Chapter Two: Sofia

The ghosts never left.

Not in Tuscany. Not in this house. And not when a Moretti stepped through the shadows like they still owned the soil beneath their feet.

I’d heard rumors—whispers in the vineyard, low murmurs at the village bar. That the Morettis were back. That blood was moving again in the pipes of an empire we all thought had gone quiet.

But I didn’t expect him.

Luca.

His name still tasted like iron. Still rang like thunder through the memories I buried a long time ago.

I hadn’t meant to be out so late. The harvest had run behind and Nonna’s hands were tired. I volunteered to finish what she couldn’t. Maybe I wanted the silence. Maybe I liked the solitude. But I hadn’t asked for a monster in a suit to appear from the dark like some ink-stained ghost from my childhood.

And yet there he was.

Luca Moretti.

Older now. Broader. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak to make you feel the weight of his presence. He didn’t flinch when I looked at him. Didn’t blink. He just stood there, like the devil had finally decided to revisit the land he helped poison.

But I didn’t run.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

I walked.

Deliberate. Slow. Like I had every right to pass him. And when I reached the gate of the vineyard, I didn’t look back.

Not until I heard the distant engine of a car starting up—then silence again.

Gone.

Just like that.

But I knew better. Luca never just left.

He studied. Calculated. Waited.

I entered the villa through the back. The lights were still off. Nonna was asleep upstairs, probably dreaming of a time before war crept into the bones of this family. I set the basket of fruit on the counter and washed my hands, the cold water biting at my skin.

My reflection stared back from the window. Pale. Tight-lipped. A girl I didn’t always recognize.

I’d been sixteen when my father died. Gunned down in broad daylight for daring to defy the Morettis. They called it business. We called it murder. Either way, it left a wound that Tuscany never healed from.

I’d left after the funeral. Lived with cousins in Florence. Studied. Built a life. But when Nonna got sick, I returned. For a few months, I told myself. Just long enough to help.

It had been two years.

The land wouldn’t let me go.

I tried to sleep that night, but his face lingered. The way he looked at me like I was some puzzle he’d almost forgotten how to solve. I hated it. Hated him. But part of me—a dangerous, traitorous part—remembered what he used to be before he wore blood-like cologne.

The boy who saved a stray cat with a broken leg.

The boy who hid behind a vineyard wall and dared to kiss me when no one was looking.

We were children then. Before everything burned.

Now we were strangers carrying the ruins.

The next morning, I found a note pinned to our gate.

“We need to talk. Before this gets worse.”

No name. No signature. But the handwriting was his. I’d recognize that arrogant, slanted scrawl anywhere.

I crumpled it and threw it into the trash.

But I didn’t stop thinking about it.

That afternoon, I went to the old chapel. I lit a candle for my father. For my mother. For the versions of them that existed before bloodlines became battlefields. And as I turned to leave, a shadow detached itself from the wall.

He was waiting.

Luca.

In black. Always in black.

“You said we needed to talk,” I said quietly.

He nodded once. “And you came.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I came to light a candle.”

“Liar.”

I stiffened. “You still speak like a bullet.”

“And you still walk like you own the world.”

A beat passed. The silence between us stretched taut.

He stepped forward. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“My home is here.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Oh?” I crossed my arms. “Because the Morettis made it unsafe?”

Luca flinched—barely. But I saw it.

He ran a hand down his face, and for a moment, he looked tired. Human. “Things are moving, Sofia. Old names. Old debts. You don’t want to be near this.”

“Then stay away from me.”

“I can’t.”

The words were so quiet I barely heard them.

And in that instant, something in me cracked.

Not because I believed him. But because I wanted to.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

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