Chapter 34 Chapter 34
Chapter 34
Nina’s POV
Rain hammered the cobblestones like fists. My lungs screamed with every breath, but I kept running. The hotel’s yellow lights shrank behind me, swallowed by the storm.
My bare feet slapped through freezing puddles, toes numb, heels raw from the rough stone.
The diamond waist chain was gone—ripped from my hand by that sneering receptionist—and with it went my last fragile hope of money, a room, a plan. All I had left was motion. Stop, and the city would crush me.
I darted down a narrow alley flanked by tall shuttered buildings. Water cascaded off rooftops in silver sheets, drenching me again and again. My black top clung like wet paint, outlining every rib, every bruise. Hair plastered across my eyes. I shoved it back with a trembling hand and kept going.
Behind me, heavy footsteps pounded closer. Voices shouted in Italian—sharp, commanding. I risked a glance over my shoulder.
Two policemen lumbered after me, bellies straining against dark uniforms, black sticks swinging in their fists. Rain glistened on their peaked caps.
One blew a whistle; the shrill sound cut through the downpour like a blade.
Panic surged fresh and hot. I pushed harder, legs burning. The street sloped downward toward the river. My foot caught on an uneven stone. I stumbled forward, arms windmilling. My ankle twisted viciously.
Pain exploded up my leg like fire. I hit the ground hard, palms scraping against wet grit, knees slamming into the stone.
I tried to stand. My right ankle buckled immediately. A cry tore from my throat before I could stop it.
They were on me in seconds.
The first policeman grabbed my upper arm, fingers like steel clamps. He barked something in Italian, face red and furious. The second raised his stick, rain dripping from the tip.
I did not think. I reacted.
I drove my knee upward with everything I had left. It connected solidly with the first man’s groin. His eyes bulged. A strangled grunt escaped him as he doubled over, stick clattering to the ground.
The second policeman lunged. I twisted in his grip and sank my teeth into the soft flesh of his cheek. Copper flooded my mouth—blood, rain, salt. He howled, staggering back, hand flying to his face.
I scrambled up. Pain lanced through my ankle with every step, but adrenaline drowned it. I ran. Bare feet now—my cheap flip-flops had torn away somewhere in the fall. The cobblestones tore at my soles, but I did not stop.
The policemen’s shouts faded behind me, swallowed by the storm. I veered left into a wider boulevard, then right down a shadowed side street. My vision blurred—rain, tears, exhaustion.
Buildings loomed taller here, ancient stone facades carved with saints and gargoyles. Streetlights flickered weakly through the downpour.
Ahead rose a massive structure—pale marble columns, arched windows, a domed roof half-hidden by scaffolding. A museum, maybe, or an old palace turned public.
Floodlights bathed the front in cold white, but the sides were dark, shadowed by overgrown hedges and statues.
I limped around the corner, away from the main entrance. The pain in my ankle was constant now, a deep throbbing that matched my heartbeat. I ducked behind a row of marble figures—winged angels and stern philosophers frozen in eternal poses. One sculpture, larger than the rest, had a wide stone plinth and deep shadows beneath it.
I dropped to my knees, ignoring the fresh scrape of stone on skin. I crawled under the overhang, dragging my body into the narrow space between the plinth and the ground.
My petite frame fit just barely. I curled tight—knees to chest, arms wrapped around my shins, soaked hair dripping onto my face.
The rain drummed above me like distant gunfire. Wind howled through the colonnade. I pressed my forehead to my knees and tried to think.
I had assaulted two police officers. In Italy. A foreign country. They would hunt me now—not just Dante’s men, but the actual law.
My face was probably already on some alert system: missing heiress, suspected thief, violent fugitive. My father’s campaign would love this—proof his “troubled daughter” was dangerous, unstable, in need of “protection.”
And the chain was gone. My one bargaining chip, my ticket to survival, snatched away by a man who saw only trash when he looked at me.
“Damn it,” I whispered into the dark. My voice cracked. “I should have planned harder. I should have waited. I should have—”
The words died.
Because underneath the panic, underneath the pain and the cold, a small, stubborn spark flickered.
At least I was free.
No walls. No guards. No Dante’s cold stare or Isabela’s smirk. No laptop monitoring every keystroke. Just rain and stone and the ache in my bones.
I was free.
And that had to count for something.
Exhaustion pulled at me like gravity. My eyelids grew heavy. The shivering slowed to dull tremors. I rested my cheek against my knee, listening to the rain soften into a steady patter.
Sleep came in fits—shallow, restless, haunted by flashes of blood and sirens.
Morning light filtered gray through the storm clouds. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and cool. Birds called somewhere high in the eaves.
Then came the smell.
Sharp ammonia. Acrid smoke.
My eyes snapped open.
A low grunt. A wet splash.
I coughed, throat raw. The stench hit harder—urine cutting through tobacco smoke.
I crawled out from under the plinth, wincing as my injured ankle protested. My body felt like it had been beaten with sticks. Wet clothes chafed against every bruise. Hair hung in tangled ropes.
A man stood three feet away. Middle-aged, unshaven, wearing a stained coat and mismatched boots. He was peeing directly onto the base of the sculpture I had hidden under, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Yellow stream arced in a lazy curve, steaming slightly in the cool morning air. Smoke curled upward from the glowing tip.
He finished, shook himself, zipped up.
I stared.
Rage boiled up from somewhere deep and exhausted.
“Why the fuck would you pee on me?” I screamed.
My voice echoed off the marble, raw and furious.
The man startled, cigarette falling from his mouth. He turned slowly, eyes widening as he took in the sight of me—disheveled, barefoot, soaked, furious, crouched beside a priceless statue like a feral thing that had crawled out of the night.
He blinked once.
Then he laughed.
A rough, phlegmy sound that made my skin crawl.
I stood there shaking, fists clenched, ankle throbbing, world narrowing to the stink and the mockery in his eyes.
And for the first time since I had stepped off that terrace, I felt truly small.
“This is not funny! Why the fuck are you laughing , you idiot !” I shouted out of anger and the hunger I was feeling in my stomach made me more angry.