Chapter 33 Chapter 33
Chapter 33
Nina’s POV
The terrace door clicked shut behind me with the softest finality. I did not look back. My bare feet slapped against the cool marble as I hurried down the narrow service stairs Valentino had pointed out earlier, the diamond waist chain clutched so tightly in my fist that the stones left red crescents in my palm.
Every step echoed too loud in the empty corridor. My heart slammed against my ribs like it wanted to break free first.
I pushed through a metal door marked “Staff Only” and stepped into the blinding daylight of a side alley. The city hit me all at once—horns blaring, scooters zipping past, voices overlapping in rapid Italian I could not understand.
Tourists laughed in clusters. Waiters shouted orders from open café doors. The air smelled of espresso, exhaust, and fresh rain on warm stone.
Freedom. Real, messy, overwhelming freedom.
I tucked the chain into the waistband of my jeans under my black top and started walking. Fast. Not running draws eyes—but moving with purpose, head down, shoulders hunched like any other local in a hurry.
The streets twisted into narrower lanes, lined with ochre buildings and wrought-iron balconies dripping with geraniums. I kept my eyes on the signs, searching for the universal pawnbroker symbols: three golden balls, or the word “pegno” that I had glimpsed once in a travel guide years ago.
The first shop I found had bars on the windows and a faded sign that read “Compro Oro.” I stepped inside.
The bell jingled. A middle-aged man with a thick mustache looked up from behind a glass counter filled with watches and rings.
I pulled the chain out and laid it on the velvet pad. Diamonds caught the fluorescent light, flashing red and green from the rubies and emeralds woven through them.
He leaned forward, lifted it with thick fingers, turned it over. Squinted through a loupe. Then he snorted.
“Falso,” he said, shaking his head. “Fake.”
I stared. “No. It’s real. Valentino X. High-end.”
He laughed, short and mean. “Valentino X? You think I don’t know fake stones when I see them? Twelve euro. Take it or leave.”
“Twelve dollars?” My voice cracked. “It’s worth thousands.”
He shrugged. “Then go sell it to your rich boyfriend. Next.”
I snatched the chain back. Heat flooded my face. “You’re a thief.”
He pointed to the door. “Out. Before I call police.”
I left before he could finish the sentence.
The sky had darkened while I was inside. Fat raindrops began to fall, slow at first, then faster, drumming against awnings and splashing onto cobblestones.
Within minutes the streets emptied. Tourists ducked under café umbrellas. Locals raised newspapers over their heads and hurried home.
I had no umbrella. No coat. Just the thin black top and jeans that were already clinging to my skin. Rain soaked through in seconds. Cold water ran down my neck, between my shoulder blades, plastered my hair to my face. My bare feet slipped on wet stone.
I needed shelter. I needed money. I needed to think.
I turned down a quieter street that sloped toward the river. An old stone bridge arched over the water, its underside dark and dry. I ducked beneath it, pressing my back against the rough masonry. The rain roared above me like a waterfall.
For a moment I could breathe.
Then I heard it.
Low moans. Wet slaps of skin. Grunts. A woman’s sharp cry.
Two homeless people—blankets tangled around them, cardboard mattress soaked through—were fucking right there in the shadows, no more than ten feet away.
The man’s back was to me, hips pumping. The woman’s legs wrapped around him, nails digging into his shoulders. They did not notice me. Or if they did, they did not care.
My stomach lurched. I backed away, bile rising in my throat. The rain outside felt safer than this.
I ran back into the downpour.
Water streamed into my eyes. My teeth chattered. The city blurred around me—neon signs flickering through sheets of rain, headlights cutting long golden streaks across puddles.
I kept moving, one foot in front of the other, scanning for any shop with lights still on. A jeweler’s window glowed ahead. “Oreficeria” in gold letters. Open.
I pushed the door. A bell rang. Warm air wrapped around me like a blanket. The shop smelled of polish and old wood. A woman behind the counter—fiftyish, elegant, silver hair in a neat chignon—looked up from her ledger.
I stepped forward, dripping everywhere. Water pooled at my feet. I held out the chain with shaking hands.
“Please,” I said. “I need to sell this. Just enough for one night in a hotel. You can have one stone if you want.”
She stared at me—wet hair, stained clothes, bare feet, bruised lip still swollen from yesterday. Her eyes flicked to the chain. Then back to my face.
She took it carefully. Turned it over. Held it to the light.
Her expression did not change.
Then she set it down and said something in Italian. Sharp. Fast.
I shook my head. “English. Please. I don’t understand.”
She picked up the phone.
I realized too late.
The door behind the counter opened. A man in a suit—security, maybe—stepped out.
The woman pointed at me. “Ladra,” she said. Thief.
“No,” I whispered. “No, wait—”
Too late.
She started shouting. “Polizia! Polizia! Ladra! Fuori!”
The security guard moved toward me.
I backed up. My heel hit the doorframe. Rain lashed my back as I stumbled out into the street.
The woman kept screaming. “Thief! Trash! Get her out!”
People turned. Phones lifted. Rain blurred everything.
I ran.
Bare feet slapping through puddles. Lungs burning. The chain still clutched in my fist like the last piece of armor I had left.
I did not know where I was going.
I only knew I could not stop.
Not yet.