Page 164 of King Of Order

She’d changed my life and made it better. She wasn’t just my lover or partner—she was my peace.

I had everything I ever wanted.

The house, the view, the bliss—but most of all, her.

Before Chiara, my life ran like a machine, purposed and focused on getting revenge for my parents.

Order, precision, and detail. My shit had sat in its rightful position, planned and considered from every angle, keeping me grounded, engaged, on mission.

It also meant a severe lack of color and life.

There’d been no room for mess, no place for spontaneity or laughter for the sake of it.

It was not until Chiara charged into my life—or rather, when I broke into her gallery—that she brought all her vibrancy and chaos, beginning with our shared experiences and love affair and spilling into our new life.

Now, I woke to the aroma of baked bread on a random Tuesday, yoga on the grass outside every other morning, spontaneous singing in the shower, and art books scattered everywhere.

It was heaven: each night, we cooked together, shared wine and conversations, and celebrated our love with out-of-this-world sex love, all of it framed by the stunning view.

She filled the silence with her music, laughter, and ideas.

It was like she’d painted over the straight, monochrome lines I’d spent years obsessing over. Splashing reds, golds, and blues wherever she pleased, as if my life had been waiting for that touch of wildness to finally feel real.

I hadn’t thought I’d like it, the messiness she brought.

But I did.

Before Chiara, I existed behind a looking glass in a dull, two-dimensional reality—until she smashed through it, dragging me out and turning my world into a three-dimensional, sense-packed experience.

Now, I craved the noise, the unpredictability, even the way she squabbled with me over little things that didn’t matter.

She argued with both hands, gesturing her emotions, voice raised because she was so excited about what she was trying to convey. She laughed until she bent over, convulsing with emotion, shaking with mirth.

I loved how her fingers trailed through my hair and how she called me herdolce metàwhen kissing me, sucking me, making me come.

She took to settling into our new life with that same aplomb she handled everything else with—effortless and unapologetic.

I adored how she transformed our home, filling it with her art, soft furnishings, and color.

She also fit in with my kin as if she’d always been a part of our tribe.

Myfratelliand their partners cherished her for her strength, warmth, and quick wit.

I’d often find Mia, Cleo, and Chiara deep in conversation - most times at Lorenzo’s Blue Mountains spread - plotting the next family meal or laughing about some shared joke.

One night, she took over the kitchen, tossing us all out and cooking dinner, and hosted us all with effortless ease.

In our new life in Sydney, she surprised me even more.

She found friends—hell, she charmed the neighbors, including a grouchy couple who’d lived across the street for decades.

She reveled in their stories, where they came from, and even remembered their kids’ birthdays.

It wasn’t long before she assembled a close group of girlfriends. Their laughter spilled into the late hours whenever and wherever they gathered, their wine glasses clinking and filling our spaces with warmth.

It was as if Sydney had always been her home.

I chuckled often, thinking how my fastidious fixation on order and discipline had been messed up in the best possible way.

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