calm didn't last.
By morning, the air felt different—too still, too heavy. The sea was glass-flat, the kind of quiet that came before something broke. Even the gulls had disappeared. I felt it before I understood it, a pressure building beneath the beauty, like the earth was holding its breath.
Marco noticed too. He stood at the terrace doors, sleeves rolled up, his phone in hand. His voice was low and deliberate, the kind he used when something was wrong.
"Another shipment?" he asked whoever was on the other end. "No. Delay it. I want everything rerouted through Milan. I don't care what it costs."
His tone made my stomach knot. It had been weeks since I'd heard that voice—the one that belonged to the man I met before the gunshots, before the recovery, before everything had changed.
When he hung up, I asked softly, "Is something happening?"
He didn't look at me right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, on the line where the sea met the gray morning light. "Maybe," he said finally. "There's movement back in Naples. Someone's testing boundaries."
I moved closer, lowering my voice. "Yours?"
He turned to me then, eyes sharp again, alive in a way that both terrified and thrilled me. "They always were mine."
I wanted to believe it was only business. But I could see in the way his jaw tensed, in the restless movement of his fingers, that it was more. That whatever had almost killed him wasn't finished yet.
Leonardo appeared in the doorway, silent as always. "The car's ready," he said, though his gaze flicked briefly toward me, an unspoken warning.
Marco didn't move. "Not yet," he said. "I want the villa checked first."
Leonardo's brows lifted. "You think someone would—"
"I think too many people assume I'm dead," Marco cut in. "And that makes this place vulnerable."
I stood between them, my pulse quickening. "Marco," I said carefully, "you're still recovering. Maybe—"
He looked at me then, and the edge in his eyes softened. "I'm fine, bella. I just need to know everything's in place."
But the way he said it made me realize something I hadn't wanted to admit: this wasn't about reassurance. It was instinct. A predator returning to his own territory, testing for traps.
By late afternoon, the villa felt less like a home and more like a checkpoint. Leonardo moved through the halls quietly, securing doors, locking windows, and checking cameras. Marco followed him for a while, then stopped outside the study, his hand resting on the frame.
"I never liked being caged," he muttered.
I hesitated. "Then why stay?"
He glanced over his shoulder. "Because leaving would tell them I'm running. And I don't run."
There was a finality in his tone that made my chest ache. I wanted to touch him, to pull him back into that fragile calm we'd found, but the man standing before me wasn't the one who had leaned on me for balance, who had whispered my name like a promise by the cliffs. This was Marco De Luca, whole again—and dangerous.
That night, I woke to the faint sound of movement. The villa was wrapped in moonlight, shadows long and silver across the floor. For a moment, I thought it was Leonardo—his quiet steps familiar by now. But this sound was different. Hesitant. Careful.
I slipped out of bed, heart pounding, and moved toward the hall. The air smelled faintly of smoke—no, not smoke. Metal. Oil.
When I reached the staircase, I froze.
A figure stood by the main door, a silhouette framed by the pale light from outside. He was tall, lean, and wearing black. His hand rested on the handle, slow and deliberate.
Before I could speak, a voice came from behind me—quiet but razor-sharp.
"Don't move."
Marco.
He was already there, a gun steady in his hand, his body half-shadow, half-light. The calm in his voice made the hairs on my neck rise.
The intruder froze, turning slightly. The silence that followed felt endless.
Then Leonardo appeared from the corridor, gun drawn, eyes cold.
"Who are you?" Marco demanded.
No answer. Just a small shift in the man's stance—enough for Marco to react.
One sound. One shot.
The echo rang through the villa, a single note of violence shattering the fragile peace of spring.
I gasped, stumbling back as the man crumpled. Leonardo was already moving, checking the pulse, and muttering something under his breath in Italian.
Marco lowered his weapon, breathing hard. For a moment, he looked at the body, then at me.
"Get back to your room," he said quietly.
But I didn't move. Couldn't.
"Marco," I whispered, my voice breaking. "What is happening?"
He met my gaze, his expression unreadable. "It's what I was afraid of," he said. "They've found me."
The night stretched on after that, heavy with fear and adrenaline. The body was gone before dawn—Leonardo handled it with practiced silence, like this wasn't the first time. Maybe it wasn't.
When the sun rose again, the sea looked the same. Calm. Beautiful. Indifferent. But something had shifted inside the villa, inside us.
The calm was over. Marco was back. And now, so were his ghosts.