Chapter 8 Stalkers and Rumors

Rodriguez dragged his thumb across his lower lip, leaning his back against the bare plaster wall of the studio. His sharp dark eyes tracked me as I paced the narrow floorboards, my footsteps heavy and uneven against the cold wood.

"We give her garbage," Rodriguez said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the heavy silence of the room. "Elena wants money. Lorenzo wants reassurance that you’re broken and hiding in a corner. So we feed them a narrative that serves both."

I sat on the edge of the metal bed, my hands shaking slightly as I rubbed a strip of black athletic tape between my fingers. "What narrative?"

"Tomorrow morning, I drop a rumor through an assistant scout in Milan," Rodriguez replied, a faint, cold smirk touching his mouth. "I let it slip that you’re looking into low-tier youth coaching contracts down south in Calabria. I’ll make it sound like you’re embarrassed, desperate, and trying to slip out of the northern media spotlight entirely before your savings run out."

I looked up, catching his eye in the dim afternoon light filtering through the small window. "Elena will jump on it."

"Elena will sell it to Lorenzo within ten minutes of hearing it," Rodriguez said, straightening his leather jacket. "It gives Lorenzo the satisfaction of thinking he drove you completely out of the league, and it keeps him looking five hundred miles in the wrong direction while Marco rebuilds your mechanics right here. We keep them chasing ghosts, capitana. Let them celebrate a victory that doesn't exist."

"And if Lorenzo tries to verify it?" I asked, my voice tight.

"He won't be able to," Rodriguez said coldly. "Calabria is a black hole for northern sports press. By the time his assistants realize nobody down south has seen your car, you'll already be stepping onto a live court."

The white linen table runners at Il Salumaio were pristine, lit by soft amber candle glow that flickered off heavy silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses. The quiet murmur of high-society chatter filled the intimate dining room of the Milanese institution, hidden away from the noisy city streets outside.

Bianca sat across from Lorenzo, a glass of vintage Chianti held delicately between her French-manicured fingers. She wore a tailored ivory silk blazer that framed her sharp collarbones, her pale blonde hair styled in effortless, glossy waves that fell neatly over one shoulder. She radiated the blinding, unbothered arrogance of old money—a woman who had never known what it meant to fight for a spot on a team or worry about a rent check.

She dabbed her lip with a cloth napkin, her cold blue eyes locked onto Lorenzo’s tight, brooding jawline.

"You're brooding, darling," Bianca said, her voice smooth, honeyed, and carrying a razor-sharp undercurrent. "Is the family business boring you tonight, or are you still obsessing over your little ghost?"

Lorenzo didn't touch the dry-aged steak on his plate. He rested his elbows on the dark table, interlocking his fingers tightly. "Paulo came back empty-handed from Clinica San Siro."

Bianca let out a soft, melodic laugh that sounded almost musical to the surrounding tables, though her eyes remained entirely devoid of warmth. "Of course he did. Did you really think she was sitting in a waiting room in central Milan? Chiara doesn't have two euros to rub together since her federation allowance was slashed."

"She set a trap," Lorenzo said quietly, leaning closer across the table. "She left a fake note on her desk because she knew her sister was watching her. She knew Elena would call us. She’s playing us, Bianca."

Bianca set her wine glass down with a soft, decisive clink. The playful smile faded from her lips, replaced by a cool, calculating mask that mirrored her father's corporate ruthlessness.

"Then we stop letting her play," Bianca said, leaning forward across the small candle flame. Her diamond necklace caught the light, sparkling brightly against her tanned skin. "If her sister wants cash, give her more. Offer Elena a monthly retainer—five thousand euros—if she delivers something tangible. A phone number, a bank transaction, a real address."

Lorenzo stared at her, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Five thousand is steep for mere rumors."

"Five thousand is pocket change to make sure your ex-fiancée stays where she belongs," Bianca countered, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy whisper that barely carried past their table. "On her back, out of the league, and out of our lives. Call Elena tonight. Double the price. Put a leash on that greedy little family."

Lorenzo looked at her for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders slowly loosening into a dark, satisfied nod. "I'll have Paulo transfer the initial retainer tonight."

By ten o'clock, the quiet inside my Lake Como studio was absolute.

The bare room smelled faintly of wet cement, unpainted plaster, and fresh pine from the thick woods surrounding the property outside. I sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in a grey cotton tank top and dark sweatpants, holding a warm mug of milk between my palms. The steam rose in small curls, catching the faint moonlight filtering through the high, uncurtained window.

My left leg rested flat on the thin mattress. The knee was dull, heavy, and throbbing with a deep, familiar ache from the morning’s deceleration drills under Marco's relentless watch.

I set the mug down on the floor, reached down with both hands, and placed my palms over my left kneecap. Through the thin fabric of my sweatpants, I could feel the raised surgical scar running vertically down the center—a thick, jagged line of tough tissue that marked the exact spot where my life had been ripped apart eighteen months ago.

Lorenzo was out there right now in Milan, drinking expensive red wine with Bianca, buying off my sister with dirty cash, convinced I was hiding in the dark, rotting away under the weight of my own ruined body.

Let them think it. Let them buy every lie Rodriguez fed them through the grapevine. Let Elena count her bloody euros.

My chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic cadence as I stared at the shadowed ceiling.

Tomorrow morning at six o'clock sharp, the heavy floodlights in Marco's complex would cut through the Lake Como fog. Two-a-day full-impact sessions. Seventy-two hours until I stepped onto a live court against the Varese Junior Academy team.

Marco Bellini held my official medical clearance in his hands. He wasn't a man who pitied tears, he wasn't a man who cared about my tragic backstory, and he certainly wasn't a man who would sign off on a player who flinched at the net. If I couldn't conquer the terror in my own head, if I couldn't force this knee to take the impact without buckling, he would lock his gym doors and walk away and my career would die right here in the quiet hills of Lake Como, buried under the silence of a forgotten studio apartment.

I pulled the thin wool blanket over my shoulders, lay back against the flat pillow, and closed my eyes.

I didn't need their money. I didn't need their mercy.

Tomorrow morning, I was going back to prove to Marco I'm worth my clearance and my comeback to game.