Chapter Two: A Protection She Never Asked For
1035 Words
Serafina did not sleep that night.
She lay on the narrow bed in her aunt’s apartment, staring at the ceiling fan as it creaked in slow, uneven circles, counting rotations like prayers she no longer believed in. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.
Alessio De Luca.
His voice had not been loud. His threat had not been violent. And that was what unsettled her most.
Men who shouted wanted obedience.
Men who whispered expected surrender.
She turned onto her side, pulling the thin sheet up to her chin.
I will die before I let harm touch you.
Who said that?
Not lovers. Not strangers. Not men who respected freedom.
Men who believed in ownership.
By morning, she decided one thing with painful clarity:
She needed to leave Palermo.
⸻
She left the apartment just after dawn, sunglasses hiding the dark circles beneath her eyes. The city was waking slowly—shopkeepers pulling metal shutters upward, scooters coughing to life, the scent of espresso cutting through the damp air.
Serafina walked fast.
She had booked a train to Rome. One way. No goodbyes.
As she turned a corner near the market, a man stepped into her path.
“You should slow down,” he said politely.
She stopped short.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in a gray jacket. His face was unremarkable—too unremarkable. The kind of man meant to blend in.
“I’m late,” she said, attempting to step around him.
He moved with her.
“You are being followed.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t,” he replied calmly. “But it ends now.”
She looked around, panic rising. “Who are you?”
“A mistake,” he said, and then reached for her wrist.
She never screamed.
Because she never got the chance.
A gunshot cracked through the morning air—sharp, precise, final.
The man’s body jerked violently, his grip loosening as blood bloomed across his chest. He collapsed at her feet, eyes wide in stunned disbelief.
Serafina screamed then.
People scattered. Someone shouted. A woman crossed herself. Somewhere, a window slammed shut.
And across the street, near a café that had not yet opened, Alessio De Luca lowered his gun.
He did not look shaken. He did not look angry.
He looked relieved.
⸻
The police called it an attempted mugging gone wrong.
They always did.
By noon, the street had been washed clean. By evening, the name of the man who died would disappear into paperwork. No family would ask questions. No investigation would last longer than it had to.
That was how Alessio ensured safety.
He stood in the church later that night, alone, kneeling before the altar. A rosary slid through his fingers, each bead a silent acknowledgment of sin.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I chose her again.”
His phone vibrated.
She knows, read the message.
Alessio closed his eyes.
“Yes,” he said softly to no one, “she must.”
⸻
Serafina sat in the small police office, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like detergent and strangers. Her hands shook despite the warmth.
“You’re very lucky,” the officer said, not unkindly. “If that shot hadn’t been fired when it was—”
“Who fired it?” she interrupted.
The officer hesitated. “A passerby, we think.”
She laughed—a short, broken sound.
“You think.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Miss Romano, you should consider staying with family for a while. Palermo can be… unpredictable.”
She swallowed hard.
No, she thought. Palermo is precise.
She left the station just before sunset.
And there he was.
Standing beside a black car, dressed impeccably, hands folded calmly behind his back as if he were waiting for a dinner reservation.
She marched toward him, fury shaking her entire body.
“You killed him.”
Alessio met her gaze without flinching. “Yes.”
“You followed me.”
“Yes.”
“You lied when you said you wanted my freedom.”
“I never said that,” he corrected gently. “I said the choice was yours.”
Her hands clenched into fists. “You don’t get to decide who lives or dies because of me.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I decided because of me.”
She stared at him, breath ragged. “He could have been bluffing.”
“He wasn’t,” Alessio replied. “He had a knife in his left sleeve and instructions to scare you. Fear makes people easier to move.”
Her stomach twisted.
“You knew all this,” she whispered.
“I know everything that comes near you,” he said.
“Why?”
His jaw tightened—just slightly.
“Because the moment you returned to Sicily,” he said, “your name reopened old accounts.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for you.”
“I know.”
“Then stop.”
Silence stretched between them.
Alessio stepped closer—not invading, not retreating. Simply present.
“I cannot,” he said quietly. “I have already promised my life for yours.”
Her eyes burned. “To whom?”
“To God,” he answered. “And to myself.”
“You’re sick.”
“Perhaps.”
She looked away, fighting tears. “Everyone around you dies.”
He reached out, then stopped himself—his hand hovering inches from her shoulder.
“Everyone around you survives,” he said. “That is the difference.”
Her voice broke. “I’m afraid of you.”
His expression softened then—just a fraction.
“You should be,” he admitted. “But you should never doubt this—”
He leaned down so only she could hear him.
“If the world demands your blood, Serafina Romano,” he whispered, “it will drink mine first.”
Her knees nearly gave way.
She hated him.
She hated the safety she felt standing there.
And worst of all—
She hated that some traitorous part of her believed him.
- Writer
