Marked by you

Helena sat in the dimly lit café, her fingers curled tightly around the porcelain cup, the scent of bitter espresso barely registering in her senses. Rain tapped gently against the windows, each drop a quiet reminder that this wasn’t a dream. She was alive—again. Her eyes wandered to the reflection in the window. Twenty-seven. That’s the age she had returned to. Her body felt stronger, her skin unmarked by the weight of time, but her heart… her heart was heavy with the memories of a life lost. And of him. Miguel De Luca. The boy who once held her hand when they hid from storms under the schoolyard trees. The one who used to promise to protect her forever. But time had changed him. The man he had become ruled the underworld with silence and steel. A Mafia boss. Dangerous. Powerful. Untouchable. She had only learned the truth too late—after her death, when rumors reached her ears like whispers from a different life. In her past life, she ran from him… thinking he was just another criminal. But now she knew: he had always been watching. Protecting. Waiting. And now, so was she. A bell above the door jingled softly, pulling her from her thoughts. Her breath caught in her throat. There he was. Miguel. Tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in black. His dark eyes scanned the café like a predator entering his territory. And when those eyes landed on her—he froze. She stood up, slowly. “Helena?” His voice was deeper than she remembered. Smooth, low, dangerous. She nodded. “It’s been a long time.” He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. Only stared. The weight of his gaze sent a chill down her spine—and a burn low in her belly. This wasn’t the boy she remembered. But she wasn’t the same girl either. “You disappeared,” he said. “And now you suddenly appear in my city, sitting here like nothing happened.” “I had my reasons,” she replied, voice soft but firm. “Reasons that got you nearly killed last time,” he said, his jaw tightening. So he did know. “I’m not here to run this time,” she whispered, meeting his eyes. “I’m here to stay.” Miguel stepped closer, the scent of danger clinging to him like his cologne—wood, spice, and gunpowder. He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was surprisingly gentle. “I don’t know who you are anymore,” he said. “Then get to know me again,” she replied. His lips twitched at the corners. Not a smile. Something darker. “Be careful what you ask for, Helena. My world isn't safe.” She leaned in, her heart racing. “Neither am I.”