Chapter Three: Luca

I never wanted to come back to Tuscany.

The land might be beautiful—golden fields drenched in sunlight, hills that roll like whispers, a wine that could lull the devil to sleep—but beauty doesn’t erase blood. And my family had spilled more of it than the soil could ever absorb.

When Alessandro summoned me home, I didn’t ask questions. That’s how it’s always been. He decides. I obey. I’d spent the last few years in Milan, elbows-deep in the Moretti family's filth, cleaning up messes no one talked about but everyone feared. Bribing judges. Fixing fights. Disposing of problems. No trail. No witnesses. No hesitation.

But Tuscany?

This place was a graveyard dressed as a postcard.

And yet, here I was—boots back on the land where it all started.

I told myself it was temporary. That I'd handle what needed handling and vanish before the ghosts noticed I was home. But seeing her again…

That wasn’t part of the plan.

Sofia Mancini.

She should have stayed gone. Should’ve built a new life somewhere far from this poisoned place. But no. There she was, walking through the vineyard like she had every right to be there—like her father hadn’t once tried to bring our family to its knees.

And I?

I stood there like a fool. Watching. Breathing her in.

She hadn't seen me—not really. Not until she was close enough to remember. Then her eyes found mine and time-warped. All I could hear was the wind, the rustle of grape leaves, and the thudding of a sixteen-year-old heart I'd buried long ago.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch.

Just walked past like she’d already buried me.

I let her.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat on the terrace of the Moretti estate with a glass of grappa and my thoughts—two things that never mixed well. The house was too quiet. Too sterile. Alessandro kept it like a showroom now, all stone and glass, with none of the warmth it once held. Mama would’ve hated it.

I thought of Sofia. Of the way, she held herself like armor. I remembered the way she used to laugh—loud and full before the world taught her silence. I remembered the taste of her lips behind the chapel when we were barely more than children. And I remembered how she cried at her father's funeral while I stood yards away, stone-faced, dressed in black, the son of the man who ordered the hit.

The guilt never left. I just learned how to wear it better than most.

The next morning, I left the note.

I knew she’d find it. Knew she’d read it, even if she burned it after. Sofia was always too curious for her good.

She came.

Of course, she did.

But I didn’t expect the fire in her voice. Or the way it scorched everything inside me.

Now, sitting behind the wheel of my car outside the chapel, I watched her disappear into the trees. She didn’t know it, but I’d placed two men to watch the vineyard. Quiet, discreet. Not to spy—just to keep her safe.

Because things were shifting.

Someone was stirring up the old rivalries. A name I hadn’t heard in a long time had surfaced—Volpe. Fox. The kind of man who used charm as a weapon and vengeance as a religion. We thought we’d crushed him years ago. Apparently, he’d just gone underground.

And he wasn’t coming for Alessandro. Not yet.

He was going to go after the weak points first.

The unprotected.

Sofia.

I lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke into the chilled air.

This wasn’t about love. It couldn’t be.

Love got you killed.

This was about protection. Redemption. Fixing something I hadn’t known I’d broken until I saw her eyes again.

That night, I returned to the estate and met with Alessandro in the study.

“She saw you,” he said simply, not looking up from his tablet.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“She’s a Mancini.”

“She’s also just a girl.”

He finally looked at me. “You know that’s not true.”

I said nothing. Because he was right.

Sofia was the one mistake I could never fully wash off.

Alessandro tapped the desk. “I need you focused.”

“I am.”

“Then prove it.”

He slid a file across the polished wood. Inside were surveillance photos, locations, and names.

Volpe's people. They were moving money through Florence again. Cleaning it through art galleries, construction companies, and wine distribution—classic fronts. But now, they’d moved some of that operation closer to Siena.

Closer to her.

“He won’t touch her,” I said.

“That’s up to you,” Alessandro said coolly.

I left without another word.

In the hallway, I passed Matteo and Dante, arguing over a weapons shipment. Matteo was already irritated, probably because someone had shorted our crates. Dante was laughing like it was all a game. That was his coping mechanism—sarcasm over sense.

I didn’t stop to listen.

I have one job now.

Keep Sofia safe.

And keep myself far enough away that she’d never learn the truth.

That it wasn’t Volpe who’d given the order on her father.

It was me.

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