I don’t even like her!
“Let’s go. I’m buying you a coffee,” I say and lead Quinn toward a café.
We spend the next hour talking about the upcoming race weekend in Monza. As much as I try to stay in the conversation, my head keeps drifting to Chiara. I know she’s working at the bookstore today, the same place Tim showed up in the past already. I think about sending her a text to see if she’s doing okay when my phone lights up from an incoming call. A call from Starling.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as soon as I pick up. Silence fills the call for one… two… three seconds too long. “Chiara,” I say firmly but gently.
“Someone broke into my flat,” she says, her voice steady, calm even. Mine, on the other hand, is shaky and angry as I reply.
“I’ll be there soon. Do not fucking go inside your apartment,” I say and hang up.
Quinn gives me a confused look, but I squeeze her shoulder once, apologise, and then run toward my flat. Luckily, I took my car keys when I went out earlier so I make my way directly into the parking garage. My heart is racing, and I have to remind myself everything will be fine. Chiara is alright. She called me, and I’m on my way to her now. This is fine, not at all what I was worried about. Fucking hell, this is exactly why I wanted her to move in with me. She would be safe here. There are security guards stationed everywhere because of the amount of celebrities that live in this building. I pay a shit ton of money for this level of protection, too, especially after one fan followed me to my old apartment almost eight years ago.
“You better not be doing anything stupid, Starling,” I mumble to myself as I drive onto the highway.Why does her flat have to be so fucking far away from mine?
By the time I get to her place, I’m still sweating, but for a completely different reason. I rush up the stairs to find her door open, probably because it doesn’t close anymore, and Chiara rummaging around inside. I’m going to strangle her.
“Why the fuck would you step foot inside this apartment without me here?” I ask as I rip her door fully open. She goes on high alert for a moment until she realises it’s me. Then, her shoulders sink in relief.
“Because I’m stronger, smarter, and faster than you when it comes to fighting,” she reminds me, but I’m not satisfied with that answer. I step toward her, my hands grabbing her shoulders.
“You can’t do shit like this, Chiara. If someone had been in here, you could have gotten hurt,” I say, but in one swift movement, she removes my hands from her, twists one of my arms behind my back, and then shoves me against the wall. Jesus fucking Christ.
“I can protect myself,” she grinds out, releasing me. I spin toward her, angry now because she’s being so bloody stubborn.
“If it was ten guys, you couldn’t have fucking protected yourself. Please tell me you’re not stupid enough to believe you could have,” I bark back, and she crosses her arms in front of her chest. Such a goddamn stubborn woman and yet, she’s devastatingly beautiful when she’s pissed at me.
“Of course not. I’m not a superhero from television, but this was fine. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and went through the flat to make sure no one was here. When I was sure there wasn’t, I started packing,” she says and attempts to walk away, but her words confuse me so much, I grab her arm.
“Packing for what?” I ask, my heart racing now. Her green eyes stare into mine before she rolls them.
“To live with you, obviously.” I let go of her and step back in surprise, a strange sort of excitement filling my chest. “Give me two minutes. Luckily, I already brought your mum all of Graham’s things so none of his stuff was taken or will be. They destroyed the lock when they broke in, so I have to get all of my things,” she says, her hands trembling a little as she adjusts her hair.
“What did they take?” I can’t prove it was Tim, but I know it was.
“My laptop, television, and polaroid camera. Some of my jewelry too, but that was all worthless anyway. I was wearing the gold necklace my Nonna gave me, just like the ring from my Nonno,” she says, pointing to both of them on her. “I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t think it was Tim. Mamma called me earlier and said they were having dinner tonight. Plus, he wouldn’t have taken my things,” Chiara adds, and I try to stop my hands from forming fists. I’d very much like to punch a fucking wall.
“How are you feeling?” I ask when she’s been staring at my chest with her head lost in thought for a minute too long.
“Like my flat was broken into, forcing me to move in with someone who doesn’t like me,” she replies and walks away. I follow behind her, but sensing she doesn’t want to continue this conversation, I merely help her pack.
An hour later, my trunk is not even half full, sending a wave of anger through me. Chiara has nothing. I have everything I could ever need, but she doesn’t even have a suitcase full of clothes without goddamn holes. She doesn’t have money for that, and after what she told me last time, I cannot keep myself from letting my heart flutter at the thought that I can take care of her now. Just because I owe her though, not because of anything else.
Benz is beyond happy when Starling walks through the front door with me. We carry her things into the guest room where she drops onto the bed with her bag, my dog jumping on it as well. I place her suitcase next to the closet in the corner. Chiara doesn’t speak but neither do I, not until Benz barks, and I realise it’s time to take her for a walk.
“Come, let’s go for a stroll,” I say and step out of the room. It takes her several minutes until she’s by my side.
I place the leash on Benz, who is wagging happily. Chiara looks lost in her thoughts, but I don’t force her to talk to me about her feelings. The evening sun isn’t nearly as warm as it should be around this time of year, and I notice the stubborn woman next to me shiver as a breeze wraps around us. I don’t think about what I do next. It just happens, and it frightens me. I unzip my sweater, slide it off my shoulders, and put it around hers because she sure as fuck wouldn’t take it from me if I gave her a choice.
“Thanks,” she whispers and slides her arms through the sleeves, pulling on the zipper until it’s all the way up.
“Can I ask you something?” I say after a few minutes have passed in silence.
“If you must,” she replies with the smallest hint of a smile playing on her face.
“Why did you stop fighting in competitions?” I remember when she was fourteen, she stopped partaking in them, but I never asked why.
“I started fighting because I was furious with the world for taking my father from me before I was even born. I stopped because I wasn’t angry anymore. Plus, fighting was never what I wanted to do. Art is my calling,” she says while I nod along to her words.
