Chapter 5 The Parasites At Home

The contrast hit like a slap in the face.

Leaving the pristine, glass-encased tranquility of Lake Como behind, I pulled my hatchback into the concrete courtyard of our Milan apartment complex. The mid-morning sun bounced off rusting balconies and peeling yellow paint. My left knee had locked up tight during the fifty-minute drive, stiff as rusted iron. I sat in the driver’s seat for a full two minutes, gritting my teeth, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, forcing blood back into the joint.

I couldn't limp inside. If I limped, they would smell the weakness.

I dragged my athletic bag over my shoulder, stepped out, and took the three flights of stairs one slow, deliberate step at a time. Every stair sent a dull spike of pain straight into my kneecap, but I kept my posture straight, my jaw set, counting every step like a drill.

The moment my key turned in the lock, the air inside felt heavy with familiar friction.

"You're late," my mother, Teresa, called out from the kitchen before I even had the chance to pull off my sneakers.

She stepped into the hallway holding a clutch of unpaid bills in one hand and a cold cup of coffee in the other. Her eyes didn't drop to my leg to see if I was standing straight. They went directly to my face, sharp with anxiety.

"Where were you last night?" she demanded, crossing her arms, her knuckles white around her ceramic mug. "The Bellini Media representatives called the house twice yesterday evening. They said you walked out of the contract signing. Tell me they misheard you, Chiara. Tell me you didn't just throw away a three-year corporate salary on some foolish pride."

I walked past her into the cramped kitchen, dropping my bag onto the worn wooden table with a heavy thud. "They didn't mishear anything, Mamma. I'm not taking the commentary job."

Teresa gasped, dropping the utility notices onto the laminate counter. "Are you out of your mind? You're sitting on a ruined knee, refusing a stable salary! Do you have any idea how much we owe for the building maintenance this month? The electricity bill alone is three hundred euros! The condo association is threatening to freeze our account!"

"I'll pay the electricity," I said flatly, pulling out my phone.

"With what?" A mocking voice cut through the doorway.

Elena leaned against the frame, twirling a strand of dark hair around her finger. My younger sister looked pristine, wearing a brand-new pair of leather designer sneakers bought six months ago with the bonus cash from my last national championship win.

"Your injury allowance from the federation gets slashed by half next month because you refused the medical retirement route," Elena said, her tone dripping with fake pity. "You're throwing away a guaranteed corporate contract just to play pretend in a gym. It's embarrassing, Chiara. The whole sports press is calling you delusional."

I turned my head slowly, locking eyes with her. "The only thing embarrassing in this apartment is you wearing two-hundred-euro shoes while complaining about the electric bill."

Elena’s eyes narrowed. "At least I'm not dragging this family into debt to chase a dead dream. You're twenty-four and broken. Accept it."

"Elena, quiet," Teresa snapped half-heartedly, but her eyes snapped back to me, brimming with anger and sudden, bitter tears. "No, actually, Elena is right, Chiara! Look at this apartment! Look at us! Do you think you got to the national team on your own talent alone?"

Teresa stepped closer, her finger pointing trembling at my chest.

"Who drove you to regional practice three towns over four nights a week when you were fourteen?" my mother raised her voice, her throat raw with years of buried resentment. "I worked double shifts at the laundry line until my fingers bled so we could afford your specialized court shoes and those absurd travel fees! When your father walked out on us and left us with nothing, I spent every single savings account we had just to keep you in the elite youth academy! I sacrificed my health, my youth, and your sister’s comfort so you could be the star!"

Elena crossed her arms, nodding in agreement. "We gave up everything for your career, Chiara. And now that it's time to pay it back and keep a roof over our heads, you want to throw it away because your pride can't handle sitting behind a microphone?"

"I gave you five years of my prime," I said quietly, the heat in my chest turning into a hard, frozen stone. "Every tournament bonus, every endorsement check, every national team stipend went directly into this apartment, into that stove, into Elena’s tuition, and onto her feet. I paid back every single cent of those childhood shoe bills five times over."

"And what about now?" Teresa pressed, her voice dropping into a desperate, sharp whisper. "You think sports allowances last forever? The doctors said your joint is degraded! Dr. Caelio was clear! If you play again, you won't just ruin your leg—you'll end up unable to walk by thirty! Be reasonable! We need stability, Chiara! Bellini Media offered a guaranteed advance!"

"Dr. Caelio was paid to give a comfortable opinion," I interrupted, my voice dropping into an icy register that made my mother flinch. "I am not taking the pity contract. I am not sitting behind a desk talking about other women hitting the ball while I rot away inside. The money from my remaining allowance will cover the utilities for this month. After that, you find a job, Elena."

Elena sneered, stepping back into the hallway. "You're unbelievable. So selfish."

"Selfish?" I echoed, taking a single, hard step toward her. "I spent eighteen months recovering from a shattered knee while you spent my savings on designer clothes. You haven't worked a single hour since you graduated, Elena. If you want luxury, earn it."

She scoffed, turning her back on me and stomping down the hallway toward her room.

I didn't answer my mother's remaining pleas. I opened my banking application, transferred three hundred and fifty euros to the utility company, and watched my personal account balance drop down to triple digits. A dangerous, razor-thin margin. If my knee failed now, I wouldn't even have enough for next month's rent.

I picked up my sports bag and walked toward my bedroom, needing to pack a fresh set of clothes so I could stay closer to the estate facilities on Lake Como. I couldn't keep driving back and forth to this house. The air here was poison; it bled my strength dry faster than any conditioning drill Marco could throw at me.

As I passed Elena's half-open bedroom door, the muffled sound of her voice made me pause in the hallway.

She was standing near her window, her phone pressed tight against her ear, her voice reduced to a rapid, nervous whisper.

"I told you, she didn't sign it... No, she isn't taking the broadcast job... She was gone all night, I checked her room at midnight... Yeah, I'm watching her. I'll find out where she's driving tomorrow morning, just make sure the money hits my account like last time."

I stood frozen in the dim corridor, the breath catching in my throat.

Elena turned around to check the door, catching sight of my shadow on the frame. She snapped her phone shut instantly, her cheeks flushing red, a flicker of panic darting across her eyes before her usual cold mask slid back into place.