchase the clothes.