“I never said I wouldn’t pick you up, just that this? This is a specialissimo VIP service, off the books!”

  “Thanks, Roberto,” I murmured, the words carrying more weight than they should. Maybe it was just the relief of knowing I wouldn’t have to face the night alone.

  “Ah, signorina, già in movimento!” Roberto’s voice was as effortless as ever. And with that, he hung up. Because, of course, Roberto needed no further instructions.

  I sighed, shaking my head. He was probably already halfway there, weaving through traffic with that ridiculous, self-assured grin of his.

  Maybe I should learn more Italian. Just in case.

  With the call done, I drifted back toward the mirror, unable to shake the faint nerves creeping up my spine. My reflection stared back, unimpressed. Why was I suddenly worried about Roberto seeing me? It was just a drink, not a date.

  And yet…

  My fingers twitched, absently tugging at the hem of my hoodie. The soft gray fabric was unassuming, the cute little logo stitched over my heart, adding an almost childish charm. It was fine. Casual. Normal. Paired with my bck leggings, I looked like any other woman going out for a casual drink.

  So why did I feel underdressed?

  Scowling at myself, I turned and dug through the closet, pushing past Katherine’s questionable taste in fashion. Even after that shopping spree, it seemed I still hadn’t accumuted enough “going-out” clothes.

  A little bck dress? Nope.

  Something cssy, but effortlessly chic? Nope.

  I blew a stray strand of hair out of my face and shut the closet door with a firm click. Well, heels it was. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I’d started loving them. The height, the confidence boost, the way they made every step feel just a little more deliberate. Like I actually belonged in my skin.

  “Okay, Jerry,” I muttered, rolling my shoulders as if that would shake off the tension. “As ready as I can be.”

  “Do you want me to start a therapy lesson?”

  I froze, then let out a slow, tired sigh. “Jerry… no.”

  “It could be beneficial. You seem unusually preoccupied.”

  “I don’t…” I trailed off, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I can’t argue with an AI about whether or not I have a soul.”

  “Good question,” Jerry mused, sounding almost amused. “If souls were real, and I was once human, maybe I do?”

  I groaned, throwing my head back toward the ceiling. “Jerry... It was a rhetorical question.”

  “Got it,” he answered. “Would you like me to set a reminder for your existential crisis ter?”

  I grabbed my keys and slung my bag over my shoulder, fastening Jerry’s watch onto my wrist with a practiced flick.

  “No.”

  “Got it.”

  The apartment door clicked shut behind me, sealing away the lingering warmth of my safe little bubble. Outside, the world was dark. The air was crisp, the kind of cold that nibbled at exposed skin. I shoved my hands into my hoodie’s pockets and stepped onto the pavement, leaning against a mppost.

  Metal hummed under my fingertips as I drummed against it absentmindedly through the hoodie, my nerves transting into soft, rhythmic taps.

  The city was never truly silent, but this te at night, the usual din of voices and honking horns faded into something distant. Somewhere in the distance, tires screeched against asphalt, a sharp, stuttering noise that announced who was driving.

  I sighed. Roberto.

  Sure enough, his old sports car came skidding around the corner, tires protesting violently against the turn. The engine purred, a growling beast beneath the hood, as Roberto executed yet another unnecessary drift before coming to a fwless stop, passenger door swinging open in the same breath. “Hop in, signorina!”

  I stared at him for a beat, unimpressed. Did he seriously test his brakes again just to show off? Still, not to be ungrateful, I slipped into the seat, tugging the door shut behind me and, of course, fastening the seatbelt.

  “Thanks, Roberto,” I muttered, pressing my head against the headrest with a sigh. “Today was… a crazy day.”

  “Eh, signorina, I was already on my second birra, so truly, no worries!”

  A pause. The words sank in. I blinked and turned to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Is… is it a good idea to drive, then?”

  Roberto let out a booming ugh, waving a hand dismissively. “Pfft! I’ve driven after ten before. This? Facile! We’ll be fine!”

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  My grip on the seat tightened as he smmed his foot onto the pedal, the car roaring forward like a shot out of hell. And sure, technically, we were fine. This time, we only had to drive on the sidewalk twice, which, considering Roberto’s usual antics, was practically a victory.

  It took barely any time at all before he was sliding into a parking spot with another dramatic drift, tires screeching one st time before we came to a sudden, jarring halt.

  I exhaled, prying my fingers from where they’d sunk into the seat’s upholstery. Yep. Still alive. “Thanks…” I managed, my voice still catching up with my body. Roberto grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and we stepped out of the car.

  The moment we entered the pub, the familiar weight pressing against my chest began to ease.

  The scent of aged wood, faint smoke and spilled whiskey clung to the air. Muted ughter hummed from the back, and the soft clinking of gsses set an easy rhythm beneath the conversations around us.

  The pub felt timeless.

  Like stepping into a world separate from the outside, where worries dulled and reality blurred just enough to breathe.

  “Vieni, vieni!” Roberto’s voice carried easily over the murmur of the bar, his hand firm on my back as he steered me toward our usual table in the far corner. The alcove was dimly lit, tucked away from the louder clusters of patrons.

  His friends, well our friends, were already gathered, the low glow of the table’s mp catching on raised gsses and half-finished pints. The scent of whiskey and beer mixed with the faint musk of well-worn leather seats and the ever-present aroma of fried food wafting from the kitchen.

  “People!” Roberto announced with a dramatic flourish. “Say ciao to Charlie here! You know her, she was John before. Sì, sì, that one! And listen up, eh? I don’t wanna hear any funny business, capito?!”

  His tone was light, teasing, but there was a quiet warning beneath it.

  The reaction was mixed, some wide grins, a few murmurs, the occasional raised eyebrow. But no one said anything outright. Just quiet acknowledgment, a few nods, a slight lifting of gsses in greeting. It was… easier than I thought it would be.

  Roberto slung an arm around my shoulders, a casual, easy weight as we settled onto the bench. Before I could even process it, a gss of whiskey nded in front of me, the amber liquid catching the light just right.

  “Thanks, Aine. And say thanks to Patrick,” I murmured, gncing up at the waitress.

  She just gave a knowing smirk, wiping her hands on a rag. “You look like you need it.” Then, without another word, she was off again, weaving her way through the crowd.

  I exhaled, leaning back, only to realize that back meant into Roberto’s arm. He didn’t move it. Not a date. Definitely not a date. But it felt… safe. A tether to something real, as if I had a soul. I let the warmth of the moment settle, then raised my gss, locking eyes with the people around me. “For… better times.”

  “For better times!”

  The chorus rang out, and I downed the whiskey in one smooth tilt of the gss. The burn trailed down my throat, pooling in my stomach like liquid fire, and before I could even set the gss down, another was pced in front of me.

  I blinked, looking up.

  “Aine?”

  “Boss said you look too gloom. On the house,” she shrugged, already turning away before I could protest.

  Well. That settled that.

  “Well, now you have to drink it!” Andreas piped up from across the table, already a few beers deep. His face was flushed, his grin loose and easy. “And tell us how you changed—”

  “Eh, no need for that,” Roberto cut in, his voice light. “Only if she wants. Giusto, Andreas?”

  Andreas raised his hands in surrender, ughing. “No problem, just curious.” He took a long swig of his beer, then sighed. “After a long day in that crane under the bzing sun, I’m as dry as a gearbox running without oil.”

  I lounged back in my seat, the soft hum of conversation and clinking gsses wrapping around me like a well-worn jacket. The alcohol had settled into my system, smoothing out the edges of my nerves, making everything just a little lighter, a little less suffocating. As if I found my soul in here. This was one pce that was a constant in my life.

  Sorry, Adam.

  I felt terrible drinking after swearing I wouldn’t, but after the kind of day I’d had… stopping wasn’t exactly an option anymore. At some point, the storytelling baton had fallen into my hands, and I was in the middle of recounting one of my more questionable exploits.

  “… Then I just turned and knocked on a wall where the relic was.” A round of ughter followed, the kind that came easy with booze and camaraderie.

  “Would love to do that to that stronzo ricco,” Federico chimed in. Usually one of the quieter ones, he had that slightly gssy, loosened-up look of a man deep enough into his drinks to start venting.

  Roberto groaned, rubbing his temples. “Madonna santa, don’t even start—”

  “What happened?” I grinned, shifting my attention to Federico, subtly nudging him forward. Sometimes you had to give people a push to join the conversation; I knew that well enough.

  Federico let out a sigh, losening his neck before unching into his tirade. “There’s this almost finished mansion, maison, as they’re calling it, the pretentious bastards, going up near my pce. Right in the middle of the old neighborhood, you know? A fottuto monument to stolen taxpayer money.”

  I arched a brow. “That bad?”

  Roberto snorted, taking a slow sip from his beer before answering for him. “Brutta come fame, an eyesore straight out of the Bible. Five-meter walls like some medieval fortress, security cameras on every damn corner. Gaudy, gold trim, statues everywhere, and a driveway so big you could nd a pne on it. Looks like it was designed by a man with troppo soldi and absolutely zero taste.”

  Federico waved his hands. “The worst part? It’s illegal! No permits, no approvals, nothing. But it’s still there. Growing like a damn tumor.”

  The table murmured in agreement, a mix of rage and amusement rippling through the group. “How does something like that even get built?” I asked, genuinely baffled.

  “Bribes,” Andreas answered simply, slouching back with his beer. “Lots and lots of bribes.”

  “And connections,” Roberto added with a smirk. “The kind that make problems disappear overnight.”

  The conversation spiraled from there, stories of absurd corruption, of fines that never got paid, of officials who magically forgot certain ws existed. By the time we circled back to the maison, ideas were floating around the table about what should happen to it.

  “Egg it?” someone suggested.

  “Too petty.”

  “Graffiti?”

  “Too much work.”

  Federico leaned in, a wicked glint in his eye. “What about a good old-fashioned break-in?”

  Silence.

  The kind of silence that wasn’t empty but brimming with potential, like the breath before a ugh, the pause before a bad decision.

  Roberto was the first to break it, his grin stretching wide, eyes glinting with something undeniably dangerous. “Aspetta, aspetta… We should totally fix this.”

  I turned to him, leaning my elbow on the table, whiskey gss swirling in my grip. “Define fix.”

  Andreas, still drunk but dead serious, waved a hand in zy confidence. “Knock it down. I can get the crane.”

  We all blinked. “You… what?” I asked, my brain short-circuiting.

  Andreas took another swig of his beer and shrugged, completely unfazed. “I can get the crane. The big one. You know, the one with the wrecking ball? Or maybe the excavator, if we’re feeling subtle.”

  The table went dead still for a second. Then, like fire catching dry brush, the entire group lit up. Roberto howled, spping his hand against the table so hard the gsses rattled. “Santo Dio! Sfida accettata! I drive that baby!” He threw his arms up like a man who had just won the lottery.

  Federico wiped a tear from his eye, already breathless from ughter. “You cannot be serious.”

  Andreas just took another long sip, then set his beer down with a decisive clink. “Oh, I’m dead serious.”

  I exhaled, rubbing my temples, but I couldn’t stop the smirk creeping onto my lips. This was either the stupidest or the most brilliant idea I’d ever heard.