Page 16 of Niccolo (Mafia Kings #7)

D uring all my years traveling Italy to play tournaments with Papa, I’d liked Bologna the best of all the cities we’d visited – so that’s where I headed.

There was a big university in Bologna, so there was plenty of cheap housing for students. And my parents didn’t live there, which was the primary attraction.

Besides, my needs weren’t great: somewhere to sleep, eat, and study chess books I checked out from the library.

I still played in plenty of tournaments – although I went to ones outside Italy in order to avoid my father. Switzerland, France, Spain, Austria, Germany, Croatia… the list went on and on.

I still had my ID from the University of Turin, so I was able to purchase a student Eurail pass, which allowed me to travel inexpensively. And I stayed in hostels wherever I played.

I refused to take on students because I’d hated my father’s Wednesday night sessions so much. As a result, I had to live off my tournament winnings – which gave me laser-like focus to become an even better player.

There’s a big difference between winning because you want to win, and winning because you need to eat.

Despite doing incredibly well at tournaments, the money was still meager. Travel expenses ate up a lot of it, too, no matter how cheaply I lived. My bank account drained away little by little, and I eventually had to find a second source of income.

The only readily available job in Bologna was waitressing jobs at restaurants that catered to tourists. It was flexible, too. I could work shifts during the week and then leave town for weekend tournaments.

I was a terrible waitress. Clumsy, bad people skills, and an almost genetic inability to fake a smile.

My one saving grace was that I was fluent in English, so I could interact easily with tourists, who made up 90% of our customers. That was the only reason I kept my job those first few months.

Besides the money, I also gained a few other valuable things from my time waiting tables.

For one, I decided to dress a little better and do my makeup.

Why? Because I noticed the prettier waitresses received better tips from Americans. (Other nationalities – especially Italians – didn’t really tip.)

I hated that physical attractiveness conferred greater advantages. Still, it was like hating the fact that a rook couldn’t move diagonally on a chessboard.

No sense fighting reality; just learn to deal with it and make the best of it.

I splurged and got a more stylish haircut.

Who am I kidding – I got a stylish haircut for the first time in my life.

I studied online tutorials until I was passable at applying makeup.

I also watched fashion videos and began shopping at thrift stores.

I went from dressing in clothes that fit me like a potato sack to wearing colorful, form-fitting outfits.

Perhaps most importantly, I traded in my black, plastic, 50-year-old-engineer glasses for frames that actually flattered my face.

It felt very odd. It was like I was teaching myself how to ‘do’ femininity.

My mother had certainly never taught me, and I’d never had any peers as a teenager to pick it up from.

And, to be quite honest, I’d never had any interest before.

My purpose in learning it now was strictly monetary in nature –

And it paid off. My tips from Americans improved dramatically.

Not only that, but I also made a few friends at work I hung out with occasionally.

There was a sort of ‘scene’ in the restaurant industry: servers and cooks would go hang out at their friends’ restaurants after closing and get drinks and food for cheap.

The next night, everyone would go to a different place, until they progressed through the entire circuit of restaurants in Bologna.

The waitresses at my restaurant asked me to come along, so I did. Once I learned I could basically eat for free, I went fairly regularly.

I would characterize the people I hung out with as ‘drinking buddies’ rather than close friends, but at least I had some human companionship for a change.

It was nice.

I also got asked out on dates by boys. I even said yes a few times.

Not to men at chess tournaments. God, no. Now that I looked more presentable, I got hit on all the time – but only by sweaty nerds and ugly older men who gave me the creeps.

Instead, I actually went out with some conventionally attractive guys who worked in the restaurant scene in Bologna. However, nothing ever happened beyond a few uninspiring kisses.

The asexual thing was real for me. I wasn’t attracted to the guys I went out with at all. I felt nothing.

I think they picked up on that and rarely asked me out a second time.

By the time I turned 23, I was still a virgin – but I wasn’t interested enough to do anything about it.

I figured losing my virginity was like moving to a new apartment. If it needed to happen, I’d eventually get around to it.

So, I had something resembling a social life… occasional dates… and a thriving career as a chess grandmaster. I was quickly climbing the ranks and heading toward the top 50 players in the world at the age of 23.

However, the money was horrible.

I managed to get by – barely – but my life was one of constant scrimping and living from paycheck to paycheck.

But I was reasonably happy. And I was free.

That was enough.

Until disaster struck.