Chapter 260
KATYA POV
The doors to the dining hall opened and I stopped. The room was large—larger than I expected—even after everything I’d already seen in the house.
A long table stretched through the center, polished dark wood gleaming beneath the chandelier above it. Twenty seats lined its sides, high-backed and imposing.
Only three were not occupied. The space felt too open. Too exposed. Voices overlapped softly—low conversation, the clink of cutlery, the subtle movent of people who belonged here.
My pulse stuttered, my body reacting before my mind could reason with it. And then I noticed the head of the table.
In Roo’s place, the head was always empty. Untouched. A space that commanded silence even in absence.
Here, it wasn’t. Nonna sat there, straight-backed and composed, hands resting lightly on the table.
The seat to her right was empty. So was the one to her left. The symtry felt intentional, like a statent I didn’t yet understand.
My feet refused to move. The warmth of the hall didn’t reach . All I could think about was how many eyes could turn my way at any mont.
How many people I didn’t know. How easily I could do sothing wrong without aning to. This was too much. Too many people. Too many expectations stacked invisibly in the air.
Chiara, of course, had already bounced ahead. "We’re here!" she announced brightly, her voice cutting through the room like she owned it—which, judging by the way no one looked surprised, she probably did.
She slid into a chair with ease, already reaching for a bread roll. Then she turned and her smile faltered.
I was still by the door. Still frozen, one hand half-curled at my side, my body angled like I might bolt without even deciding to.
Chiara was on her feet instantly. "Hey—hey," she said softly, crossing the distance back to in a few quick steps.
She stopped just short of touching , reading the way she’d learned to. "Katya?" I swallowed, my throat tight. The room felt louder now, even though nothing had changed.
"I didn’t know there would be... this many people," I whispered. The words felt small, inadequate to explain the way my heart was pressing painfully against my ribs.
Chiara followed my gaze, then nodded like it all made sense. "Okay," she said gently. "That’s okay."
She shifted slightly, positioning herself just in front of —not blocking my view, just enough to shift it. "You don’t have to rush. No one’s staring. And even if they were, they’d survive."
That earned the faintest flicker of breath from . At the head of the table, Nonna had noticed. Her eyes lifted, sharp even in age, and landed on .
Delight crossed her face first—soft, genuine. Then it shifted, just slightly, into concern. She didn’t call out. Didn’t wave. Didn’t demand attention.
She simply watched , patient as ever, like she understood that approaching too quickly might make disappear.
Chiara leaned in closer. "See?" she murmured. "Nonna’s not upset. She’s just... checking on you." I nodded once, barely perceptible.
My hands were cold. My breathing uneven. But Chiara was there. And Nonna was watching—not with judgnt, but with sothing steadier.
I took one careful step forward then another. The hall didn’t swallow whole. And for now, that was enough.
Nonna fingers lifted slightly from the armrest of her chair and gestures to the chair at her right.
instantly the whole room changed. I felt it before I understood it.
The low murmur of conversation thinned. Forks paused. Glasses hovered just above the table.
One by one, heads turned—not abruptly, not rudely, but with a careful attention that made my skin prickle.
Eyes lifted to . My breath caught. I didn’t know why. All I knew was that the weight of their attention landed heavy on my shoulders, pressing down until my spine stiffened. It wasn’t hostility. It wasn’t warmth either.
Chiara felt it too. Her hand slid into mine this ti, no hesitation, her thumb brushing my knuckles in a grounding rhythm. "It’s okay," she whispered. "Just sit. You’re fine."
I nodded, though my pulse was loud in my ears. I stepped forward hyper-aware of all the eyes, the soft sound of my shoes against the floor, the faint rustle of fabric as I reached the chair. I could feel the gaze of the entire table tracking , following every inch of my progress.
My fingers touched the back of the chair. The wood was smooth. Polished. Familiar in the way things that don’t belong to you always are—too perfect, too assured of their place.
A strange hush fell as I pulled it back. I thought I’d imagined it. The tension. The sudden stillness. Surely I was just projecting my fear onto the room.
I lowered myself into the seat. The mont I sat, sothing invisible seed to lock into place.
A few people exchanged brief looks—quick, controlled, gone almost as soon as they appeared.
Elena’s hand stilled around her cutlery. Soone farther down the table cleared their throat softly, like they’d forgotten how to breathe for a mont.
I didn’t see any of it clearly. I was too busy trying not to shrink into myself. Had I done sothing wrong?
My chest tightened as I folded my hands in my lap, back straight, shoulders tense. I kept my eyes down, afraid that if I looked up, I’d see the mistake written plainly on everyone’s faces.
"Everyone," Nonna’s voice carried without effort, all eyes shifted from and I was relieved but it was short lived as. "This is Katya."
My na landed on the table like a marker being set down.
"She is my guest," Nonna continued, her tone warm but unmistakably firm. "And she will be staying in this house for as long as she wishes."
A pause.
"While she is here," Nonna said, her gaze sweeping the length of the table, "she is to be treated with the sa respect you give ."
The words were not a request. They were a rule. Sothing tight in my chest loosened—and then imdiately twisted again.
Respect like hers felt far too big for . Too heavy. I wanted to slide off the chair, tuck myself into so quiet corner where expectations couldn’t reach. But no one argued. No one questioned her.
A few heads dipped in acknowledgnt. A quiet, collective understanding settled over the room.
Nonna’s eyes returned to , softening. "Katya," she said gently, "you have nothing to fear here." I nodded, unsure what expression my face was wearing, only aware that my fingers had curled tighter into my lap.
Chiara had already taken her seat across from , on Nonna’s left. She t my eyes and gave an exaggerated little nod, like see? you survived. I almost smiled.
Nonna gestured lightly with her hand. "Now," she said, "you will all introduce yourselves properly."
My stomach dropped. One by one, people turned toward , not all at once this ti, thank God.
The attention ca in manageable pieces. Elena spoke first. She offered a polite smile, controlled and practiced. "I’m Elena," she said. "This is my husband, Lorenzo."
The man beside her inclined his head slightly. "It’s a pleasure, Katya. Head of security."" he said, his voice smooth, asured. There was authority there, quiet and solid.
"N-Nice to et you," I managed, my voice soft but steady enough. I forced myself to et his eyes, even if only briefly.
An older woman with silver hair pulled into a neat bun smiled next. Her eyes were kind, observant. "Vanessa," she said. "Head maid. And..." her smile deepened, "Elena and Chiara’s mother."
Sothing about that made my shoulders ease just a little. "It’s lovely to et you," I said, more sincerely this ti.
Around the table, others followed—nas, nods, polite greetings. Faces blurred together after a while. I answered each one the sa way, quietly, carefully.
"Nice to et you."
"Nice to et you."
"Nice to et you."
With every introduction, I shrank a little more into myself, my spine drawn tight, my hands fidgeting beneath the table. I was aware of how small I must have looked in that chair—how out of place.
And yet... no one mocked . No one dismissed . When the introductions ended, conversation slowly resud, though I could feel the undercurrent still there—curious, cautious, aware.
Chiara leaned forward, grinning. "See? You’re officially part of the chaos now." I shot her a look that was half panic, half disbelief. She just winked.
Nonna watched over the rim of her glass, a quiet satisfaction in her eyes.
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