Chapter 2 Untitled Chapter

[KIRA]

The Jaguar glides through narrow Venetian streets, the late afternoon sun glinting off the canals. My hands press against the leather seat, restless, my thoughts a tangle of anticipation and fear.

Italy is beautiful, alive, but beauty does nothing for a girl whose father sent her here to die. Ryat Vitale waits somewhere in this country. One wrong move, and it’s over.

Chiara scrolls through her phone, occasionally glancing at me in the rearview mirror. She’s calm, cheerful even, completely oblivious to the storm that follows me across the ocean.

She looks excited to be home after being forced to study in New York for almost ten years.

“You’ll like my brother,” she says suddenly. “When he’s not all moody and in mafia mode.”

“Your brother is in the Mafia?” I ask, surprised. Chiara looks nothing like a Mafia princess. If anything, she's the most down to earth person I know.

“Yeah,” she nods. “He's a Don actually. Guess that's what makes him so controlling and cold.” She shrugs, her attention going back to her phone.

“I never would have guessed your family had ties with the Mafia. “

She shrugs again. “You couldn't have. I didn't have all the bodyguards and all the other trash Mafia princesses are fond of.”

I shake my head slowly. Not all Mafia princesses. I for example didn't live a life better than our servants. Apart from the family name, nothing proves I'm a Hernandez.

“But he's nice,” she continues. “When he's here, that is.”

I lift a brow. “When he’s here?”

She shrugs. “He’s often away on business. Rarely in town. But don’t worry, you’ll meet him soon enough.”

Good. That means no one is scrutinizing me yet. One less obstacle before I face Ryat, or whatever else waits in Italy.

But then, if Chiara's brother is a Don then maybe I can actually get some information about Ryat.

Great. Things finally seem to be falling into place.

The car slows and stops in front of a sprawling mansion, tucked behind high hedges and wrought-iron gates. Stone walls gleam under the sunlight, manicured gardens stretching endlessly.

Chiara gasps and nearly leaps out of the car. “I can’t believe we’re finally here!” she exclaims. “Martina!”

A petite woman in a crisp uniform emerges from the house, hands outstretched, eyes sparkling with warmth. She is radiant, approachable, but her gaze scans everything like a hawk.

“Chiara, mia cara! You’re home!” Martina says, rushing forward to hug her. “It feels like forever!”

Chiara wraps her arms around her, laughing. “Martina! I missed you so much. Can't believe Ryat kept me away for so long. That Asshole.”

I hang back, suitcase in hand, watching the exchange. Martina radiates kindness, and Chiara’s joy is infectious. For a moment, it’s easy to forget why I’m really here.

Martina smiles at me. “And you must be Kira. Chiara told me a lot about you. She won't stop talking about her best friend whenever we are talking on the phone.”

“Martina!” Chiara whines and I laugh.

“I’m Kira,” I say

Martina’s gaze is soft but assessing. “It’s a pleasure. You should feel at home.”

Chiara bounces on her heels. “Martina, you have no idea how glad I am to see you! Everything feels like it’s falling into place now.” Her joy is contagious. I have never been this excited about returning to New York after a trip.

I guess she doesn't have to live under the judgmental eyes of a father, or with the constant reminder that you are nothing.

I follow them into the house, suitcase in tow. The halls are long, echoing, spotless. The air smells faintly of citrus and roses. Martina chats cheerfully with Chiara, pointing out little details, teasing her in ways that make Chiara giggle.

They stop in front of a room. Large, elegant, with tall windows overlooking the gardens. It's dressed in blue, almost exactly like the one I had at home.

'Chiara, what…” I trail off admiring the space.

“I told you she would love it,” Martina says and Chiara smiles.

She moves to me and takes my free hand in hers. “I had Martina arrange your room exactly the way you did in New York. I know Italy is new to you, and I just want you to feel comfortable.”

Tears blur my vision, and I hug her before she can see them.

“Thanks, Ara.”

“Okay,” she says, pulling away. “No sad faces. Get dressed, have a good rest. We're going out by seven.”

She turns around and leaves before I have the chance to argue.

I set my suitcase in a corner, and lie on the bed, the soft sheets pulling me into a rare moment of calm. The room smells faintly of fresh linen and Martina’s meticulous cleaning. For a few minutes, I let myself breathe, trying to push away the anxiety gnawing at my stomach.

After a while, I rise and unpack my things, carefully folding my clothes and placing them in the wardrobe.

Chiara bursts into the room, practically vibrating with excitement. “Kira, you are not ready! We’re going out tonight. An exclusive club, no tourists, no nonsense. You need to see Italy after dark!”

I arch an eyebrow, smirking. “I’m exhausted. I don't think I want to go anywhere.”

“Nonsense,” she says, moving to my closet and searching through it. “This is our only chance to actually enjoy the city. School starts in a week.”

She turns to me, holding up a red dress. I reluctantly slip into it, knowing she won't let it drop till I agree.

I let her drag me downstairs, ignoring the soft protests escaping my lips. Outside, a sleek black car waits. The city hums with lights, music, and life. Italy at night is intoxicating, seductive, almost dangerous, the perfect mask for the danger I carry in my mind.

The club is unlike anything I’ve seen. Velvet curtains, dim golden lights, and the murmur of high-class voices. Chiara navigates through the crowd, her confidence effortless, and I follow, feeling like a shadow in her glow.

“Come on!” she whispers, tugging me toward the dance floor. “Just one song!”

I shake my head. “I’ll pass. Go ahead.”

Her lips purse, but she shrugs, letting me retreat to a velvet sofa at the side. A waiter slides an unfamiliar wine toward me. The label is in Italian, a swirl of gold and deep red. I pick up the glass, the scent sweet and strange.

I sip carefully, letting the warmth spread through me. The music throbs through the floor, people moving as one, their laughter echoing. I watch Chiara dancing, carefree and alive, the contrast to my tense, guarded state almost unbearable.

I take another sip of the wine, letting my mind drift. Ryat Vitale. The name is a shadow that follows me even here, in the lights and laughter. My father’s words echo in my mind.

“Only then will you be one of us.”

Kill him. Survive. Prove yourself.

The wine blurs the edges of the world, the hum of the club fading into a dull thrum. I close my eyes, trying to let the alcohol quiet the fear and doubt gnawing at me. One step closer to Ryat. One step cl

oser to death, or victory.

“You shouldn’t get drunk on a bottle whose contents you have no idea of.”