Chapter 21

CHIARA

W e stopped by the gallery first.

Galleria Gisela was bathed in the soft, warm, golden light of late morning, which streamed through the expansive windows.

Rio tracked beside me, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back as we entered the quiet show space.

Every time I entered the one place dedicated to the memory of my mother and her love for art, which had become mine, I got a sense of pride.

It was a space of elegance where modern lines met classic art, every detail thoughtfully curated by myself.

The space relaxed me, grounding me in a way nothing else could.

I noticed Rio glancing around, eyes sweeping over the exhibits, the subtle lighting highlighting pieces of my work that hung on the whitewashed walls.

‘Last time I was here, it was dark,’ he murmured, angering the space, peering closely at some of the modernist pieces I’d picked. ‘To see it in the light is impressive. You’ve done well, Chiara.’

He then wandered to one of my pieces, studying it close up.

It was a multicolored abstract painting of the female human form that was both haunting and captivating.

He leaned back and pointed to it. ‘Yours?’

I nodded.

‘It’s stunning and yet intriguing, thought-provoking,’ he drawled, surprising me. ‘Your exploration of the body in an energized sequence feels immediate and visceral. ’

I arched a brow at him, my heart tripping. ‘I thought you didn’t like modern art?’

He raked his eyes over me and then back to the canvas. ‘I do now.’

I don’t know why his approval meant so much, but it did.

It heated me as I smiled at him, and I strode toward my office, my face flushed.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been here, but it felt different today after everything we had been through, his validation all the more meaningful.

Reminding me that I was worthy, I was strong, and I was proud as fuck of everything I’d built on my own.

VALERIO

Chiara moved through the space she belonged in—calm, focused, on mission.

She gathered canvases, paints, brushes, and other craft supplies from her storeroom.

I helped her lug them to the back of my SUV.

‘How long have you taught these kids?’ I asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

‘A year now,’ she said, smiling. ‘Most of them have been through things you and I can’t imagine. Art helps them. It gives them a voice when vocabulary can’t.’

She paused, glancing up at me. ‘It saved me from myself.’

We carried the materials to the car, and I couldn’t shake the substance of her words as we drove to the class.

I’d seen the art in her gallery—the modernist pieces, abstract, full of emotion—and wondered if she was their creator.

‘Your work,’ I rasped, peeking over at her as she stared out the window. ‘Some of the paintings in your showcase are yours, aren’t they?’

She shifted in her seat, her expression tight. ‘ Si . Some of them.’

‘They’ve sold for thousands,’ I said, more to myself than her, still wrapping my head around it. ‘You’re incredible, Chiara.’

Her laugh was soft, yet with no joy in it. ‘I haven’t painted in a long time. The stress and strain of all that’s happened. It’s blocked me. I try to, but nothing comes. It’s frustrating.’

I was not clued to art and its creative process, but I sensed enough to see the pain behind her words.

Her expression was her lifeline, and now, that outlet for her mind was fraying. Despite everything, she still gave, teaching kids how to find their voice through art.

Impressive.

Driving through Naples was always an experience—equal parts chaos and charm.

The narrow streets bustled with life, scooters weaving through traffic with reckless abandon, pedestrians darting out between cars like it was second nature.

The air was thick with the scent of espresso and diesel, and the faintest hint of the sea lingered in the distance. The city’s rhythm intensified as we approached Piazza Garibaldi.

The square was immense, sprawling in all directions, anchored by the massive central railway station.

It was a hub of activity, the heart of Naples’ transport system, with waves of buses and trains coming and going. Rows of shops surrounded it, some selling electronics and others vending souvenirs to tourists and residents alike.

Hotels, bars, and restaurants lined the edges, their signs glowing even in the early light.

On the side streets, food and clothes markets spilled into the pavement.

Here, vendors, some locals, and migrants hawked their goods, from pirated DVDs to knockoff sunglasses and mobile phone cases. The aroma of frying street fare mixed with the warm scent of pastries from nearby cafes.

The buzz of the city here was different—heavier, more urgent, and full of life.

As we pulled up to the curb, I glanced at Chiara. She gazed at the avenues with a soft smile, her eyes lighting up.

Something about this place brought her to life. I took a mental picture of her beauty, loving how lit up she was from within.

‘This is it?’ I asked, parking the car.

It didn’t seem like the safest neighborhood, and I flicked my eyes around, checking for weak points.

She shook her head. ‘Relax, Rio. I’ve been here often, and the neighborhood looks out for me and mine. The school’s down that alleyway,’ she said, pointing to a narrow side street where a few children were gathered, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

I followed her through the crowds, the noise of the piazza fading as we turned into the quieter alley.

The school was an unassuming building—modest and tucked away behind the market’s chaos.

A little oasis amid the disorder.

Inside, the small hall was half-filled with kids—Pakistani, Chinese, Bangladeshi, Nigerian—an array of faces from every corner of the world.

The moment Chiara walked through the door, they lit up. It was like watching the sun break through clouds.

The youngsters swarmed her, excited voices filling the room as they reached for her. Their little hands pulled at her shirt, and they asked questions all at once.

‘ Signora Chiara, look what I made!’ A little girl with dark braids held up a drawing, her eyes glittering with pride.

‘Can we paint today, Signora ?’ another boy asked, tugging at her sleeve, while a few others danced around her, giggling and calling her name.

She tousled heads and gave out hugs. Later that day, she promised each kid who finished an artwork an ottimo dolce , a delicious hazelnut pastry.

We had bags of them, and their little bodies wriggled with delightful anticipation.

The kids flocked to her, their faces lighting up as she handed out paints and brushes and guided them with gentle patience.

She knelt, getting close and intimate, and asked them questions about their drawings, families, and what mattered to them.

My chest tightened.

I’d pegged her as passionate and resilient, but this was something else.

This was Chiara, as I’d never imagined her.

The kids adored her. That much was obvious.

As they swarmed around her, I realized why.

She provided them with caring inclusion they might not have had otherwise—stability, warmth, and hope. I had never witnessed this side of her—this warm, unassuming love that radiated out of her.

I viewed her transform and smile with motherly tenderness, and my soul lurched momentarily, envisioning her with a dark-haired baby with pale blue eyes like mine.

Fotto !

She caught my eye across the room, her lips softening. It seemed she could see right through me for a moment, like she’d caught on to what I was thinking.

‘You didn’t expect this, did you?’ she asked, her voice teasing.

I shook my head, still trying to wrap my mind around it. ‘No. I didn’t.’

‘This is why I do it,’ she said, returning to the kids. ‘They love this. They need art. It gives them a way to express what they can’t say. Their expression means so much to me, too. They are my second chance, a way I can give back what I have been given.’

Seeing how she poured herself into them warmed me.

I, too, got pulled into the class. I sat on the floor with the children and drew silly wriggles on paper.

One gorgeous little child named Matty stood by me, his tousled head bent next to mine as we expressed ourselves. My art was way more clumsy than his.

‘You’ve had some practice, eh?’ I rasped.

He grinned at me, throwing me a coy look as he assessed my crude sketch and found it lacking.

Chiara knelt beside us, and our eyes locked.

We shared an intense gaze, and she glanced away, her skin pinking under her honeyed tone. Then, she turned to the kids, encouraging, supporting, and giving them space to express their creativity.

It was like watching a dancer perform her routine—with grace in each action and a deep understanding of her craft.

I helped guide the children at Chiara’s behest for the next few hours. I handed them our fresh paper canvases, encouraged their brushstrokes, showed them how to mix colors and use the brushes, and soothed their missteps.

They listened to her and hung on to her every word as if she were the most important person in the world to them. And maybe she was.

When the class ended, she handed out pastries, and the kids filtered out, tunics covered in paint, hands, cheeks dusted in powdered sugar, eyes shining, voices high with happiness.

Chiara turned to me with a hint of exhaustion and pride in her eyes.

‘I see you, belleza ,’ I rasped.

‘How do you see me?’ she pushed, her voice husky.

I stuck my tongue in my cheek, searching for the right words. ‘You’re not only a fighter or a survivor. You’re a healer. A nurturer. I witnessed so much love in how you worked with these kids.’

Her eyes dropped, and a bashful twist played on her lips. ‘ Grazie .’

‘Shy cara ?’ I teased, lifting her chin to gaze up at me.

‘A little.’

‘Don’t be. This is noble work, woman.’

We locked eyes for a long moment, emotion stirring deep inside me .

‘Let’s pack up,’ she murmured, moving away from me and the tight, righteous tension ratcheting between us.

She shot me a soft smile as we packed up, and my chest tightened.

It hit me then.

Chiara wasn’t just someone I wanted to protect.

She was the soul light I was beginning to need, the heady oxygen in my lungs.

My craving for her was scary as fuck.

I reached for her hand when the last box of supplies was in my SUV trunk.

She glanced up, surprised, but didn’t pull away.

‘I didn’t know you had all of this in you,’ I murmured, my thumb brushing over her knuckles. ‘The way you connect with those kids gives them hope. It’s incredible, Chiara. You’re remarkable.’

She shook her head, her eyes glistening. ‘I’m not. I’m only doing what I can. What I wish someone had done for me.’

‘Don’t sell yourself short.’

I held her gaze, wanting her to feel the truth in my words. ‘You’ve been through hell, and you’ve come out stronger. You’re still standing, still fighting. That’s not something everyone can do.’

For a long moment, she studied me like she was trying to decide whether to believe my claims.

Then, she nodded, her lips curving into a slight, genuine smile.

We packed up and lugged materials back to the gallery in the town center, where Chiara worked for a while in her office.

The gallery was stunning, bathed in soft afternoon light that filtered through the spacious windows.

Chiara’s pieces perched on the walls, each an extension of her heart, talent, and soul. The thought of her tireless efforts to create something beautiful in an ugly world made me adore her more, but it also made me hyper-protective.

I also caught up on my emails.

We then took a late walk into the heart of Naples to Santa Lucia, where we strolled along the promenade with stunning views of the Mediterranean.

We ended up eating close to the Castel dell’Ovo, in a small, intimate cafe by the water specializing in seafood.

It was close to midnight before we got to her home. I lifted her into my arms the second we’d walked in the front door and carried her to bed.

I poured my strokes and soul into cherishing her, expressing my growing craving for her.

Where she now lay under me, body writhing as my lips drank from her core, lashing her lit with my tongue, two fingers deep in her pussy.

‘Rio,’ she moaned. ‘I don’t know how much more I can take.’

She was going to take it all.

She was about to get nasty.

I made sure of that, lapping long and hard, stiffening my glossa to flick it across her heated nub.

She jolted, her hands clutching the back of my head as I lost myself in pleasure.

My cock throbbed and seeped, and one time I reached for it to choke it back from the brink of cumming.

Simply by tasting, scenting her.

Fotto! She was heaven.

She began to fuck my tongue as her ecstasy drew closer.

I stretched a hand for her tits and rolled one pointed tip, pinching it with a quick twist.

She blew, pelvis grinding on my mouth, arms splayed as she writhed through her orgasm.

Even before she was done, I powered over her heaving limbs and slid inside her.

‘ Bella ,’ I groaned, loving how wet, tight, and hot she was.

How ready for me, how she rippled as she encircled me.

How she purred into my nape, nipped my ear, stroked my ass, her fingers reaching deep between my thighs, gliding over my swollen balls.

Our rocket got off the ground in spectacular style as I pumped with intense, long deep sweeps until I, too, came in a storm of utter bliss, thrusting into her core as my cock blew.

It took a few more pumps before I calmed, the heat flaring with every kiss on our lips.

Later, we lay in each other’s arms, my face buried in her nape, marveling at her.

‘You’re incredible. You’re transforming me, woman, into an addict for your love.’

Silence fell as she traced the ink on my chest to my throat.

‘I was once an addict,’ she whispered.

My stomach lurched. ‘ Dimmi ,’ I invited, guessing what she was about to share.

She knifed up and turned her arm to show me old scars dotted on her skin.

‘You’ve probably seen these already,’ she whispered, her eyes flicking with nervousness to mine.

I stuck a tongue in my cheek, wondering how much to reveal.

‘I have,’ I admitted.

She sighed, her fingers running along my thigh. ‘When I was a junkie, when I was using, I didn’t care for anything—no outlet, no escape—just the next hit. It never took the grief away.

Rehab was necessary to rid me of the toxins, but it didn’t reach my heart; I was still left raw, with all my internal wounds seeping, with no clue how to heal.’

‘Baby,’ I growled, reaching for her face.

She turned her face into my palm.

‘Art saved me, Rio,’ she said, her utterance quiet, almost as if she was confessing a shadowed secret.

I stilled. Something in her voice changed. Darkened. ‘Saved you how?’

‘When I was at my lowest and hopeless, this was the only thing that kept me going. Creating. Painting. It gave me a way to process everything I’d been through. My craft allowed me to deal with all of the darkness and despair. It still does.’

I didn’t know what to say. Listening to her admit her truth—hearing the depth of what she’d been through—shook something loose inside me.

I’d first-hand witnessed her addiction and was still conflicted about it all, how I thought about the old Chiara.

My feelings for her transformed soul were much different.

Fuck, I was falling for her, yet divided on how to bridge the gap between the past and present.

A knot tightened in my throat, a strange, unfamiliar ache I couldn’t shake.

‘I didn’t know about the art and its healing for you,’ I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

She gave me a small, sad smile. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know. But I’m glad you’re here.’

I was, too. At that moment, I realized how much she’d overcome—and the degree of her inner depth and maturity existed in her, far more than I had ever imagined.

It shook me, shifted my perceptions of her, and challenged any notions of walking away from her as planned, free of entanglement.

Not when she had a line straight to my heart.

Cazzo!

It’d probably all go to shit anyway, and she’d be the one striding out my life when she found out who I was.