3

Chapter 3

The next morning, my home was invaded.

I was sitting at the dining table drinking espresso when the elevator doors chimed open. Two soldiers emerged first, carrying suitcases and designer garment bags.

Isabella followed behind them.

She wore a pale Chanel dress, her face wan as if she'd just escaped a nightmare. But her eyes were steady, sweeping over the living room, kitchen, hallway, finally landing on me, as if confirming her place.

Vincenzo came in right behind her.

His shirt cuffs were stained dark red, his right shoulder clearly restricted in movement.

"Morning," Isabella spoke first, inappropriately cheerful. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

I ignored her, looking at Vincenzo instead.

"What happened to your shoulder?" I asked.

"Ran into some trouble with the Russians," he answered vaguely, as if afraid I'd press for details, then immediately directed his capo: "Take her things to the guest room. Keep the personal items separate, don't let anyone touch them."

"Yes, boss."

Vincenzo walked over to me, his tone brooking no argument.

"Help me with this."

He removed his jacket; the shirt at his shoulder was stuck with blood. I brought the medical kit, cutting away the fabric. The wound ran along the lower shoulder blade, edges irregular—clearly sliced by some blade, then torn worse by forced movement.

I disinfected it with alcohol. His breathing hitched slightly, but he made no sound. The wound was already trying to close, but it would take time.

Isabella sat on the sofa, arms wrapped around her knees, looking genuinely terrified.

"Last night was absolutely horrible," she said softly. "I thought I was going to die."

Vincenzo didn't look at her, but his voice softened, his protective instincts kicking in: "You won't. I'll protect you."

I sutured, medicated, bandaged—my movements clean and efficient. As I finished the last wrap, Isabella stood up as if suddenly remembering something.

"Oh," she opened an elegant box. "I brought you cannoli, as a thank you for... being willing to help him."

The lid lifted, releasing the sweet scent of ricotta and pistachios.

I glanced at it.

"I'm allergic to pistachios," I said.

She froze momentarily, then looked apologetic: "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I really didn't know."

Vincenzo had already buttoned his shirt, moving his shoulder experimentally. The pain made his brow tighten slightly.

"We need to leave the city for a few days," he said. "It's not safe here."

"Where?" I asked.

"Amalfi Coast," he said. "I have a place there."

Amalfi Coast.

In our world, that wasn't a vacation destination—it was a safe house disguised as a coastal villa. Perfect for mafia bosses to appear relaxed when territorial waters were calm, perfect for hiding bodies when storms came.

Three hours later, we arrived at the Amalfi villa.

The estate backed onto the Mediterranean, the front courtyard landscaped like a Roman garden. The walls were high, reinforced with steel and security systems, surveillance covered every angle, sea breeze carried the salt smell but couldn't dispel the vigilance here. Soldiers quickly took positions, checking every entry point like they were setting up a battlefield.

Inside, though, it was excessively luxurious: white marble, massive floor-to-ceiling windows, fireplace, wine cellar—as if specifically designed to make people forget the words "safe house."

When Isabella walked in, her familiarity was almost natural.

She placed her hand lightly on the stair railing, smiling: "This place hasn't changed at all."

"You still kept this villa," she said softly, part nostalgia, part declaration. "Ten years ago we hid here from a rival family's hit. Remember? You hid me in the cellar while you went outside to face them... When you came back, your hands were covered in blood."

I followed behind, saying nothing.

I knew perfectly well from the beginning—this wasn't "our" place. This was "theirs."

That evening, we sat in the living room.

Isabella had changed clothes, draped in a soft cashmere shawl, holding a wine glass as she reclined in the armchair like the lady of the house.

"I always thought I'd never come back here," she sighed. "Vincenzo, do you remember that year we snuck here? You said once you became Don, you'd bring me to live here."

I looked out at the ocean. Night swallowed the sound of waves, like it swallowed promise after promise with no one accountable.

Isabella had just poured herself a drink when Vincenzo grasped her hand: "You can't drink, you're still on medication."

He passed that glass to me instead.

I smelled it, something inside me bristling.

Bourbon whiskey.

The liquor I hated most.

I only drank limoncello. Vincenzo used to remember—back when we stayed up late calculating territory accounts together, cleaning weapons together in safe houses, he remembered these details. Now what he handed me was what Isabella loved.

I looked up at him.

He wasn't looking at me. His gaze remained on Isabella, as if checking whether she was still nervous, whether she needed more reassurance from her Don.

Something inside me broke.

Not loudly, but completely.

I set down the glass and stood.

"Where are you going?" he finally spoke.

"For a walk," I said.

"Don't wander off," he warned reflexively, like addressing someone irresponsible. "There are Russians in the area."

I nodded: "I won't go far."

I left the living room, walked through the corridor, pushed open the terrace door.

Sea wind hit my face—cold, carrying salt, clearing my head. Soldier silhouettes in the distance stood like shadows guarding the perimeter.

I took out my phone and sent my father a message.

I'm ready.

Come get me. Now.

After hitting send, I looked back at the floor-to-ceiling windows. The warm lights inside showed Vincenzo's figure moving closer to Isabella. He reached out to take the wine glass from her fingers, the movement practiced, like this was what he was always supposed to do.

That tenderness—I hadn't seen it in so long.

I pocketed my phone and turned to walk along the terrace.

Tonight, I would leave this place.