Marco's POV
I didn't plan to be in that part of Florence.
I was supposed to be on my way out, errands finished, calls made, business sealed and buried for the day. But the sun was warm, and the city was humming in that particular way it did in late June, when students had fled, and locals reclaimed their streets, and the smell
Cinnamon. It caught me off guard.
A memory I couldn't swallow.
She used to say it was the one scent that made her feel like the world was safe again.
I walked past the bakery before I could talk myself out of it. The bell chimed above the door as I stepped inside, same cracked tile, same cluttered chalkboard menu, same woman behind the counter, nothing had changed, except me. I ordered two cinnamon rolls. One out of habit. The second out of memory. The cashier handed them over in a paper bag. I turned, slipping my gloves back on…
And then she walked in.
Elina.
Two years older, even more beautiful.
Hair pulled into a loose bun. Cream linen blouse, a book tucked under one arm, and sunglasses perched on her head, she looked like someone on her way to nowhere in particular, and at complete peace with that. She didn't see me, not at first.
She was humming under her breath, her eyes scanning the display case with that same curiosity I remembered, like she wanted the world to surprise her, my breath caught, my fingers tightened around the bag, I should've left, but I didn't.
Instead, I stepped aside, clearing her path. She brushed past me lightly, shoulder to shoulder, and then, she stopped.
Just for a second. And turned. Our eyes met.
Her brow furrowed, confused, like a piano note out of place.
She stared at me the way you look at a photograph that should mean something—but doesn't.
I didn't smile.
Neither did she.
And then I saw it, her fingers, they rose, slowly, unconsciously, to the necklace around her neck. She was still wearing it, the one I gave her, two years later, she had no idea who I was, but her body remembered. I swallowed hard.
She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but no sound came, and I knew if I stayed, if I stared any longer, I'd fall to my knees right there in front of her. So I nodded, gently and whispered the only thing I ever wanted to say to her again.
"Be safe, little star."
Then I turned, and walked out the door.
The second the door shut behind me, I knew I wouldn't make it far.
I turned the first corner blindly. The paper bag in my hand, still warm, felt like it was burning through my skin. I dropped it into the nearest bin and kept walking.
Fast.
Aimless.
I didn't care where I was going. I just needed to move before the silence swallowed me whole. It wasn't supposed to hurt this much. Two years.
Two fucking years, and my chest still reacted to her presence like it was day one. Still pulled tight at the sound of her voice, even if it was just a hello to the woman behind the counter. Still set fire to my ribs at the way she clutched that necklace like it was oxygen.
I'd whispered those words, "Be safe, little star", to protect her. But the moment they left my mouth, I wanted to rip the sky open and scream her name.
I wanted to ask her if she remembered the beach. The letter. The way she'd play with the back of my hair while reading. The breathless nights where our silence meant more than any language.
But she didn't. She'd looked at me like a page torn out of a book she never read, and I… I had no right to want more, so I ran, not through alleys this time, not from enemies, not from my past but from myself.
I found myself back at the villa, empty now, cold in ways it hadn't been, even when my father was still alive.
Dante's office door was still cracked open, his chair untouched. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me like I was sealing off air, and then I let go, I collapsed into the armchair, chest heaving, vision spinning.
I didn't sob. Didn't scream.
I just sat there, tears falling silent and slow, like ash drifting through the aftermath of something that had already burned to the ground.
I'd spent years becoming exactly what my father wanted, I'd buried softness, killed hope, let go of love, and it still wasn't enough because she was standing in front of me today, and I still wanted everything. Not safety. Not distance.
Everything.
But she didn't know me. And the cruelest part?
She'd been wearing the necklace like her body remembered me better than her heart did. I laughed bitterly. "Little star," I whispered into the emptiness. "You don't even know the light you carry." I wiped my face roughly, stood up, and faced the mirror on the far wall.
The man in the glass looked tired. Not dangerous. Not in control. Just… hollow.
I hated him. And I loved her. And neither of those things were enough.