CHAPTER THREE
1565 Words
Riccardo penthouse Garage
The gates slid open with a low hum as Gabriele parked the SUV neatly in front of the Borgia villa. Riccardo stepped out wordlessly, running a hand through his hair as he made his way into the garage.
It was his sanctuary.
Silent. Cool. Sleek.
Five cars sat lined up in perfection machines worth more than most houses. But there was one he always returned to. One he called his favorite.
The matte black Maybach.
Not just for the engine or the feel of it but because it was the only thing he ever bought for himself, not gifted by his family name.
He changed into a loose black hoodie, joggers, and sneakers, grabbing his basketball from the side rack before sliding into the driver’s seat. Gabriele didn’t follow he knew this part of Riccardo’s routine.
Basketball was one of the few things that made Riccardo feel human.
Normal.
Free.
---
20 Minutes Later
The roads were clear. The basketball court wasn’t far. Music played low in the background as Riccardo switched lanes, fingers tapping the wheel to the beat.
He was about to turn into the lane leading to the private sports facility when....
Scrrrrrrch.
His entire body stiffened.
He hit the brakes, slowly pulled over, and looked through his side mirror.
Behind him was a old Audi.
A small dent now decorated the back corner of his car.
He stared for a moment. Then exhaled, jaw clenched.
He pushed the door open and stepped out slowly, like a storm cloud building itself in human form.
The other car's engine sputtered, then died completely.
He approached the driver’s side and just as the window rolled down, his cold eyes met a tiny, panicked face.
A girl.
Big brown eyes. Messy hair. Clearly panicking.
Definitely not a confident driver.
He arched a brow. “Do you realize what you just did?”
The girl blinked at him. “I...uh....”
“Step out of the car.”
“I’d really rather not.”
“Out,” he repeated, tone even colder.
She slowly opened the door, revealing her petite frame and the massive stress radiating off her. Her hands shook as she tried smoothing down her shirt.
“I’m....I’m so sorry. It was the bike. I panicked....”
Riccardo narrowed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be on the road if you can’t drive.”
“I can drive,” she shot back, then quickly added, “Well, technically no. But yes. This is just a temporary…unlicensed situation.”
He blinked once. “You scratched a Maybach.”
She looked at the car, then him. “It looks... fine. Kind of.”
Riccardo didn’t move.
Alessia gulped. “Okay, not fine.”
---
Riccardo stood there silently, his piercing gaze fixed on her.
Alessia folded her arms, mostly to stop them from shaking.
“I already said I was sorry,” she said, voice lifting. “You don’t have to act like I committed murder.”
He raised a brow. “You scratched a half-a-million-euro car.”
She gave him a look. “Okay, relax, Mr. Maybach. I didn’t total it.”
His jaw ticked.
“And by the way,” she added, reaching for her phone, “you should be thanking me. That scratch adds character.”
“Character?” Riccardo echoed, tone flat.
“Yes. You billionaires are too obsessed with perfection,” she muttered, unlocking her phone.
Riccardo just stared. It had been years, years, since someone spoke to him like that.
“I’m calling my sister,” Alessia said, stepping a bit away from the car. “It’s her car anyway. She’ll sort this out.”
She turned and walked a few paces away, already dialing.
---
Donatella: “Hey, what’s up?”
Alessia (lowered voice): “Okay, don’t freak out.”
Donatella: “What did you do?”
Alessia: “I may have scratched your car.”
Donatella: “ALESSIA!!”
Alessia: “BUT LISTEN! I only drove it because your favorite twin ditched me at the car wash.”
Donatella: “Where are you?!”
Alessia: “Outside some angry guy’s matte black Mercedes or something, he’s all broody and dramatic and keeps talking like he’s in a mafia movie.”
Donatella (pauses): “…Wait. Black Maybach
Alessia: “Yes, why?”
Donatella (slowly): “…Is his name Riccardo?”
Alessia: “I don’t know, but he looks like he was carved from cold marble and judgment.”
Donatella said in a deadpan tone: “Alessia. That’s Riccardo Borgia.”
Alessia: “…Oh.”
---
The sound of tires screeching slightly broke the standoff. A glossy black convertible slid to a halt nearby donatella stepped out, her heels clicking against the pavement.
“Alessia,” she hissed, marching toward her. “What. Did. You. Do?”
Alessia winced. “hey Donatella, hehe, Technically, I didn’t....”
Then Donatella’s eyes landed on Riccardo.
She froze for half a second. “Riccardo…”
Riccardo kept looking at the two boringly but was irritated for sure.
“Donatella.”her name echoed in his mind.
She turned back to her sister. “You scratched his car?”
“Ugh, it wasn’t that deep....”
“It’s literally a Borgia.”
Riccardo’s voice cut through, calm and sharp. “It’s a car, not a kingdom.”
Donatella gave a small, tense smile. “Still. I sincerely apologize on her behalf. I’ll handle the repair costs.”
Riccardo looked at her for a moment, then at Alessia.
He said nothing.
Then he simply turned, walked to the other side of the Maybach, and got in.
Without another word.
The engine purred to life, and he drove off.
Alessia stared after the car. “Is it just me or did I just narrowly escape a lawsuit?”
Donatella groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”
---
The soft hum of the Maybach’s engine was the only sound as Riccardo gripped the steering wheel, his jaw tight.
A scratch. On this car. His favorite.
Unbelievable.
He tapped his Bluetooth button.
“Call Gabriele.”
A moment passed.
Gabriele: “Boss.”
Riccardo: “Get me the full names and contact details of the girls who caused the damage. This two dimwits just damaged my car.’’
Gabriele: “The one who scratched your car and the one who apologized?”
Riccardo: “Both. One’s reckless, the other’s too polite to be innocent. I want their information. Send them the repair bill.”
Gabriele: “Understood.”
Riccardo: “And if they delay payment,” he added, his voice like ice, “take it up with legal.”
A pause.
Gabriele: “Legal might be extreme for a scratch, Riccardo.”
Riccardo: “I don’t tolerate nonsense, Gabriele. Not from dimwits who crash into my car and try to charm their way out of it with sarcasm and lip gloss.”
Gabriele chuckled softly : “Got it.”
Riccardo: “I’ll be at the court. Let me know when you’re done.”
He ended the call, turned onto a quieter road, and parked at his private basketball court just outside the city. Grabbing the ball from his backseat, he walked toward the court, needing to sweat the irritation off.
As the ball hit the pavement, his mind, unwillingly, drifted back to the younger girl’s attitude and the older one’s voice.
“Donatella…”
The name sat oddly familiar on his tongue.
He tossed the ball again, harder this time.
He wasn’t going to let two strangers throw him off. Especially not two girls with too much eyeliner and too little awareness.
---
The soft hum of the Maybach’s engine was the only sound as Riccardo gripped the steering wheel, his jaw tight.
A scratch. On this car. His favorite.
Unbelievable.
He tapped his Bluetooth button.
“Call Gabriele.”
A moment passed.
Gabriele: “Boss.”
Riccardo: “Get me the full names and contact details of the girls who caused the damage. This two dimwits just damaged my car.’’
Gabriele: “The one who scratched your car and the one who apologized?”
Riccardo: “Both. One’s reckless, the other’s too polite to be innocent. I want their information. Send them the repair bill.”
Gabriele: “Understood.”
Riccardo: “And if they delay payment,” he added, his voice like ice, “take it up with legal.”
A pause.
Gabriele: “Legal might be extreme for a scratch, Riccardo.”
Riccardo: “I don’t tolerate nonsense, Gabriele. Not from dimwits who crash into my car and try to charm their way out of it with sarcasm and lip gloss.”
Gabriele chuckled softly : “Got it.”
Riccardo: “I’ll be at the court. Let me know when you’re done.”
He ended the call, turned onto a quieter road, and parked at his private basketball court just outside the city. Grabbing the ball from his backseat, he walked toward the court, needing to sweat the irritation off.
As the ball hit the pavement, his mind—unwillingly, drifted back to the younger girl’s attitude and the older one’s voice.
“Donatella…”
The name sat oddly familiar on his tongue.
He tossed the ball again, harder this time.
He wasn’t going to let two strangers throw him off. Especially not two girls with too much eyeliner and too little awareness.
---
- Writer
