Page 13 of Niccolo (Mafia Kings #7)

I was very intelligent growing up… but I was also introverted and socially awkward. As a result, I didn’t fit in with kids my own age.

I didn’t have any friends at school, male or female. I certainly never made friends with any of the nerds at my father’s Wednesday night classes.

It didn’t bother me that much at first. I had Papa and chess.

However, the divide between me and my peers grew wider as I got older.

Girls at my school started going boy-crazy around the age of 11.

Me?

I detested boys.

The ones at my school were stupid. The cuter they were, usually the dumber they were.

The ones at chess club were nerds and geeks and smelled like they never bathed.

And they always thought they were so much smarter than girls just because they had a penis.

I think that was one of the reasons I never had any interest in dating them.

In fact, throughout my teens and early twenties, I wasn’t attracted to anyone .

I didn’t masturbate, either. Not for any religious reasons – my family weren’t church-goers – but simply because I never got turned on by anything, and therefore wasn’t curious enough to try.

No one seemed to be attracted to me, either. Not that I put in any effort. I didn’t wear makeup, I didn’t give a damn about my hair, my clothes were baggy and unflattering, and my black-rimmed glasses looked like something a 50-year-old male electrical engineer might wear.

So it’s not like I had any suitors that might spark an interest in me.

I encountered the term ‘ace,’ slang for asexual, for the first time when I was 17.

As soon as I read about it, I thought, Oh – that’s ME.

In reality, I wasn’t asexual.

But I didn’t know that until a wedding years later…

When I finally met a man who sparked my interest.

I didn’t have any friends – not that I had time for any. Between my father’s tutoring, my own private study, Wednesday night chess classes, and tournaments, I didn’t have much time for anything else.

My father entered me into my first junior tournament when I was 9 years old. I won the entire ‘Under 12’ category.

Papa was so proud! That was actually one of the happiest days of my life, getting a cheap plastic trophy for first place as he beamed at me happily.

After that, he began entering me in teenage tournaments. You could play above your age group if you wanted – and Papa said younger children were no match for me.

As I got older, Papa and I traveled all over Italy, taking trains to weekend tournaments. Papa would play in the grandmaster tournaments, and I would play against teenagers.

I won more matches than I lost, but I still lost regularly – mostly to 17- and 18-year-old players with a decade’s more experience than me.

And every time I lost, my father would berate me.

Even when I won, he would usually pick apart my mistakes and never congratulate me – especially if he happened to lose that weekend.

I eventually began to hate tournaments.

Other children might have rebelled and stopped going – but not me.

Just like when I was younger and I would study long into the night, I thought, If I just get better and win more…

THEN he’ll love me.

I eventually got better.

I won more.

But I never seemed able to make him love me.

Things got worse the year I turned 14.

That was when the unprecedented happened:

I beat Papa for the first time.

Neither of us could believe it.

We just sat there staring at the chess pieces –

And then I grinned up at him, expecting him to finally shower me with love.

Instead, he said coldly, “Congratulations. You had your best day ever… and I had my worst day ever.”

My heart broke.

I probably would have been better off if I’d quit chess right then…

But instead, sadly, I just tried harder to get his approval.

After that first shocking defeat, my father played every single game with me like his life depended on it.

I only beat him once all year…

But after I turned 15, I beat him five times. Out of 600 games, but still.

By the time I was 17, I beat him at least 50% of the time.

When I was admitted to the World Chess Federation as the youngest female Italian grandmaster of all time, I thought Papa might be proud of me. That maybe my being a grandmaster, too, would take the sting out of when I won.

But he just got angrier and more distant. As if my success were somehow his failure.

But he still forced me to play him.

He was an exuberant, sneering prick when he won…

And a cold, silent asshole when he lost.

I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just love me…

But he never did.

And it only got worse with time.