đź“Ť ‘Configured on an iPad; delivered like a Rembrandt.’
The Vittori Turbio glides like a Savile Row assassin: Italianate curves, a twelve-cylinder grin, and manners that allow it to sip Negronis at 8,000 rpm.
Roughly fifty invitations, each fitted like a Mount Street tux—no off-the-peg millionaires here.
Think Riviera escapes, helicopter pads, and a garage that already answers to ‘Your Excellency’.
Fancy the full gossip, the specs, and the bit that made me swear?
◼︎ Dawn — Whispers from Turin to Belgravia: a coach-built coupé with old-money stance and new-money swagger. The sort of silhouette that makes valets stand straighter and paparazzi adjust their lenses.
◼︎ Early morning — Private studio preview: polished aluminium buck, carbon tub, jewel-like switchgear. The driving position? Like settling into a Connolly armchair that’s decided it would prefer to do 200mph before lunch.
◼︎ Lunchtime — Powertrain briefing: a naturally aspirated V12 that bellows in Italian, lightly electrified for manners, not sermons. Torque arrives as if by butler; revs climb like a Bond Street price tag.
◼︎ Afternoon — First blast along empty lanes: steering with the dry wit of an ex-racing instructor, brakes that sign NDAs with your eyeballs, ride quality smoother than Park Lane gossip.
◼︎ Dusk — Clientele assemble diamond-card pilots and discreet tycoons. Build slots traded like rare vintages; options catalogue reads like a Roman holiday planned by Hermès.
◼︎ Nightcap — Verdict: theatre without tantrum, craftsmanship without cosplay. The Turbio doesn’t shout; it raises an eyebrow—and somehow the room applauds.
đź“Ť ‘Hybrid assistance? More Jeeves than Greenpeace: a silent valet tidying the torque and smoothing your conscience while the V12 raids the cellar.’
