ABSOLUTE INSANITY: A forbidden bond

Chapter 267: Michael in Italy.

Chapter 267

KATYA POV

By the time the music started thinning into echoes and the bonfire burned low, I already knew. I didn’t even have to look at Chiara properly—just the way her laughter had gone louder, looser, spilling over itself like it couldn’t find where to stop.

I sighed, long and slow, tipping my head back to stare at the stars.

Of course.She had promised. She’d even sworn it—hand to chest, dramatic as ever. But Chiara and alcohol had always had an understanding I was never part of.

She knew how to drink. Too well. Knew exactly how far she could go... and always pushed a step past it.

"Chiara," I said, slipping my arm around her waist as she stumbled sideways, nearly face-planting into the sand.

She laughed like I’d just told the best joke in the world. "I’m fine," she declared, words stretching as she leaned heavily into me. "See? Walking. Perfectly."

I tightened my grip. "You’re zigzagging."

"That’s just... creative walking."

I snorted despite myself, trying to stay annoyed. "You’re impossible."

The party was winding down around us—people drifting toward cars, others collapsing into the sand, the fire crackling low and tired. The ocean kept its steady rhythm, uncaring.

Chiara tripped again, this time catching herself on my shoulder, her head dropping briefly against my neck.

I stiffened out of reflex... then relaxed.

She trusted me. Completely. Even like this.

"Keys?" I asked.

She fumbled dramatically at her clutch, nearly dropping it twice before I caught it for her. "You’re mad," she accused softly, squinting up at me.

"I’m not mad," I said, guiding her toward the car parked just beyond the lights. "I’m disappointed. There’s a difference."

She gasped. "That’s worse."

"It’s supposed to be."

The cool night air hit us as we stepped away from the crowd, the noise dulling behind us. Chiara’s steps slowed, her weight sagging more heavily into me.

I adjusted my hold, bracing her properly now, arm firm around her back.

"Next time," I muttered, half to myself, "I’m bringing you here with a juice box."

She laughed again, soft and sleepy. "You love me."

I opened the car door and helped her in carefully, making sure she was seated before closing it gently.

I did love her.

That was the problem.

As I rounded the car to the driver’s side to call Nonna and beg for a guard to come pick us up, a hand suddenly gripped me from behind.

I jumped, heart slamming into my ribs as I spun halfway around.

It was him—the weird guy I’d ignored earlier.

Up close, the grin I’d brushed off before looked different now. Tight. Irritated. Like it had been carved into place and left there too long.

"Relax," he said, voice low, almost amused. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

My pulse roared in my ears.

Didn’t mean to touch me—but he had. Somewhere he had no right to be.

"Don’t touch me." I stepped back instinctively, but the car was right there, cold metal biting into my spine as he followed, not giving me space to move.

The crowd noise felt miles away now, the music swallowed by distance and wind. He laughed under his breath. "You really think you’re too good to talk?"

"I said don’t touch me," I repeated, sharper this time.

His hand came out again—not grabbing.

Testing.

Like he was checking how far he could go.

Shock froze me for half a second too long. I thought he was about to hit me—but that half second was all he needed.

He moved closer, crowding my space, his body boxing me in. One arm braced against the car beside my head. I could smell alcohol on his breath now—sour and heavy.

"You embarrassed me back there," he muttered. "You don’t do that to someone and just walk away."

My mind snapped into focus.

"Get the fuck away from me," I said, planting my palms against his chest and shoving hard.

He stumbled a step, more surprised than hurt—and that pissed him off.

"You bitch," he rasped, grabbing my wrist this time.

Fear flared—but it didn’t swallow me.

Not anymore.

I twisted my arm and slammed my knee up between us. It wasn’t clean or perfect, but it was enough to make him grunt and loosen his grip. I shoved again, nails scraping, breath coming fast.

"Get away from me!"

He swore, reaching for me again, harder this time, and my back hit the car with a dull thud. The world narrowed—metal at my spine, his shadow blocking the light, my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.

Then— CRACK. The sound was sharp and unmistakable. Glass against bone. The man staggered back with a shout, hands flying to his head as shards scattered into the sand.

For a split second, everything went silent. Chiara stood there. Barefoot. Wobbling. Furious. A broken bottle hung loosely in her hand, her eyes blazing with a clarity I hadn’t seen all night.

"Touch," she slurred dangerously, stepping forward, "her again and I’ll rearrange your face permanently."

The man looked between us, shocked, bleeding pride finally doing the math his brain had avoided.

"Fuck you!" he cursed, stumbling backward before turning and vanishing into the shadows with far less confidence than he’d arrived with.

I didn’t realize I was shaking until Chiara dropped the bottle and wrapped her arms around me.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice suddenly sober where it mattered. "Katya?"

I nodded, breath hitching. "Yeah. I—I am." She pulled back just enough to look at my face, then frowned. "Next time," she said firmly, "I’m drinking less."

I laughed weakly, pressing my forehead to hers. "You smashed a bottle over someone’s head." She blinked. "So... baby steps."

"That’s them!"

The words sliced through the night—and through us.

My head snapped up.

Five men stepped out of the thinning shadows, moving as a unit—big, broad, solid silhouettes against the dying firelight.

The one Chiara had hit walked in front of them, one hand pressed to his head, eyes burning with something ugly and wounded.

My stomach dropped.

Chiara’s arm tightened around me instinctively, her body swaying slightly but her grip firm. "Oh," she muttered.

"That’s... not good."

The men fanned out as they approached, boots crunching softly against the sand, blocking the narrow space between us and the remaining cars.

The beach music had faded into background noise. No one nearby was paying attention anymore.

The guy in front pointed at us, his voice thick with venom. "Those two bitches. Thought they were clever."

My pulse thundered so loudly I could barely hear Chiara curse under her breath. I stepped back, my hand brushing the car door behind me, calculating—distance, numbers, escape routes.

Five against two. One drunk. One terrified—but thinking fast. The men slowed a few feet away, circling just enough to make the message clear.

"You really fucked up tonight," one of them said casually, like he was talking about spilled drinks instead of the fear curling in my chest.

Chiara straightened as much as she could, wobble and all. "Pretty sure your friend fucked up first," she shot back, chin lifting stubbornly.

I shot her a look. Not helping. The bruised man sneered. "You think you can embarrass me and walk away?"

I forced myself to breathe, to stay steady. Panic wouldn’t help us. Panic had never done shit for me before.

"We’re leaving," I said clearly, stepping half a pace forward, putting myself slightly in front of Chiara without thinking. "There’s no need for this."

One of the men laughed. Low. Unamused.

"You don’t get to decide that." My fingers curled into fists at my sides. My mind raced—Nonna, the guards, the phone still inside the car.

Chiara leaned closer, her voice suddenly sharp and sober in my ear. "Katya," she whispered, "if I say run—"

The man in front took another step closer, clearly done with talking.

"Run!" Chiara shouted, already moving. I followed, sand slipping beneath my feet as the men shouted behind us.

Headlights flared. A car engine roared to life nearby, cutting through the tension like a siren. The men froze, turning toward the sudden light as it swept across the sand.

A familiar voice rang out.

"Katya!" My head whipped toward the sound of my name and I froze mid-run.

My feet skidded slightly in the sand, momentum dying as shock slammed into me harder than fear ever could.

That voice. I would’ve known it anywhere.

"Katya!"

No. No, no—this wasn’t possible. My chest tightened as I turned fully, breath tearing out of me.

Michael stood just beyond the wash of the headlights, half-lit by the car’s beams, half-swallowed by shadow.

Solid. Real. Not a memory. Not a hallucination born from adrenaline and panic.

Michael.

Here.

In Italy.

Everything disappeared—the shouting men, Chiara stumbling behind me, the night air buzzing with danger.

All I could see was him.

Older than the last time I’d seen him. Sharper somehow. His posture rigid, eyes locked on me with an intensity that made my pulse stutter.

"Katya," he said again, slower this time—like he was afraid I might vanish if he said it too loudly.

Behind me, Chiara cursed. "You know him?"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.My mind scrambled, pieces slamming together too fast. Michael wasn’t supposed to be here. Michael didn’t just show up.

Michael was part of a past I had buried deliberately—carefully—because digging it up hurt.

The men hesitated, thrown off by the interruption. One of them glanced between Michael and us, scowling. "Who the hell is this?"

Michael didn’t even look at him.

His eyes never left mine as he stepped forward, placing himself squarely between us and the approaching threat—without asking, without hesitating.

"Back away," he said calmly.

Not loud. Not shouted. But there was something in his tone that made even the wind seem to pause.