At least the Chinese won't be able to copy this one
In Rome, Ferrari drew back the curtain on the Luce — its first fully electric vehicle — and found that even a legend must negotiate the distance between what it has always been and what the world is becoming. Priced at 550,000 euros and powered by four electric motors, the car arrived not only as a machine but as a philosophical statement, one that former president Luca Cordero di Montezemolo greeted with pointed irony and that purists received as a kind of mourning. Yet orders came in, deposits were wired, and CEO Benedetto Vigna stood firm: this was not the end of Ferrari's story, but a new chapter written in a different language.
- A single cutting remark from Ferrari's former president — that at least the Chinese couldn't copy the Luce — crystallized the anxiety of an entire fanbase watching a sacred brand cross an irreversible threshold.
- Across forums and social media, purists erupted, calling the angular four-door sedan unrecognizable, a machine that wore the prancing horse badge but had abandoned the combustion soul beneath it.
- Markets translated the doubt into numbers: shares fell more than eight percent in a single day, a rare and visible crack in the confidence investors had long placed in Ferrari's untouchable prestige.
- By Thursday the stock had partially recovered, and CEO Benedetto Vigna pointed to something more concrete than sentiment — bank transfers, deposit confirmations, and new customers entering the Ferrari world for the first time.
- The Luce's specifications — 1,035 horsepower, zero to 100 in 2.5 seconds, a 529-kilometer range — made clear this was not a compromise, but whether raw performance could substitute for the sound and soul of a gasoline engine remained the wound no number could close.
Ferrari unveiled the Luce in Rome on a Monday — a four-door, five-seat electric sedan priced at 550,000 euros — and the reaction split almost instantly between those who saw the future and those who felt a loss. Former president Luca Cordero di Montezemolo, who had long vowed Ferrari would never go fully electric, watched from the sidelines and offered a remark laced with irony: at least, he said, the Chinese wouldn't be able to copy this one. The comment landed harder than he may have intended.
The design unsettled loyalists. Too angular, too futuristic, too willing to leave behind the low-slung, high-revving identity that had defined the brand for seven decades. Purists flooded forums and social media with grief, insisting the car simply did not look like a Ferrari. The stock market echoed their doubt — shares fell more than eight percent on Tuesday before steadying and recovering nearly three percent by Thursday, a small but meaningful signal that belief in the underlying business had not entirely evaporated.
CEO Benedetto Vigna pushed back with both conviction and evidence. The Luce, he argued, was not a copy of anything already on the market — it was distinctly Ferrari in engineering, interior, and intent. More tellingly, he pointed to the orders: customers had shown up in Rome, wired deposits, and new buyers were entering the Ferrari ecosystem who had never considered a combustion model. The car's performance backed his case — four motors delivering 1,035 horsepower, a 2.5-second sprint to 100 kilometers per hour, a top speed of 310, and a range exceeding 529 kilometers.
What no specification could resolve was the deeper question the Luce had opened: whether Ferrari's mythology — built on engine sound, mechanical intimacy, and the particular fury of combustion — could survive translation into silence. Vigna framed the Luce not as a betrayal but as a continuation, a new chapter rather than a closing one. Whether that framing would hold, as the first deliveries approached and the debate showed no sign of quieting, remained genuinely open.
Ferrari unveiled its first fully electric car on a Monday in Rome, and the reaction was immediate and fractured. The Luce—a four-door, five-seat sedan priced at 550,000 euros—arrived with 1,600 customers in the room and order books opening the next day. But the car also arrived with a ghost in the room: Luca Cordero di Montezemolo, Ferrari's former president, who had spent years insisting the company would never build a fully electric vehicle. Now, watching from the sidelines, he offered a cutting remark about the new model. At least, he said with visible irony, the Chinese wouldn't be able to copy this one.
The comment stung because it was true in a way Montezemolo hadn't intended. The Luce looked like nothing Ferrari had made before—a radical departure from the low-slung, high-revving machines that had defined the brand for seven decades. Fans and automotive critics recoiled. The design felt wrong to them, too angular, too futuristic, too willing to abandon the gasoline engine that had always been Ferrari's beating heart. Some said it didn't look like a Ferrari at all. The backlash spread across forums and social media, a chorus of purists mourning what they saw as the death of something essential.
The stock market heard the doubt. On Tuesday, Ferrari's shares fell more than eight percent as investors absorbed the cold reception. The company's leadership had expected enthusiasm; instead, they got skepticism. By Wednesday the decline had steadied, and by Thursday the stock had climbed back up nearly three percent, suggesting that some traders at least believed in the underlying business. But the initial plunge was telling—a visible measure of how much uncertainty the Luce had introduced into the market's confidence in the brand.
Current CEO Benedetto Vigna moved quickly to defend the decision. He acknowledged the criticism but rejected the premise behind it. The Luce, he insisted, was not a copy of other electric vehicles already on the market. It was not a compromise or a concession to industry trends. He invited skeptics to actually see the car, to sit in it, to understand its engineering. The interior, the exterior, the performance—all of it, he argued, was distinctly Ferrari. More importantly, he said, the orders were coming in. Customers had shown up in Rome and wanted the car badly enough to wire deposits. New buyers were entering the Ferrari ecosystem, people who might never have considered a traditional gasoline model.
The Luce itself was engineered to perform. Four electric motors, one mounted at each wheel, delivered 1,035 horsepower. It accelerated from zero to 100 kilometers per hour in 2.5 seconds. The top speed reached 310 kilometers per hour. The battery offered a range of more than 529 kilometers on a single charge. These were not the numbers of a car designed to compromise—they were the specifications of a machine built to prove that electric power could deliver the acceleration and intensity that Ferrari customers had always demanded.
What remained unresolved was whether performance alone could heal the wound of tradition abandoned. Montezemolo's ironic comment had exposed a real tension at the heart of the company's pivot: Ferrari had built its mythology on the sound of a naturally aspirated engine, on the visceral connection between driver and machine that only a certain kind of combustion could provide. An electric car, no matter how fast, could never replicate that. Vigna seemed to understand this, which is why he kept returning to the idea that the Luce was not a betrayal but a continuation—a new chapter in the same story, not the end of it. Whether customers and critics would accept that framing remained the open question as the first deliveries approached.
Citas Notables
There is significant interest, including from new customers. We have already received bank transfers from clients who were present and want the car.— Benedetto Vigna, Ferrari CEO
If you see it and experience it, you will immediately understand that it was not copied and has nothing in common with other electric vehicles you have seen, in terms of interior, exterior, and performance.— Benedetto Vigna, Ferrari CEO
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did Montezemolo's comment land so hard? It seems like just a joke about Chinese competitors.
Because it wasn't really about China. He was saying the car was so un-Ferrari that even copying it wouldn't be worth doing. It was a way of admitting the thing he'd sworn would never happen had happened—and that it had changed the brand so fundamentally that it had lost something essential.
But Vigna says the orders are strong. Doesn't that suggest the market disagrees with the purists?
It does, but the stock market's initial eight-percent drop tells you something too. There's a split happening. Some customers want the future. Some investors are terrified of it. Both reactions are real.
Is the Luce actually a good car, or is it just fast?
The specs suggest it's genuinely engineered as a Ferrari—2.5 seconds to 100, 310 top speed, four independent motors. But that's not really the question people are asking. They're asking whether a silent car can ever feel like a Ferrari. That's not a spec sheet question.
So Vigna's defense—that people should just experience it—is he right?
He might be. But he's also asking people to let go of something they've loved for decades. That's not something a test drive always fixes.
What happens if the orders dry up after the initial wave?
Then Ferrari has a real problem. The brand survives on mythology as much as engineering. If the Luce doesn't sell, it becomes the car that proved the mythology was fragile all along.