Chapter 1
AYARA POV
The mirror above my antique dresser, salvaged from a flea market in the old city, lied to me every morning. It showed a girl who looked too calm, too put together, for the storm that constantly threatened to shatter her. My name is Ayara Vega, and I live a double life beneath the relentless, beautiful Italian sun. By day, I was the quiet, almost invisible Psychology student at the University of Bologna. I traded the vibrant chaos of my home life for the structured, sterile logic of human behavior, desperately seeking an equation that explained madness. I loved the study, the sharp logic of why we break, why we choose destruction. It was a safe space, a world where the monsters wore research data instead of masks. By night, I was something else entirely. In the cramped, sterile light of the small studio I rented, I became the artist: the tattooist. My hands, which barely registered a tremor when my father raged, moved with surgical precision, turning skin into a permanent canvas. I lived for the sting of the needle, the smell of ink and antiseptic. It was the only time I felt truly powerful, turning someone’s pain or passion into a mark of control. I was only seventeen, but the mirror reflected eyes that had seen forty years of disappointment. They were a startling, vibrant shade of green, framed by lashes that felt heavy with exhaustion. My hair, a torrent of chestnut brown that tumbled down to my waist, was usually tied back, a practical necessity for both the lecture hall and the tattoo gun. My dreams were simple: A small, quiet apartment, filled with sunlight and the smell of fresh linen. A space where I could dance without fear of being heard, where I could read my endless pile of books without being interrupted by a drunken roar. Dancing and drawing were my habits, my desperate acts of self-preservation. When the world outside was too loud, I’d throw myself into motion, my feet beating a rhythm of freedom against the worn wood floor, or I’d lose myself in the fine lines of a charcoal sketch. That fragile dream was all the wealth I possessed. The reality? I lived with my father, Gennaro, in a tiny, dilapidated apartment in the less-than-picturesque outskirts of the city. He wasn't truly a father anymore; he was a walking, swaying monument to alcohol. Ever since my mother, the beautiful Isabella, had died when I was six, he’d been chasing her memory down the bottom of every bottle, leaving me to clean up the mess and pay the bills. The tattooing wasn't a hobby; it was the lifeline that kept us from sinking entirely.
Tonight was supposed to be a reprieve. A moment of normalcy, a taste of the easy love I saw in the university courtyard. It was my three-month anniversary with Matteo. Not a grand love, but a steady one, a safe port in my storm. I was wearing my best, a simple red dress that brought out the startling green of my eyes. In my hands, I clutched a cheap bottle of his favorite Chianti and a hastily-drawn, tiny sketch of a raven—my anniversary gift. I was nervous, excited, feeling every single year of seventeen. Matteo lived in a clean, quiet student building—the kind of place I only dreamed of. I used the key he’d given me two weeks ago, quietly slipping into the apartment, planning to whisper "Surprise" and press the raven into his hand. The whisper caught in my throat, replaced by a cold, searing shock that ran from my scalp to the soles of my feet. The living room was dark, but the bedroom door was open, spilling a sickening yellow light. And there he was. My safe port. My steady love. He was pressed against the doorframe, not quite hidden, He was sleeping wit another girl, her giggling voice high and careless. She wasn't an anonymous stranger; she was Sofia, a girl from my Literature class. The world went silent. The Chianti bottle slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the parquet floor with a dull, wet thud that sounded like a gunshot. Matteo’s head snapped up. His eyes, seconds ago filled with a lazy, selfish pleasure, widened in stark, ugly realization. I didn't move. I didn't scream. I just stood there, my breath trapped, feeling the reality of the betrayal hit me like a physical blow. The shame was a monstrous, burning thing, but the shock was worse. I had been foolish. Stupid. I had allowed myself to be safe for a moment, and this was my reward. The pain didn't come immediately. It was a heavy, suffocating weight. My beautiful world, which was already fragile, had just had its last pillar knocked out. Matteo took a step toward me. “Ayara, wait, I can—”
“Don’t,” I said. The word was a thin, ragged thread, barely audible. “Don’t touch me.”
I didn't need a degree in psychology to understand him. His face was a textbook definition of guilt and self-interest. He wasn't sorry for what he did; he was sorry he was caught. I turned and walked out. I didn't run. Running would imply I was afraid of him, and I wasn't. I was afraid of myself. I was afraid of the sheer, desolate emptiness that had just opened up inside my chest.
I wandered for what felt like hours, the red dress feeling suddenly garish and mocking. I ended up near the financial district, far from my shabby home, drawn by the loud music and the blinding, indifferent city lights. My destination became Il Bacio Nascosto—The Hidden Kiss. It was the kind of upscale, dark cocktail bar I could never afford, but tonight, the thought of its plush velvet and expensive obscurity felt like a necessary cloak. I didn't care about the price. I didn't care about the risk. I needed to forget the sight of Matteo's picture with Sofia. I needed to drown the raw, teenage hurt that contrasted so violently with the adult despair I carried every day. I ordered the first hard liquor I could name, throwing back the sting of the vodka as if it were cleansing the betrayal from my throat. I ordered another, and another. My mind grew fuzzy, the sharp edges of my grief beginning to blur into a dull, warm hum. My head was spinning, my judgment evaporated, and I was dangerously vulnerable. I was exactly where I needed to be to be unseen, unjudged, and, most terrifyingly of all, utterly exposed to the darkness that ran beneath the city's veneer. I was swaying, trying to find the restroom, my focus lost in the low light, when I stumbled into a dimly lit, secluded hallway in the back, searching for a moment of quiet oblivion. I didn't see the man who stood there, his shadow long and lethal. I just felt a dizzy, heartbreaking
wave of sorrow, and then—the universe itself seemed to trip. I was about to walk straight into line of fire. ..............................................
END OF CHAPTER two
did she gonna live ?, will there somone to help her ?
see you monday and please tell meif u like it
