Page 98 of King Of Order

Her laugh was soft, yet with no joy in it. ‘I haven’t painted in a long time. The stress and strain of all that’s happened. It’s blocked me. I try to, but nothing comes. It’s frustrating.’

I was not clued to art and its creative process, but I sensed enough to see the pain behind her words.

Her expression was her lifeline, and now, that outlet for her mind was fraying. Despite everything, she still gave, teaching kids how to find their voice through art.

Impressive.

Driving through Naples was always an experience—equal parts chaos and charm.

The narrow streets bustled with life, scooters weaving through traffic with reckless abandon, pedestrians darting out between cars like it was second nature.

The air was thick with the scent of espresso and diesel, and the faintest hint of the sea lingered in the distance. The city’s rhythm intensified as we approached Piazza Garibaldi.

The square was immense, sprawling in all directions, anchored by the massive central railway station.

It was a hub of activity, the heart of Naples’ transport system, with waves of buses and trains coming and going. Rows of shops surrounded it, some selling electronics and others vending souvenirs to tourists and residents alike.

Hotels, bars, and restaurants lined the edges, their signs glowing even in the early light.

On the side streets, food and clothes markets spilled into the pavement.

Here, vendors, some locals, and migrants hawked their goods, from pirated DVDs to knockoff sunglasses and mobile phone cases. The aroma of frying street fare mixed with the warm scent of pastries from nearby cafes.

The buzz of the city here was different—heavier, more urgent, and full of life.

As we pulled up to the curb, I glanced at Chiara. She gazed at the avenues with a soft smile, her eyes lighting up.

Something about this place brought her to life. I took a mental picture of her beauty, loving how lit up she was from within.

‘This is it?’ I asked, parking the car.

It didn’t seem like the safest neighborhood, and I flicked my eyes around, checking for weak points.

She shook her head. ‘Relax, Rio. I’ve been here often, and the neighborhood looks out for me and mine. The school’s down that alleyway,’ she said, pointing to a narrow side streetwhere a few children were gathered, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

I followed her through the crowds, the noise of the piazza fading as we turned into the quieter alley.

The school was an unassuming building—modest and tucked away behind the market’s chaos.

A little oasis amid the disorder.

Inside, the small hall was half-filled with kids—Pakistani, Chinese, Bangladeshi, Nigerian—an array of faces from every corner of the world.

The moment Chiara walked through the door, they lit up. It was like watching the sun break through clouds.

The youngsters swarmed her, excited voices filling the room as they reached for her. Their little hands pulled at her shirt, and they asked questions all at once.

‘SignoraChiara, look what I made!’ A little girl with dark braids held up a drawing, her eyes glittering with pride.

‘Can we paint today,Signora?’ another boy asked, tugging at her sleeve, while a few others danced around her, giggling and calling her name.

She tousled heads and gave out hugs. Later that day, she promised each kid who finished an artwork anottimo dolce, a delicious hazelnut pastry.

We had bags of them, and their little bodies wriggled with delightful anticipation.

The kids flocked to her, their faces lighting up as she handed out paints and brushes and guided them with gentle patience.

She knelt, getting close and intimate, and asked them questions about their drawings, families, and what mattered to them.

---