The Italian Job (Vampire Diaries)

The Italian Job

They were here.

I knew they were, I mean, it was cliché, and the Salvatore’s were one walking cliché.

And I was walking right into it, yet again, like I did in 1863, but I walked right out of it sharpish before the torches, pitchforks and Katarina came into the equation.

‘Oh mio Dio, perché lo sto facendo di nuovo?’ I whispered to myself  <Oh my God, why am I doing this?>

I slam the door of my red porshe, lock it and put the keys in my bag and put it back over my shoulder.

My heels click along the sidewalk as I adjust to the changes in Mystic Falls.

Well, it was 1863 the last time I was here, it was going to take time to orient myself , and getting around would be difficult, especially in these shoes. I loked down at the black lace up ankle boots, with huge hidden platforms and wooden block heels. They were expensive too.

Well, I am italian, we are known for our shoes.

Walking into the centre of town, seeing everyone with friends walking by in the crisp autumn weather. I twist the daylight ring on my fourth finger of my left hand, where my wedding ring should’ve gone if I ever got married. I carry on walking.

My name is Valentina, I ditched my surname centuries ago, I had to sever all ties to my mortal life when I was turned into a vampire by Katerina Petrova, in 1675, Rome, Italy.

I occasionally accompanied Katerina on her jaunts around the world, learning and absorbing everything about culture, but I always returned to Rome in the end, or little italy, when it was still little italy, and not just the tiny street of patchy italian restauraunts in New York.

I left Mystic falls in 1864 on Katherine’s,as she was now called, instructions. We were best friends, I never pried into her dangerous buisiness unless she wanted help, she knew all of my mundane boring buisiness. It was a relationship that worked well, companionship was something we both secretly craved. I had been without her now for 10 years, keeping in touch with phone calls, occasionally letters.

So I made a decision for myself, I came back to find the Salvatores, I wanted to experience life here, modern highschool, modern life, since I had very little human interaction, apart from food, and the occasional plaything. It was always Katherine who played the game of life, I stayed away, in the shadows. mostly, apart from 1864, but even then, I left before I could let myself make the mistake.

No mistakes this time though, just friends.

I had even put a sizeable dent in my fortune I had collected over the centuries.

Well, maybe not that much of a dent, after all, in today’s terms, which I could use to perfection, I was filthy stinking rich, and dead set on being the queen of the school, and there was no way anybody could stop me.

I scoured magazines, the internet, stores, every media outlet that would tell me how to look amazing. How to be envied, how to be a trend setter, I studied it, and now I was unstopable.

Until I got to the Mystic Grill, right where a Tavern used to be, Damon’s favourite tavern, when he was on leave from the army.

I ponder the ‘Mystic Grill’, lots of teenagers my age would be in there, probably who all attended the high school, and it was a Saturday evening.

Ah, why the hell not? I think to myself, trying out my new american catchphrases, I still couldn’t get all of the italian out of my voice, so with an accent I had assured myself was sexy, I stepped inside the dim Grill.

I breathe a sigh of relief, I have never been one to fool with bloodlust, I was raised too be strong and not give in so easily too my emotions, and that trait was heightened in my undead state, so the warmth and the close proximity of the humans had no effect.

The black haired man sitting at the bar, perched on a stool, an impeccably made worn black leather boot tapping gently on the foot rest. He sat alone. I looked away from him, unsettled by the familiarity of the way he lounged gracefully, and my eyes immediately lock with Stefan Salvatore, who was across the room, sitting with …Katherine?

This Is wrong. Katherine said she was back in Bulgaria.

She said she would maybe plan to come back, but she would let me get settled before she did. As I stare at this other Katherine, her eyes widen a little, and they’re completely different.

Still the same deep hazel, but these eyes have a strange warmth too them, and sadness, rather than mocking hate and a cold sense of justice like my best friend’s. This was creepy. Stefan’s eyes hold questions, what am I doing here? Is it really me? What do I want?

I shake my head at him, a small fast movement that humans would barely see. He got the message and distracted this Other Katherine, so I could move on through the slightly crowded, dim bar. Or would you call it a café? Or a restaurant? I have no idea.

I head to the bar, looking forward to the refreshing taste of whiskey on the rocks and the look on Damon’s face when he sees me.

Then I remember, strictly speaking, I’m only 17 years old.

Wait, what’s the drinking age in America again?

18? 21? Damn, I think it’s 21. Although I could easily pass for 21 if I wanted too, or compel the barman, if anyone sees me and then recognises me in school, my cover will be blown, and I’m quite enjoying this little town, I can’t wait for Katherine to get here.