The fog clung to Harbor's End like a bad habit, thick and unrelenting, turning the coastal Maine town into a watercolor painting where everything bled into gray. It was the kind of morning where the sea whispered threats instead of lullabies, and Luca Moretti appreciated that about it. Predictable in its unpredictability, just like the life he'd left behind. He twisted the key in the lock of his bookstore, The Forgotten Page, at exactly 8:45 a.m., same as every day for the past eight years. Routine was his armor, and he wore it like a second skin.
The door creaked open, releasing a puff of dust-moted air scented with aged paper and faint vanilla from the candles he burned to mask the mildew. Luca stepped inside, flipping on the lights with a flick that was more habit than necessity. The fluorescents hummed to life, casting long shadows across the uneven pine floors. Shelves groaned under the weight of thousands of books—mysteries stacked like unsolved cases, thrillers lurking in the corners, and a smattering of classics that no one ever bought but made the place feel legitimate.
He was mid-thirties now, though the years in hiding had etched lines around his eyes that spoke of decades more. Scarred but handsome in that rugged, don't-ask-questions way: dark hair tousled from sleep he rarely got, stubble shadowing a jaw that could cut glass, and a build honed from necessity rather than vanity. His hands, large and calloused, bore faint white lines from old knife fights, but here in Harbor's End, folks assumed he was just a handyman turned bibliophile. He let them.
Luca hung his coat on the hook behind the counter—a worn leather thing that had seen better days—and started his morning ritual. Coffee first: black, scalding, from the ancient percolator in the back room that gurgled like a dying informant. He sipped it while scanning the overnight emails on his laptop. Nothing but spam and a newsletter from a rare book dealer in Boston. Good. Silence meant safety.
The bell over the door tinkled its lazy chime, and in shuffled Mrs. Evelyn Danvers, the town's self-appointed gossip curator. She was eighty if she was a day, bundled in a quilted jacket that smelled faintly of mothballs and lavender. Her walker scraped the floor like a reluctant accomplice.
"Morning, Luca, my brooding bookseller," she called, her voice cracking like old vinyl. "You look like you wrestled a ghost last night."
He set down his mug, forcing a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Ghosts don't wrestle fair, Mrs. D. What can I do for you today? Another cozy mystery to solve from your armchair?"
She chuckled, a dry rasp that echoed off the shelves. "Oh, you know me. But first, news: That new coffee shop down by the docks? Owned by some out-of-towner named Vickers. Shady eyes, that one. Reminds me of my third husband—charming until the bills came due."
Luca leaned on the counter, arms crossed. "Third husband? I thought it was the second who ran off with the circus."
"Details, details." She waved a gnarled hand. "Point is, watch your back. Strangers bring trouble."
His gut tightened, but he kept his tone light. "In Harbor's End? The biggest trouble is the tide coming in too high."
She eyed him shrewdly. "You've got secrets, boy. I can smell 'em like burnt toast. But you're good people. Brought me that first edition Christie last month—didn't even charge extra."
"Consider it hazard pay for your stories." He rang up her usual: a paperback whodunit and a tin of peppermint tea he kept stocked just for her.
As she paid with exact change—always coins, always counted twice—Luca's mind wandered. Secrets. Yeah, he had a vault full. The kind that didn't stay buried no matter how deep you dug the hole.
It started as a flicker, like static on an old TV. Then the memory crashed in, uninvited and vivid.
Blood. Slick and warm, pooling on cold marble floors in a Brooklyn warehouse. His hands—younger, unscarred—gripping a Beretta, the recoil still vibrating up his arms. The man's eyes, wide with betrayal, as he gasped, "Alessandro, why?"
Luca blinked hard, the ledger blurring in front of him. He wasn't Alessandro anymore. That name died in fire and twisted metal. He rubbed his temples, where a headache bloomed like a promise. Not now. Not here.
Mrs. Danvers was saying something about the lobster festival next week, but he nodded absently, ushering her out with a polite "Come back soon." The door shut, and the shop fell silent again. He paced the aisles, straightening spines that didn't need it. Touching the books grounded him—their solidity, their stories contained neatly between covers. Unlike his own.
A young couple wandered in next, tourists by the look of them: matching fleece vests, cameras slung around necks. They browsed the travel section, whispering about lighthouses and whale watches. Luca watched from behind the counter, assessing. No threats. Just people living lives without looking over their shoulders.
"Can I help you find something?" he asked, voice steady.
The woman smiled brightly. "Oh, just looking! This place is so quaint. How long have you owned it?"
"Eight years." He kept it vague. Always vague.
"From around here?" the man pressed, flipping through a guidebook.
Luca's scar itched. "Close enough. If you're into history, check the upstairs loft. Got some old maps of the coast."
They thanked him and climbed the creaky stairs, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He pulled out his phone—no signal in the fog, as usual—and scrolled through nothing. Habit. Checking for tails that weren't there.
Another local dropped by: Tom Hargrove, the fisherman with hands like sandpaper and a laugh like thunder. He bought a stack of Westerns, grumbling about the weather.
"Fog's thicker than my ex-wife's alibis," Tom boomed. "You holding up, Luca? Look like you need a stiff drink."
"Coffee does the trick." Luca bagged the books. "Catch anything good lately?"
"Nothing but regrets." Tom winked. "But seriously, kid—you ever think about getting out? This town's a graveyard for dreams."
Luca's laugh was genuine, if brittle. "Dreams are overrated. Give me quiet any day."
Tom clapped him on the shoulder—too hard, but Luca didn't flinch—and left. The bell jingled farewell.
Quiet. Yeah. But quiet had edges, sharp ones that cut when you least expected.
He busied himself restocking the front display: new releases in suspense, covers screaming danger he no longer chased. As he arranged them, another flash hit.
Gunfire echoing in an alley. Rain-slick streets in New York, the Rossi family crest on a ring glinting under streetlights. Vittorio's voice, gravelly and commanding: "Remember when to forget, Alessandro. That's how we survive."
Luca dropped a book, the thud echoing like a gunshot. He knelt to pick it up, heart hammering. That phrase. Buried deep, with the rest of the corpses.
He shook it off, stood, and glanced at the clock. 10:30 a.m. Slow day. Good for thinking. Bad for forgetting.
The bell tinkled again, and this time, the air shifted. Charged, like before a storm. Luca looked up, and there she was.
She glided in, not walked—elegant in a way that screamed old money or older secrets. Mid-thirties, he guessed, with a presence that filled the room without trying. Black coat tailored to perfection, cinched at a waist that curved just right. Boots polished to a sheen, heels clicking softly on wood. Hair like midnight, pulled into a sleek knot that exposed a neck graceful as a swan's. But it was her eyes that hit him: storm-gray, sharp as shattered glass, scanning the shop with the precision of a sniper.
Perfume wafted over: jasmine undercut with something metallic, almost like cordite. Familiar. Dangerous.
Luca's mouth went dry. Attraction flickered—unwanted, unbidden—but he shoved it down. Professional. Always professional.
"Morning," he said, voice even. "Looking for anything specific?"
She tilted her head, a ghost of a smile playing on lips painted a subtle red. "Thrillers, perhaps. Something with... intrigue."
European lilt. Italian? No, subtler. Swiss, maybe. He pointed. "Back left. Patterson, Grisham, the usual suspects."
She nodded, drifting that way. Her gloved hand trailed over a shelf, lingering on a spine of "The Godfather." Ironic, or intentional?
Luca watched her from the corner of his eye, pretending to sort receipts. She moved with purpose, pulling books, flipping pages, but not reading. Observing. Him.
Tension coiled in his gut. Who was she? Tourist? No. Too poised. Reporter? Possible. Or worse—someone from the life.
She approached the counter with a single book: a worn copy of "The Bourne Identity." Fitting.
"This one," she said, voice like velvet over steel.
"Ten bucks." He rang it up, avoiding her gaze.
As he bagged it, she leaned in slightly. "You have an eye for forgotten things, Mr. Moretti."
His hand froze mid-motion. "How do you know my name?"
"The sign outside says 'Proprietor: Luca Moretti.'" But her eyes said she knew more.
He handed her the bag, fingers brushing hers—gloved, but electric. "Enjoy the read."
She didn't move. Instead, she reached into her coat, produced a folded note on thick cream paper, and slid it across the counter. "For you. When you're alone."
Luca stared at it. "What's this? Fan mail?"
"A reminder." Her tone dropped, intimate. "Remember when to forget?"
The world tilted. Those words—his words, Vittorio's words—echoed from a grave he'd dug himself.
He snatched the note, crumpling it slightly. "Who the hell are you?"
"Elena Voss." She met his stare, unflinching. "And you, Luca? Who are you, really?"
Subtle undercurrent: challenge, curiosity, something warmer he ignored.
"Out," he said, low and dangerous. "Now."
She held his gaze a beat longer, then turned. "We'll talk soon."
The door jingled shut. Fog swallowed her.
Luca unfolded the note with shaking hands. Black ink, elegant script: *Remember when to forget?*
He burned it in the sink later, watching flames curl the edges. But the words lingered, smoke in his lungs.
The rest of the day blurred. Customers came and went: a kid buying comics, an old man seeking war memoirs. Luca smiled, nodded, but his mind raced. Who was Elena Voss? How did she know?
By closing, exhaustion hit. He locked up, climbed to his apartment. Sparse: bed, couch, kitchenette. No photos. No ties.
He poured scotch, stared at the note's ashes in the trash. Then the nightmare came.
Fire roared, car flipping in slow motion. Pain, heat, death's embrace. Vittorio's laugh in the flames: "You can't forget forever, Alessandro."
Luca woke drenched, gasping. He stumbled to the floor safe, palm-pressed the panel. Gun, IDs, cash—his escape kit.
He sat in the dark, Glock in hand, waiting for dawn. Capote the cat curled nearby, purring unease.
Tomorrow, he'd find her. Ask questions. Get answers.
Or bury another secret.
But deep down, he knew: the past wasn't done with him.
And neither was Elena Voss.
Wait, let's continue expanding.
He sat there, the weight of the Glock comforting in his lap, the metal cool against his skin. The apartment was a fortress of solitude, walls thin but soundproofed with books below. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, striping the room in silver and shadow. Capote jumped up, kneading his thigh with sharp claws, a reminder that life went on, even for strays like them.
Luca's mind replayed the day, dissecting every moment. Mrs. Danvers' warning about strangers—prophetic? Tom's casual probe about leaving town—coincidence? And Elena... God, Elena.
Her face lingered: high cheekbones, full lips curved in that knowing smirk. Attraction? No, adrenaline. That's all it was. The way her coat hugged her figure, the confidence in her step—dangerous. Reminded him of women from the old life, the ones who could kiss you or kill you with equal ease.
He set the gun down, rubbed his face. Eight years. He'd built this. The bookstore wasn't just a cover; it was salvation. Mornings with coffee and crosswords, afternoons recommending reads to lonely souls, evenings with a book and silence. No blood, no betrayals.
But the flashback earlier—blood on marble— that was from the Rossi days. Alessandro Rossi, enforcer for the family. Vittorio's right hand, until the doubts crept in. Fragments of memories: a child's scream, a father's fall. Drugged? Repressed? He didn't know. Just knew he had to die to live.
The staged explosion: a contact in the family, a body double, fire and chaos. Headlines: "Mafia Hit Claims Rossi Enforcer." Freedom.
Until today.
"Remember when to forget." Vittorio's mantra for clean slates. After hits, after losses. Forget the faces, the pleas. Remember only loyalty.
How did she know?
Luca stood, paced. The floorboards creaked under his weight. He opened the window, letting fog-laced air in. The harbor murmured below, boats bobbing like ghosts.
Perhaps she was a ghost. Or a hunter.
He grabbed his phone, no service, but he had a burner in the safe. Tomorrow, he'd run a search. Voss—common enough, but with that accent?
Sleep evaded him. He lay back, staring at the ceiling cracks that looked like veins. When dawn broke, gray and grudging, he was ready.
The chapter continues with more internal struggle, perhaps a flashback scene expanded.
Expanded flashback: The night of his first kill. Eighteen, initiated. The mark: a rat in the family. Vittorio handing him the gun. "Do it clean, Alessandro. Then forget."
The shot, the recoil, the blood. Vittorio's pat on the back. "Good boy."
Luca bolted up, sweating again. Enough.
He showered, cold water shocking the ghosts away. Dressed in jeans, sweater, boots. Down to the shop, opened early.
The day dragged, but no Elena. Locals noticed his edge.
"You okay, Luca?" Mrs. Danvers returned for tea. "Look like hell."
"Fine. Fog headache."
She snorted. "Liar. But your secret's safe."
If only.
Afternoon, he closed briefly, walked the docks. Fog hid everything, but he sensed no tails. Back, more customers.
Evening, alone again. He researched on his laptop—Elena Voss. Journalist? A hit? Nothing solid.
Night fell. Another nightmare: Elena in the flames, whispering the phrase.
He woke, gun in hand.
This was just the beginning.