ABSOLUTE INSANITY: A forbidden bond

Chapter 275: Stalking?

Chapter 275

KATYA POV

Dinner began the way all dinners in this house did—quietly, deliberately, with the soft, almost fragile clink of cutlery against porcelain sounding far louder than it should have in the vast dining room.

Plates were already set when we sat down, positioned with an almost mathematical precision, the food arranged with care that felt less like routine and more like ritual.

Nothing in this house was accidental. Not the seating. Not the timing. Not even the silence.

The scent alone was enough to remind me that I hadn’t eaten much all day. Rosemary and garlic. Fresh bread. Something slow-cooked and rich. It should have made me hungry.

It didn’t.

My appetite lagged somewhere behind, caught in the tight space between nerves and awareness.

I focused on small things at first. Safe things. The weight of my fork resting between my fingers. The warmth of the plate beneath my palms. The faint brush of the red fabric of my dress against my knees every time I shifted slightly in my seat.

Across the table, Michael sat straight-backed and composed, the picture of quiet restraint. His attention rested politely on Nonna as she ate, but I could feel his presence like a physical thing. It pressed against my senses, distracting and constant.

Every so often, my awareness snagged on the simple, inconvenient fact that he was directly opposite me.

No escape. No strategic angle to avoid him. No way to pretend he wasn’t there. I kept my eyes down.

Elena murmured something soft to her husband as she adjusted the baby in her arms, rocking gently in a motion that seemed instinctive.

Chiara, unusually subdued for once in her life, picked at her food with exaggerated interest, though I could see the curiosity practically vibrating off her.

Nonna ate in silence, her movements unhurried, precise. Her expression gave nothing away.

The quiet stretched.

And stretched. It thickened like steam rising from the dishes, wrapping around the table until breathing itself felt deliberate.

Then Nonna set her fork down. The sound was gentle. But it landed like a signal. "So," she said calmly, folding her hands atop the table with deliberate grace. "Michael."

My spine straightened before I could stop it. Every muscle in my back pulled tight.

"I believe we had met before Italy, yes?"

Michael didn’t hesitate. Not even a flicker. "Yes, ma’am," he replied evenly.

Nonna nodded once, slow and measured, as if confirming something she had already concluded hours ago. "And I believe we started on the wrong foot."

My grip tightened subtly around my fork.

She shifted slightly in her wheelchair, eyes steady on him, assessing without appearing to. "And then again yesterday evening, when I accused you without hearing the full story."

I looked up before I could help it.

Nonna didn’t sound defensive. Or reluctant. If anything, she sounded... precise. Controlled. Like someone correcting a miscalculation.

"For that," she said, "I owe you an apology."

The word hung in the air. Apology? From Nonna? "And," she added, her gaze unwavering, "I am grateful for what you did for my girls."

My chest tightened unexpectedly at that. The sincerity in her voice wasn’t loud, but it was there. I glanced at Michael.

He inclined his head respectfully, calm as ever. "There’s no need, ma’am," he said. "I’m just glad they’re safe."

Then, after the smallest pause, he added, "And thank you for dinner. It’s excellent."

Nonna studied him for a long second. Not casually. Not idly. She was weighing him—measuring tone, posture, sincerity.

Then she picked her fork back up and took another bite. The room exhaled.Not loudly. But collectively.

Conversation didn’t immediately resume. The silence returned, thicker now, layered with what had just been said. Something had shifted. Not resolved. Just... repositioned.

I forced myself to eat, even though my nerves made each bite feel mechanical and overthought. I could feel Michael’s gaze flicker toward me once—brief, restrained, almost careful.

I didn’t look up.I told myself not to. Then Nonna spoke again. "And now," she said lightly, almost conversationally, as though she were discussing the weather,

"I must ask—what brings you to Italy, Michael?" My stomach dropped. I froze mid-motion, fork hovering just above my plate.

Nonna tilted her head, her eyes sharp but not unkind. "I find it difficult to believe in coincidence," she continued smoothly. "And yet, you and my granddaughter seem to keep crossing paths."

Heat rushed to my face instantly.

Across from me, Michael remained still. Calm. Unshaken. But I saw it—the subtle adjustment in his posture, the way his shoulders squared just a fraction more.

"I would hate to think," Nonna added mildly, almost pleasantly, "that you are following Katya."

Oh.

What the hell?

My heart slammed hard against my ribs. I stared down at my plate, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—my breathing, the faint tremor in my fingers, the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

Is she serious? Is she actually saying this out loud?

What brought her to that conclusion? And why now? I wanted to vanish beneath the tablecloth. Or laugh hysterically. Or interrupt. Or combust.

Anything except sit here while Nonna casually dismantled my composure in front of everyone.

I risked a glance up. Michael’s eyes met mine.

Just for a second. There was no surprise there. No irritation. No defensiveness. Just something steady. Grounding. Like he was silently telling me to breathe.

I looked away immediately, pulse skittering wildly. This was not happening. This was not a reasonable dinner topic.

Nonna had gone from apology to interrogation in under thirty seconds, and I was trapped in the middle of it, dressed like a walking complication.

My thoughts spiraled violently. What if he says the wrong thing? What if she pushes harder? What if this turns into something else entirely?

What if he truly was following me—but after six months... why show up now?

I swallowed. My appetite had completely vanished now.

The room felt suddenly very, very quiet. He cleared his throat. "I’m here on business," Michael said calmly. "I didn’t even know Katya was in Italy until I ran into her. That part was purely coincidence."

I felt a strange, disorienting mix of relief and tension loosen and tighten inside me at the same time.

Coincidence sounded safe. Neutral. Reasonable. But with Nonna, reasonable answers only invited sharper ones.

She hummed softly, neither impressed nor dismissive.

"Is that so?" Her eyes remained fixed on him. "Then why did it take you so long to answer?" My fingers curled into my napkin beneath the table.

Before Michael could respond, Nonna waved a hand lightly. "No matter. It’s alright."

That was worse.

Then, as if she’d just remembered something mildly interesting, she added, "What sort of business brings you here? I don’t believe I ever asked what you do."

Michael paused—just a breath, just long enough for me to notice—then answered evenly.

"I was a police officer. I’ve since left the force."

Chiara’s head snapped up instantly. Elena stilled completely, the baby shifting slightly in her arms.

The entire table sharpened. Nonna’s brows lifted just slightly—the smallest reaction, but telling. "An ex–police officer," she repeated slowly.

"And now?"

"I’m venturing into the business world," he said. "I’m in the process of building a club here in Italy."

Nonna leaned back slightly in her wheelchair.

"A club," she echoed. "Interesting." Her gaze sharpened again, the curiosity now edged with calculation.

"I didn’t realize policing paid so well," she continued mildly, "that one could afford to build clubs—especially at such a young age."

My stomach twisted.

Michael didn’t bristle. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t over-explain. "I saved," he replied simply. "And my father is assisting me."

There it was. That subtle shift in the air.

Not hostile. Not aggressive. But probing. Nonna wasn’t accusing anymore. She was dissecting.

And I hated it.

I shifted in my seat, heart hammering harder now. This was turning uncomfortable fast, and even though Michael remained composed, I could see the faint tension settling into his shoulders.

"Nonna," I cut in gently, forcing my voice to stay light as I finally looked at her directly, "you’re making him sound like he’s here for a trial, not dinner."

Her eyes flicked to me. I offered a small, careful smile. "He already explained why he’s here. And honestly, if he were stalking me, I think I would’ve noticed long before Italy... and come on, look at me. Why would someone want to stalk me?"

Chiara snorted into her drink before she could stop herself. "Oh, you clueless child," she muttered under her breath.

Heat flared up my neck. Michael glanced at me—just briefly—surprise flashing across his face before he masked it again with composure.

Nonna studied me for a long moment. Then she let out a quiet breath. "Perhaps," she said slowly, "I am asking too many questions."

She picked up her fork again. "Forgive an old woman’s curiosity."

The tension eased—not vanished, but softened enough for oxygen to return to the room. I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, shooting Chiara a glare before finally taking another bite of food, though I barely tasted it.

Across from me, Michael met my eyes once more. This time there was no surprise.

No guardedness. Just something that looked dangerously close to gratitude.

And somehow that made my heart beat even faster.