Ferrari’s first electric vehicle in its storied history is called the Luce, and it wasn’t designed by an Italian. The car that’s supposed to embody the future of Italy’s most recognizable brand bears the signature of Sir Jony Ive, the London-born designer who built his legend crafting the iPhone, and his LoveFrom collective. The interior wasn’t unveiled at Ferrari’s historic Maranello headquarters, but in San Francisco. The prancing horse—emblem of Italian industrial excellence worldwide—has been handed over to an aesthetic language born in Cupertino.
A Ferrari Designed by a Brit and Unveiled in San Francisco
Ive has never designed a car before. His signature style belongs to consumer electronics: polished surfaces, minimalism, machined aluminum. Maranello’s internal design studio, led by Italian Flavio Manzoni, was relegated to a supporting role. The result, presented in Rome before Italy’s president, is a five-seat sedan that the internet immediately dubbed “Ferrari’s first ugly car ever,” comparing it to a household appliance, a Xiaomi device, or an “iPad on wheels.”
The political implications, however, run deeper than aesthetics. A brand that for eighty years has meant “Italy” to the world has entrusted its epochal transformation to a foreign designer and celebrated its baptism across the Atlantic. This isn’t a styling detail—it’s a declaration of allegiance.
Why Ferrari’s Electric Luce Divides Opinion
The backlash extends beyond social media outrage. Luca Cordero di Montezemolo, who led Ferrari during its golden years, dismissed the project with few words, warning of destroying a myth and suggesting they at least remove the badge. Markets responded similarly: the day after the presentation, Ferrari stock plunged 6.6% to €289, erasing billions in market capitalization.
Maranello defends the choice as industrial courage. But the widespread suspicion among enthusiasts and analysts points elsewhere: that the Luce wasn’t conceived for those who made Ferrari great, but for new customers to be captured in Silicon Valley and especially China—where the vast majority of global electric vehicle sales are concentrated.
While the Prancing Horse Gallops to California, Italian Factories Close
The Luce affair isn’t isolated—it’s the culmination of a broader process. In 2025, Italian plants belonging to Stellantis—the other major entity controlled by the Elkann family through their Exor holding company—produced just 213,706 automobiles, down 24.5% from the previous year. You’d have to go back to the post-war period to find such low numbers. Nearly half of the Italian workforce ended up on government-funded furlough schemes or solidarity contracts.
The Melfi plant lost 47% of production, Cassino hit historic lows, and Pomigliano survives only thanks to the Panda model. The Italian state—meaning the national community—pays for social safety nets while profits flow elsewhere. It’s the classic playbook: socialize losses, privatize and export profits.
Tax Flight as Corporate Strategy
Those “elsewhere” destinations systematically lead beyond Italy’s borders. Exor, the family’s financial stronghold, maintains tax residency in the Netherlands. CNH Industrial has Dutch legal headquarters and UK tax domicile. Comau, the Turin-based robotics firm, was sold to an American fund. The recurring word for years has been the same: delocalization—of plants, capital, even residences.
Completing this picture is the Agnelli inheritance saga. The Elkann siblings paid over €175 million to Italy’s tax authority to settle disputes over Marella Agnelli’s estate, whose fictitious Swiss residency Turin prosecutors had challenged. The payment, however, didn’t close the criminal front: at the end of 2025, a judge ordered mandatory indictment, reopening the path to trial. The crux remains “Dicembre,” the holding company through which control of the entire empire flows.
The Bill for a Century of Loyalty
For over a century, this dynasty collected a nation’s loyalty: workers, suppliers, supply chains, public money poured in repeatedly to save the symbolic company. In return, Italy has gone from protagonist to bit player in decisions that concern it, made elsewhere for others.
The Luce, ultimately, is the perfect emblem of this trajectory. An Italian car in name only, designed by a foreigner, conceived for distant markets, built on an identity that dissolves before our eyes. This isn’t the future uprooting tradition—it’s a model of stateless capitalism that, having exhausted its bond with the land that generated it, now sells off even its last relic.
