Chapter 72 Seventy two
Elena's POV
Boredom had become my new companion. Anger I could handle, fear I knew how to survive but boredom was different. Boredom was slow and quiet and it ate away at me like rust on metal. The days blurred together in the fortress. I woke up. I ate breakfast alone. I wandered the halls. I watched the guards change shifts. I stared at the gardens until I knew every flower by heart.
The studio was being built, but it was not ready yet. My paintings hung on his walls like trophies. My sunroom was empty and white and dead. I had nothing to do and nowhere to go and the silence was driving me crazy.
That was when I noticed the mechanic.
He was young, maybe nineteen, with grease on his hands and wonder in his eyes. He worked in the garage at the edge of the estate, fixing the fleet of cars that belonged to the family. I had seen him from my window, always bent over an engine, always alone. He looked bored too. He looked like someone who needed a friend.
Or a bribe.
I watched him for a few days. I learned his name from Sophie. Marco. He came from a small town in the south. He had been hired six months ago. He was good with engines but terrible with people. He spent his breaks sitting on an overturned crate, staring at nothing.
Perfect.
I found an old sketch in my room. One I had done before my paintings were stolen. A quick drawing of the garage, the cars, the hills beyond. I signed it with a small E and tucked it into my pocket.
Then I went to meet Marco.
He looked up when I walked into the garage, and his eyes went wide. Everyone knew who I was. The Don's wife. The prisoner in the pretty dresses. He stammered something I could not understand.
"I have a proposition," I said.
He swallowed hard. "Donna?"
I pulled out the sketch. I held it up so he could see. His eyes got even wider.
"This is yours if you teach me something."
He looked at the drawing. He looked at me. He looked at the drawing again. "Teach you what?"
I pointed to the old Fiat in the corner. The one with the manual transmission. The one nobody drove because it was waiting for parts.
"How to drive that."
He blinked. "You want me to teach you to drive a stick shift?"
"I want you to teach me to drive anything with a clutch. I want to understand the machine. I want to feel the engine and the gears and the road." I stepped closer. "And I want you to be quiet about it."
He looked at the sketch again. It was good. I knew it was good. His fingers itched to take it.
"There is a field at the edge of the property," I said. "Behind the old greenhouse. Nobody goes there, we can practice in the evenings, before the light dies and nobody will know."
Marco was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
The field was perfect.
Soft grass, no rocks, plenty of room to make mistakes. Marco brought the old Fiat, coughing and sputtering, and parked it at the edge. He showed me the pedals. Clutch, brake, gas. He showed me the gears. First, second, third, reverse. He showed me how to feel the catch point, that magical moment when the engine and the wheels decided to work together.
I stalled the car seventeen times.
Marco was patient. He did not laugh. He just said try again, try again, try again. So I did.
On the eighteenth try, I felt it. The sweet spot. The car lurched forward, smooth and alive, and I laughed out loud. Real laughter. The kind I had not made in months.
The power of controlling the machine was intoxicating.
I drove in slow circles around the field. I stalled again, and again, and again. But every time I got better. Every time I understood more. The car was not just metal and wheels. It was freedom waiting to happen.
After a week, I could drive without thinking. I could shift gears in my sleep. I could make the car dance.
And I had a plan.
The Alfa Romeo lived in the main garage, under a special cover, with a guard nearby at all times. It was Matteo's prize. His vintage baby. He washed it himself on Sunday mornings. He never let anyone else touch it.
I watched him with the car. I learned its habits. I knew which guard worked which shift. I knew when the garage was empty, just before dinner, when everyone was eating or changing shifts or not paying attention.
I waited a full week after my last lesson. I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to be ready.
Then I made my move.
The garage was empty. The guard was at dinner. The Alfa sat under its cover, sleek and red and waiting. I walked in like I belonged there. I pulled off the cover. I slid into the driver's seat. The leather was soft and it smelled like him.
The keys were in the office. I had watched Marco grab them a hundred times. I knew where they hung. I knew which one was for the Alfa.
Two minutes later, I had the key in the ignition. The engine turned over with a purr that vibrated through my whole body. I pressed the clutch. I found first gear. I pulled out of the garage.
Nobody stopped me.
I drove slowly at first, just rolling, just feeling the power under my hands. Then I hit the main drive and I floored it.
The car roared. The wind screamed. The world blurred past me in streaks of green and gold. I was flying. I was free. I was alive.
I aimed for the coastal road.
From his office window, Matteo watched.
He had been standing there for hours, brooding over something, when movement caught his eye. A flash of red. His red. Moving fast down the main drive.
He leaned closer. He squinted. He saw the car, his car, his Alfa, tearing toward the gate like the devil was chasing it.
And behind the wheel, calm as anything, was his wife.
His hands gripped the window frame. His heart stopped and started and stopped again. She was driving. She was driving his car. She was driving his car like she had done it a thousand times.
The gate opened for her. She did not slow down. She hit the coastal road and disappeared from view.
Matteo stood there for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
It was not an angry smile. It was not a punishing smile. It was something else entirely. Something that looked almost like pride.
"She learned to drive," he murmured to the empty room. "She learned to drive my car. She stole my Alfa and she is running."
He should have been furious. He should have called the guards. He should have sent every available man to chase her down.
Instead, he pulled out his phone. He called the gate.
"Let her run," he said quietly. "Track her, but do not stop her. I want to see how far she gets."
He hung up. He sat down. He waited.
And somewhere out on the coastal road, Elena was flying.