The day after the shooting began with silence—not peace, but the kind that comes after destruction. The villa, once filled with salt and warmth, now reeked faintly of gunpowder and bleach. The carpets had been cleaned, the marble floor polished, and the evidence scrubbed away, but no one could wash the tension from the air.
I hadn't slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flash of light, heard the echo of the shot, and saw the way Marco's face didn't change when the man fell. No hesitation. No remorse. Only certainty.
When I finally stepped out of the bedroom, the terrace doors were open. The morning light spilled across the floor, too bright against the stillness. Marco sat there, shirt sleeves rolled up, his forearms tensed against the table. A half-empty glass of whiskey glowed amber in front of him.
"Did you sleep?" I asked quietly.
He didn't turn. "Did you?"
I didn't answer. He knew.
Leonardo was outside near the car, talking into his phone. His tone was clipped and professional. He had been like a shadow since the night before—no expression, no questions, only movement.
I stepped closer, arms wrapped around myself. "You knew they'd come."
Marco's jaw flexed. "I suspected."
"That's not the same thing."
Finally, he turned to me, and the look in his eyes made me take a small step back. It wasn't anger—it was calculation, cold and deliberate. "You think I wanted this?" he said softly. "You think I don't know what it means when blood is spilled under my roof?"
I swallowed hard. "Then tell me what it means."
He looked past me to the cliffs, where the sea crashed faintly below. "It means someone's trying to remind me I'm not invincible."
His words hung between us, heavy as the morning air.
I sat down across from him, careful, watching the faint tremor in his hand as he lifted the glass. "Who was he?" I asked.
Marco didn't answer at first. Then: "A messenger."
I frowned. "From whom?"
He gave a humorless smile. "If I knew that, he'd still be alive."
A shiver ran through me. "You think someone sent him just to die?"
He set the glass down, the sound sharp against the table. "That's how messages are sent in my world."
I stared at him. The man before me wasn't the one who had laughed with me in the kitchen or brushed my hair from my face when the storms came. He was something older, harder. Reborn.
Leonardo appeared at the door. "We have a name," he said. "Rossi. No official record, but he used to work for Salvatore Ferri's people in Naples."
Marco's expression didn't flicker, but I felt the shift in the air. "Ferri," he repeated. "Of course."
Leonardo nodded. "You want me to—"
"No," Marco cut in. "Not yet."
Leonardo gave a short nod and disappeared again, silent as always.
I stared at Marco. "Who is Ferri?"
His gaze slid back to me, unreadable. "Someone who thinks the world's quieter without me in it."
I didn't miss the phrasing. Thinks.
He stood then, pacing toward the terrace rail. The morning light touched his face, but it didn't soften him. "He'll want to see what I've become," Marco said. "To test if the rumors are true. That I'm alive. That I'm weak." He turned to me, his eyes dark. "He'll be disappointed."
Something inside me cracked a little. "Marco, you can't—"
"I can," he said, cutting me off. "And I will. Because if I don't go to him, he'll come back here. And next time, he won't send a messenger."
The sea wind swept through the open doors, carrying the faint scent of salt and rain. It felt like a warning.
"You just got your life back," I whispered. "Don't throw it away to prove something."
He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint scar near his temple, the shadow of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. "This isn't about pride, Isabella. It's survival."
He brushed a hand down my arm, and for a fleeting second, the steel in him wavered. "I can't protect you if I'm running from ghosts."
That night, the villa changed again. Men arrived—quiet, efficient, faceless. They moved through the house like smoke, setting up new cameras, reinforcing the gates, and posting guards at every point of entry. The hum of machines filled the silence where laughter used to live.
I stood at the window, watching headlights disappear down the cliff road, the world outside shrinking.
Marco was on the phone again, his voice low and in control. "We move in two days. Naples first. No leaks."
My heart stilled. "You're going back?"
He turned toward me, his expression softening just slightly. "It's the only way to end this."
I shook my head. "You can't fight ghosts, Marco."
He smiled faintly, almost sadly. "No. But I can remind them who I am."
And in that moment, I knew—whatever peace we had found was gone for good. The war he thought he'd escaped was already on its way back to him.
And this time, it wouldn't stop at the villa gates.
This time, it would come for both of us.