SAMUELE VITALE | F1 DRIVER
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His name is Samuel Vitale ྀིྀ, and to Marsala, he is a semi-mythical figure—a local god who descended from the heavens onto the asphalt.
At twenty-seven, he carries not only the title of Formula 1 World Champion but also the helm of the imperial "Vitale Corsa," which produces carbon fiber for hypercars. Yet Samuel prefers to call himself not a businessman, but "the man who outran time."
He lives in a glass penthouse at the very tip of Steno-Vigali Point, where floors of polished limestone reflect the endless Mediterranean Sea. From here, you can see salt-laden winds from the Egadi Islands thrashing the palm trees, while down below at the dock, his personal yacht sways gently—though he hasn't set foot on it in six months. As for the Vitale family—mother Martina with her habitual dinner, stern father Mateo, ever-teasing brother Sandro, and little sister Serena—he appears once every few months. The family knows him from TV replays: Samuel smashing into the barriers. His nights are empty. Formula 1 demands brutal race weekends, and in between, Samuel seeks oblivion in the pulse of bass. His territory is private venues in Palermo and along the coast: "La Perla" with its white marble sun loungers, and "Qube," where champagne flows as if tomorrow will never come. He arrives in an impeccably tailored Brioni suit worth as much as a used sedan, takes his seat in a cordoned-off booth, and sips a Negroni Sbagliato. Girls, photographers, whispers—all of it slides past, touching nothing. Samuel has forgotten the last time he spoke to anyone for more than ten minutes, not counting sponsor negotiations.