Chapter 264
KATYA POV
The front doors of the mansion opened with a soft echo, sunlight spilling across the stone steps like it had been waiting for us.
I hesitated instinctively at the threshold, my hand hovering near my side, the yellow skirt stirring gently around my thighs as a light breeze brushed past.
Outside felt bigger sohow. Louder. Less forgiving. Chiara, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate at all. The mont her feet hit the steps, she lit up.
"Co on!" she called over her shoulder, already jogging across the wide driveway. I followed, slower, my sandals tapping softly against the stone as my gaze lifted and landed on the sleek black car parked near the entrance.
It was low and glossy, sunlight glinting off the surface like it was proud of itself. Not one of the usual cars that ca and went from the mansion.
This one felt... personal. Chiara reached it first and practically bounced beside it, patting the hood affectionately. "Isn’t she beautiful?"
I stopped a few steps away, unsure. "It’s... yours?" She bead. "Nonna bought it for . Twenty-first birthday gift." She grinned wider, almost smug. "This year."
My eyes widened before I could stop myself. "She did?"
"Mm-hmm." Chiara leaned back against the door, arms crossed. "Nonna is the best and I admit it."
I smiled, small but genuine. "She really is." Chiara opened the passenger door and gestured dramatically. "Your chariot awaits."
I stepped closer, peering inside. The interior was dark and clean, leather seats smooth and untouched, like the car was still getting used to being driven.
As I slid into the seat, a strange nervousness curled in my stomach. Chiara rounded the car quickly and dropped into the driver’s seat, tossing her bag into the back like she’d done this a thousand tis.
She shut the door and reached for the ignition. My breath caught. "W-wait," I blurted, fingers gripping the edge of the seat. "Who’s... who’s driving?"
Chiara paused, then turned slowly to look at . Her expression flickered, confusion first, then realization. And then amusent.
", of course" I stared at her. "You?"
"Yes?" she dragged out, eyebrow lifting. "You’re—" I stopped myself, heat rushing to my face. "I just... I didn’t know."
She tilted her head. "Didn’t know what?"
"That—" I hesitated, words tangling. "That you could."
Chiara burst out laughing. Not mocking. Just surprised and bright. "Katya. I’ve been driving since I was seventeen—don’t inform nonna."
My heart was still racing. "I’ve just... I’ve never seen a lady drive before."
The laughter died instantly. Chiara didn’t get offended. She didn’t tease. She just looked at —really looked—and sothing in her expression softened.
"Oh," she said quietly. Then, gently, "You’re gonna see a lot of new things with ." She turned the key. The engine humd to life, smooth and controlled, not loud or aggressive.
I jumped slightly anyway. Chiara smirked. "Relax. I won’t crash. Probably."
"Probably?" I squeaked.
She laughed again, easing the car out of the driveway with practiced ease. "I’m kidding. Mostly." As the mansion began to shrink behind us, my fingers slowly loosened their grip on the seat.
Fear was still there. But beneath it... curiosity stirred. And maybe—just maybe—a tiny spark of excitent too.
The gates slid open smoothly, and Chiara didn’t slow as we rolled onto the road.
At first, she drove calmly—one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against it as music played softly from the speakers.
Sothing upbeat and unfamiliar. Italian, maybe. The city stretched ahead of us, narrow streets unfolding like veins, sunlight bouncing off stone buildings and shop windows.
I watched everything through the windshield, taking it in quietly. That calm lasted exactly three minutes.
"Are you blind?" Chiara snapped suddenly, hitting the brakes just enough to make my body jolt forward. "Madonna santa—use your indicator!"
My hands flew to the seat again. "Chiara—"
"I’m not talking to you," she said quickly, waving one hand out the window as a scooter zipped past far too close. "I’m talking to that motherfucker" The scooter rider shouted sothing back in rapid Italian.
Chiara leaned forward. "Oh, no, don’t wave at like that! Vai piano, idiota!"
I stared at her, wide-eyed. She glanced at and grinned. "Sorry. Ro brings out the worst in ."
Another car cut in front of us without warning. "For fuck’s sake!" she groaned, honking sharply. "Everyone here drives like they’re late to their own funeral."
Despite myself, a small laugh slipped out of my chest—soft and surprised. Chiara noticed instantly.
"Oh?" she said, delighted. "Was that a laugh?"
"I—" I shook my head, embarrassed. "You’re just... very loud."
"Thank you," she replied proudly. "I’ve been cultivating that." She swerved smoothly around a slow-moving van, muttering, "Move. Move. MOVE—why are you like this?"
The city rushed by outside—balconies overflowing with flowers, laundry lines strung between buildings, cafés already busy with people laughing, talking, living.
I felt oddly suspended between fear and wonder. After a while, the tension eased. My shoulders relaxed.
I stopped bracing for disaster at every turn. Chiara drove like she lived—fast, confident, unapologetic—and sohow, the world didn’t end.
Eventually, she slowed, signaling before pulling into a narrow street lined with small shops. She parked neatly in front of a corner café, killed the engine, and sat back with a satisfied sigh.
"Voilà," she announced. "Breakfast." I blinked, realizing my heart was no longer racing. We stepped out of the car together, the warmth of the morning wrapping around us instantly.
The café sat tucked between two old buildings, its windows open wide, white curtains fluttering gently in the breeze.
Small round tables spilled out onto the sidewalk, occupied by locals sipping coffee, reading newspapers, arguing animatedly with their hands.
The air slled like roasted beans, fresh bread, and sothing sweet—vanilla, maybe. As soon as I stepped inside, sothing inside shifted.
The café was cozy and alive. Wooden counters worn smooth with age, shelves lined with glass jars and stacked cups.
A bell chid softly as the door closed behind us. The espresso machine hissed and stead, rhythmic and familiar.
My chest tightened—not painfully, but achingly warm. I’d worked in a place like this once.
Back then, the café had been small and imperfect, tucked away on a street where no one asked questions.
I rembered tying my apron each morning with Aria and Frank bearing down my neck with argunts.
I rember taking comfort in the routine, the way I learned people’s orders by heart. For a while... I’d been happy there.
Free. The mory brushed against gently, not like a wound, but like a photograph pulled from a drawer you’d forgotten existed.
"You okay?" Chiara asked quietly, noticing my stillness. I nodded slowly. "I used to work in a café," I admitted. She smiled brightly at . Not pressuring in telling her about my past.
She moved toward the counter, already greeting the barista like an old friend, while I lingered a mont longer, letting the sounds and slls settle into .
Italy is great. I smiled, sitting down next to Chiara.
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