Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
FINA
“Seraphina. Hurry, or we’ll miss the bus.”
My mother’s aunt Teresa is already halfway down the gravel drive, short legs pumping, her well-earned grandmotherly figure moving with surprising speed.
She lives alone on a farm tucked deep in the Italian countryside, surrounded by animals, grapevines, and the kind of silence that feels more foreign than the place I now reside in. A broad, still silence, like the countryside’s holding its breath and waiting for me to finally exhale.
But I don’t have time to relax. I’m about to miss the bus to Rome. And my no-nonsense great-aunt isn’t about to wait for me to deal with the small problem blocking my exit from the front porch.
A rooster.
He flaps his wings, bobbing his head like he owns the place. His beady eyes lock onto mine. A fresh scar on my calf reminds me of last week’s ambush.
“Shoo,” I snap.
He stretches his neck and lets out a triumphant crow, chest puffed like a gladiator.
Lord, this is my life now, isn’t it? To be brought to my knees by a dang rooster.
Why are the males in my life so relentlessly aggressive?
Still, I’m free. Gloriously, miraculously free.
The moment I heard Carlo Accardo was dead, I danced around the living room like a drunk cheerleader, fist pumps, high kicks, with a joy I’d forgotten I could feel.
While my father panicked, I celebrated with strawberries and cream and toasted my freedom like a woman reborn. Then I vanished, exactly as planned.
He has no idea I was ever in contact with my great-aunt—my prozia—or that I’m even here. She was my lifeline. My mother’s estranged aunt, from her mother’s side. We connected a few years ago, quietly, and I never lost touch.
My father barely remembers my mother existed. He certainly wouldn’t remember an eccentric aunt who never married, turned her back on the Life, and therefore holds no value in our world. A woman like that doesn’t even register to men like him.
Grottaferrata isn’t LA, not even close. But the village, known for its beautiful landscapes and wine—something I can fully get behind—is thirty minutes from Rome.
Big city excitement by day, quiet hills by night.
I gave everything up, yet somehow, against all odds, I’m riding a happy streak.
I’ve made friends.
I have a job I actually like and am good at. A job at risk because of this pint-sized feathered demon.
He crows again, full of attitude, daring me to step off the porch.
I retreat into the farmhouse, heading straight to the sleek, modern kitchen, and snatch two corn husks from last night’s dinner. I wash my hands, grab my vintage purse, and step back onto the porch.
He spots me from across the driveway and charges back.
If my friends back in LA could see me now …
I shove my handbag under my arm, narrow my eyes, and brace myself.
One.
Two.
Three.
I bolt off the porch, making a wide arc away from the beast as I sprint toward my great-aunt’s fading silhouette down the drive.
He’s on me. Wings flapping, claws scraping gravel, head lowered in attack.
Farm life has taught me a few things: Always shut your windows or prepare to wake with the early morning revellers. And always carry a weapon, stick, rock, or food, anything will do.
I wind up like a pitcher and hurl the husks at him. One clips his wing, breaking his momentum. He squawks, feathers flying, then drops to the ground and begins pecking at the prize.
I slow just enough to catch my breath, then see the bus. Aunt Teresa is already stepping aboard.
“Wait!” I yell. “Aspettare! Non andartene!”
Not wanting to disappoint her or miss work, I take off running.
The restaurant’s alive with noise and movement, and I’m right in the middle of it and thriving.
“Posso prendere il tuo ordine?” I ask the three men just seated in my section.
“I’ll have the American,” one says with a smirk.
“With a side of beautiful,” the second adds, tossing in a wink.
“And your number,” the third finishes, grinning like he just won the SuperEnalotto, Italy’s largest lottery.
Flirting is second nature to Italian men—an art form, really—and I can’t say I mind.
I don’t love attention, not when I’ve spent months trying to shrink into myself, but Rome is loud, sprawling, and teeming with Americans. I blend in enough to feel safe.
With a smile, I repeat their orders. “One cheeseburger,” I write on my pad. “With a side of beautifully hand-cut fries.” I pause and offer them a smirk. “And a big, fat, American-style tip.”
“And your number?”
I flip the pad, scribble my response on a clean sheet, fold the paper, and toss it onto the table. “I’ll bring three glasses of water while you men decide.” Hips swaying, I saunter off toward the kitchen as they whistle in appreciation.
Camilla and Bianca are waiting for me. “Quegli uomini sono dei veri playboy,” Camilla says.
“Manwhores, not playboys,” Bianca corrects her. “Did you really give him your number?”
“I gave him a lucky number, but not my phone number.” I grin. “I wrote Lucky 1. Hey, it’s how I feel, like I’m the lucky one.”
Truth.
Their laughter fills the kitchen. “They’ll never leave you in peace now,” Bianca says.
I shrug. If a bit of flirtation helps Aunt Teresa’s profit margin, what’s the harm?
“è una bella serata, no?” I say.
“Yes, Fina,” they agree. “It’s a great night.”
Is it risky to go by Fina? Absolutely. But Fina is me—raw, unfiltered, untamed.
Elia is the name my father picked, the one everyone else uses, the one that keeps me chained to his rules.
Only my mother and my closest friends call me Fina because they see the part of me that won’t be broken, the part that would rather burn the Life down than bow to it.
We banter back and forth in English and Italian, their English oozing sexiness while my Italian is rough around the edges.
Bianca’s gorgeous, bold, full of life, and a warm welcome to Italy. Camilla’s equally pretty, more reserved yet every bit as fun. Both are beautiful, ambitious free spirits living life.
Dolce Vita does exist outside the movies, I’m learning. There’s a whole new world outside the Life, where a woman isn’t an afterthought or a bartering chip.
I’m grateful, so damn grateful to have landed here. For their friendship. And for this lucrative job—Aunt Teresa’s restaurant’s always packed.
Bianca nudges me. “Are you ready for a taste of Roman nightlife?”
Her boyfriend owns a club that’s literally a hop, skip, and jump away. He’s handsome, older, rich, and a major player, Camilla tells me.
Bianca says he’s hung like a goddamn stallion and makes her sit on his face while he eats her out.
My mind flashes to another man. Someone I thought I knew. But now, looking back, I’m not sure any of it was real. I saw what I wanted to see, painted him in colors he never earned and didn’t deserve. I gave him my virginity. He gave me excuses and one hell of a vanishing act.
What remains is a bitter lesson.
Pleasure at his hands comes at a cost.
But the pain he brings for free.
“A night out is exactly what I need,” I answer Bianca with more force than necessary. A new city, with new faces and new flirtations, sounds like the perfect escape.
An opportunity to forget him, and everything between then and now.