The Mafia 's Moonlight

Luna Marcelli hadn't glanced up initially as a customer came in, the gentle ring of a bell announcing. Tipsy on the bog moors and Heathcliff's mournful singing voice, she read page three of a folded Wuthering height. She'd been to this little haven many times. Ghosts dwelled in books. Hers would kill you alive. A draft arose behind her, stirring the aroma of old books and coffee. She finally got his notice and smiled. "Hello and welcome to Belladonna Bookshop," she said warmly but softly." I would be happy to assist you in locating what you are searching for". Silent as the demon, the man smiled softly and made his way towards the shelves. As slick as silk to the people who stroll, Luna glared at him for an instant. Black head to toe in a designer jacket and boots pricier than a month's rent, he may not be a welcome figure in this run-down section of town. This was the notion. Located on an awkward street in the older part of town, Belladonna is surrounded by a painted-up apartment building and a boarded-up bakery. It would be hard to miss such a building. People walked by without slowing down. That was how Luna liked it. Obscurity protected her. Or had, anyway. She exhaled and thrust herself back into the book. Her fingers brushed the pages as if in prayer. Her unobtrusive life, so carefully built in the last five years, was based on three commandments: no late evenings, no familiarity with the past, and never attracting attention. Then the stranger spoke. "Is everything they say regarding this location true?" he asked. Luna glanced away. The man stood behind the counter and his hands were resting on the light glass, his voice smoother than she could ever imagine. He had an accent, quiet and expensive. Old money. "That depends," she said cautiously, setting the book aside. What do they say? "That the daughter of Enzo Marcelli has a bookstore here. That she sells novels during the day and escapes from reality at night." Blood poured out of her face. She couldn't answer him. Her heart beating fast against her ribs, a mad rush of fear. She stood, slowly, her gaze locked on her. He smiled. "Still so composed," he said. "Just as your father said you'd be." Luna's mouth went dry. "You knew my father?" "Knew him," the man said again, "and owed him more than I wished to say." But I'm not here for stories, Luna." He said her name like a challenge. "I'm here for the debt." Luna took a step back instantly. "Please, I do not know what you are talking about. My father is-" "Dead," he said, cutting her off. "Yes." A shame, really. He was a man of honor. Misguided, but loyal." Her voice cracked as she asked, "Who are you?" He reached into his overcoat. Luna flinched. But he only pulled out a sleek black card and slid it along the counter. Dante De Luca. She stared at the name as if it would vanish. No. No, this was not correct. Her surname was uttered as an oath in the locations where she used to hang out with them. Enzo Marcelli had formerly spoken of the De Lucases as "Rome's silk devils." Chilled, intelligent, and above all, heartless. "You shouldn't be here," she panted. "Whatever you desire, whatever you believe I owe you, you're mistaken." Dante shifted his head to one side, twisting his mouth. "You do not know what your dad did, do you? With a spark of fire rising in her chest, she shouted "I am no longer living that life." It was five years ago. I'm not part of it anymore." Dante leaned in closer, and for a moment the light danced off his face. Dark hair, square jaw, a scar at the arch of his temple, just out of reach, but it gave him the appearance of something cut from war. His eyes, though, were the threat. Icy gray, unsmiling, locked on her like the game was already lost. "No one escapes, Luna Bella," he whispered. "They just get weary of running before someone catches up to them." The nickname made her shiver. You are not worthy of it. "I have not much to offer you." "Oh, I don't think so," Dante snapped to his feet. "You have your name." Your blood. And a debt that your father signed in both." Luna's breath caught. "I'm not asking," he continued. "I'm warning you." Come willingly, or we'll do this the hard way." A thousand memories flowed at once, her father's last words before he disappeared, the silent phone calls that stopped ringing, the sudden silence of all who were ever family. She had kept it all under dust and books and nighttime tea. Her attempt to blend in with the background was never successful. Luna examined her bookstore, taking in the wooden bookcases, the string lights linked across the windows, and the soft armchair in the back room. Her small world. Her freedom. Dante noticed where she was staring. "Great store. Shame if it burned down." Her eyes flashed over to him, outraged. He didn't wink. Didn't smile. He simply shifted and went to the door. Over his shoulder, he said, "I will be back tomorrow." "You have to decide by then. Then he vanished, covered by the fog outside. Luna's heart raced, she stood frozen. As though making in might prevent the world from moving, she gently got into the counter's edge. It was not capable. She looked down at the card still resting on the glass. Dante De Luca. She realized what tomorrow would be like. Her idyllic life, her illusion of peace, was over. The past had not simply caught up. It had walked in dressed spick and span in a tailored suit and smelling of roses and gunpowder.