Palermo: northern coast, past midnight
The air smelled of salt and gasoline; the night had a slow breath.
Naiara Moreno stepped out of the car, letting the door close softly, as if the noise might shatter the silence of the sleeping town. The streetlights along the seafront flickered, one on, one off, casting patches of golden light over the humidity-darkened asphalt.
She still carried Clara's perfume on her skin, the scent of her friend who had dragged her out almost by force.
"Just one drink, Nay. You've got to stop hiding in that house."
She had smiled, pretending it was nothing. Now that smile felt heavy on her lips.
The walk home was short: three hundred meters, maybe less. Just cross the narrow alley by the harbor, climb the stone steps, and slip the key into the door.
Yet every step felt slower, as if something in the air was holding its breath along with her.
The sea was close, unseen but present: the slosh of waves, the dull thud of a boat bumping against the dock. Then, the faint sound of a sole brushing against gravel.
Naiara stopped.
She looked behind her. Nothing. Only the empty street, the amber light of the lamp, and her own shadow stretching toward the corner.
She took a step. Then another.
A gust of wind, sudden and cool, lifted her hair from her neck.
Instinctively, she turned again and in that instant, she knew, without knowing how, that she wasn't alone.
Her heartbeat quickened. She felt her pulse throb against the thin skin of her wrist. She reached into her bag for her keys, fingers trembling against cold metal.
A sound stopped her, not a footstep but someone's breathing.
Close. Too close.
"Who's there?" Her voice cracked halfway between courage and fear.
Silence.
Then, a shadow behind her: dense, like the sea at night. The scent of leather, metal, and rain.
A hand covered her mouth before she could scream. She didn't scream. Not right away. Her body reacted before her mind; her heart exploded in her chest.
The grip was firm but not brutal, strong enough to restrain her, yet controlled, as if the man knew exactly how much force to use not to hurt her.
"I won't hurt you."
The voice was low, rough, too calm to be true.
Every word vibrated against her skin… warm, near.
A light Sicilian accent. A tone accustomed to giving orders.
She tried to pull away, but his arms tightened just slightly, as if he were shielding her from something unseen.
The smell of the sea mingled with his breath, and for a moment, inexplicably, the fear gave way to another kind of chill: deeper, colder, that slid through her stomach.
"Let me go…" she whispered against his hand.
He didn't answer. He simply bent toward her ear, brushing her hair aside.
His breath grazed her cheek.
A pause.
Then only one sentence, sharp enough to cut the air:
"If you want to stay alive, don't look at me."
Silence.
Only the sea and the sound of her heartbeat, no longer obeying anyone.