The Heiress of Winter

CHAPTER 4

(Charlotte's POV)

The scent of gunpowder eventually faded, replaced by the relentless, comforting aroma of Helga's rye bread. But the peace in the bakery was fragile, like a thin sheet of ice over a deep, dark lake. One wrong step, and we would all drown in the freezing depths.

For a week, life settled into a strange, domestic rhythm. While I worked double shifts to pay for the glass those monsters shattered, I spent my nights in the attic.

"Eat. All of it," I commanded, placing a tray of hearty beef stew and a thick slice of bread in front of Vincenzo.

Vincenzo, now able to sit up without gasping, looked at the wooden spoon with suspicion.

He looked like a king who had been accidentally dropped into a peasant's hut. "I am a Moretti. We do not eat... porridge."

I rolled my eyes, slamming the bowl down.

"Sa Pilipinas, kahit lugaw papatulan na namin. Huwag kang maarte! Maraming nagugutom sa mundo, tapos ikaw ayaw mo nito?" (In the Philippines, we'd be grateful for even rice porridge. Don't be picky! So many are hungry in the world, and you're refusing this?)

He blinked, staring at me blankly. My Tagalog was too fast for him, but my tone was clear.

"Eat," I said, pointing at the bowl. "For blood. You... pale. Like ghost. If you die, I have to carry your big body to the lake. Too heavy."

A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "You would throw me in the lake, piccola rosa?"

"To hide the evidence," I joked, though my heart did a little somersault when he used that name.

As he finally took a bite, he watched me meticulously fold his laundered—and repaired—shirt. I had spent hours sewing the bullet hole, making the stitches as invisible as possible.

"Your parents," Vincenzo said suddenly. The playfulness vanished. His voice dropped into that low, dangerous register. "Why are you here, Charlotte? In the cold? Why did you leave your home?"

My hands stiffened against the silk of his shirt. The ghosts of Tondo didn't need a passport to find me; they lived in my head. I could still feel the phantom sting of Mang Domeng's belt and hear Aling Rosa's screeching voice telling me I was a mistake.

"They... not good people," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I run to be free. In Switzerland, the mountains are big. I think... they can hide me from the bad memories."

Vincenzo's jaw tightened. He reached out, his large hand covering mine on the table. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the alpine air.

"If they come here," Vincenzo said, his eyes darkening until they looked like twin pits of obsidian, "I will make them disappear. No one will ever hurt you again. I give you my word as a Moretti."

I looked at him, startled. I knew he meant it. For the first time in my life, I felt a thrill of safety. But right behind it came a wave of terror. If he could make people disappear, what kind of monster was I falling for?

(Third Person POV)

Downstairs, the bakery was quiet. The "Closed" sign swayed gently in the wind. Helga was wiping the counter, her movements slow and heavy. When Charlotte descended the stairs, the old woman didn't look up immediately.

"Charlotte, huz... sit," Helga said, patting the stool next to her.

"I have dough to prep, Helga—"

"The dough can wait. The boy cannot." Helga looked toward the ceiling, her eyes clouded with worry. "He is a wolf, Charlotte. A handsome, bleeding wolf. But wolves do not stay in bakeries. They go back to the pack. And when he goes, he will leave a trail that others will follow."

"He is just... recovering," Charlotte whispered, clutching her apron.

"Nein. Those men in leather? They were not looking for a baker. They were looking for a prince of darkness. When he leaves—and he will—he will take the light with him. And your phone, Liebchen... it has been screaming all morning."

Charlotte's heart plummeted. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out her burner phone.

27 Missed Calls.

The screen glowed with a message from a Philippine roaming number. Her breath hitched as she read the words:

"Charlotte, alam namin na nasa Switzerland ka. Huwag mong isipin na makakatakas ka. Ibalik mo ang pera kung ayaw mong ipahanap kita sa mga pulis dyan! Magnanakaw ka!" (Charlotte, we know you're in Switzerland. Don't think you can escape. Return the money if you don't want us to have the police there look for you! You thief!)

She felt sick. She hadn't stolen anything—she had only taken the money they had saved from the "donations" they received for her "upkeep," money that was rightfully hers for the years of unpaid labor and abuse. But to the law, she was a runaway. To them, she was property.

Even across the ocean, the mud of Tondo was reaching out to drag her back.

(Vincenzo POV)

I sat in the dark attic, listening to the floorboards creak. My side burned, but my mind was clearer than it had been in months.

I looked at my phone—the encrypted one Charlotte didn't know I had recovered. It was lit up with messages from my father's consiglieri. The traitor I was sent to liquidate had been a decoy. The real threat was closer to home.

But every time I tried to plan my exit, I looked at the girl.

Charlotte.

She was a contradiction. She was terrified of her past, yet she had stood up to armed hitmen with a bag of sugar and a rolling pin. She spoke broken English, but her soul spoke a language of resilience that I had never encountered in the high-society circles of Italy.

I watched her through the crack in the door. She was sitting with the old woman, her shoulders shaking. She was crying.

My hand moved instinctively toward my holster. My first urge was to kill whatever was making her cry. But I realized I was the danger. As long as I stayed in this bakery, I was a lighthouse for every assassin in Europe.

I am a Moretti. My life is blood and roses. Her life is flour and sugar.

I have to leave, I thought. If I stay, I am not protecting her. I am sentencing her to death.

I stood up, the pain in my side a dull roar. I moved with a soldier's silence, packing the few things I had. I looked at the cot. I looked at the bowl of stew she had made with her own tired hands.

I took off the gold signet ring from my finger—the Moretti seal. It was the only thing I had that carried the weight of my name. I placed it on the table.

"Scusami, piccola rosa," I whispered into the shadows. Forgive me.

BRIENZ

(Third Person POV)

The getaway was supposed to be silent, but the Morettis were never the only players on the board.

As Vincenzo slipped out of the attic window and onto the icy roof, he wasn't alone. Three shadows detached themselves from the pine trees across the street. These weren't the leather-clad thugs from before. These were professionals—tactical gear, suppressed submachine guns, and night-vision goggles.

The Gaventi Scouts.

Vincenzo felt them before he saw them. He flattened himself against the chimney as a silent round whistled past his ear, chipping the brick.

"Cazzo," he hissed.

He dived from the roof into a massive snowdrift, the impact jarring his wound. He didn't stop. He rolled, drawing his Beretta and firing three shots into the tree line.

One shadow fell.

Vincenzo sprinted toward the back alley, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He needed to lead them away from the bakery. Away from Charlotte.

Suddenly, a flashbang exploded in the narrow alley.

CRACK-BOOM!

Vincenzo's world turned into a blinding white roar. He stumbled, his ears ringing. A boot connected with his ribs, sending him sprawling into the frozen mud.

"Don Lorenzo wants you home, boy," a voice growled. It wasn't an enemy. it was his father's lead enforcer, Marco. "But the Don of the Gaventis... he wants you dead. You've made a mess of things in Switzerland."

Vincenzo looked up, blood trickling from his mouth. "Get out of here, Marco. Take your team and leave."

"Not without you. And not before we finish the girl."

Vincenzo's eyes snapped wide. He lunged at Marco, his fingers clawing for the man's throat. "You touch her, and I will spend the rest of my life making you pray for death!"

"She's a witness, Vincenzo. You know the rules."

Vincenzo managed to grab his gun from the slush. He didn't point it at the scouts. He pointed it at his own father's man. "The rules changed the moment she saved my life. Get. Out."

Marco stared at him, seeing the madness in the heir's eyes. He signaled his men to stand down. "You're losing your mind over a peasant. We're leaving. But don't think you're safe. The Gaventis know there's a Moretti in town. They won't stop until this town is a graveyard."

(Charlotte's POV)

The night was exceptionally bright, casting long, silver shadows across the attic. I couldn't sleep. The text message from Mang Domeng felt like a noose tightening around my neck.

I needed to see Vincenzo. I needed to feel that strange, cold safety he provided.

"Vincenzo? I can't sleep. My family, they—"

I pushed the attic door open. It swung wide with a lonely creak.

The lamp was flickering, its oil running low. But the cot was empty. The sheets were neatly folded—a sign of a man who was used to leaving in a hurry. The window was cracked open, the freezing alpine air whistling through the room, chilling me to the bone.

The gun was gone. The silk suit was gone.

"Vincenzo?" I called out, my voice trembling. "H-hey, big man? No joke, please."

No answer. Only the wind.

I walked to the small wooden table. My eyes landed on a single item: a heavy, gold signet ring. It had a crest of a lion entwined with a rose. Next to it was a small scrap of paper with a single word written in elegant, jagged script:

Scusami.

I didn't know what it meant, but I knew what it felt like. It felt like the day I was left on the street in Manila. It felt like the door closing on my heart.

"Iniwan mo ako," I whispered into the dark, my voice cracking as the first sob escaped. (You left me.) "Sabi mo... protect. Sabi mo... safe."

I collapsed onto the empty bed, clutching the cold gold ring to my chest. It smelled like him—woodsmoke and something expensive.

Downstairs, the bell jangled. I thought for a heartbeat it was him coming back. I ran to the stairs, hope blooming like a stupid, fragile flower.

"Vincenzo?!"

But it wasn't him. Standing in the middle of the bakery, surrounded by the smell of morning bread, were two men in cheap, dirty jackets. Men I recognized from the darkest nightmares of my childhood.

"Charlotte," the taller one said, a cruel grin spreading across his face.

It was Mang Domeng.

"Akala mo ba, ganun kadaling magtago sa amin? Switzerland is small, anak." (Did you think it was that easy to hide from us? Switzerland is small, daughter.)

He stepped forward, the light catching the familiar leather of the belt in his hand.

I looked at the gold ring in my hand. I looked at the monsters in front of me. The girl who used to cower was gone, buried under a week of flour and the memory of a man who called me a rose.

"Hindi niyo na ako masasaktan," I said, my voice cold and hard. (You won't hurt me anymore.)

But as Domeng lunged, the door behind him exploded.

(Third Person POV)

While the drama unfolded in the bakery, a woman in a high-rise office in Manila stared at a DNA report.

"The match is 99.9%," her assistant said.

"The girl in Switzerland. She is the Gaventi heir. The one the Morettis thought they killed eighteen years ago."

The woman turned her chair around. She had the same high cheekbones and almond eyes as Charlotte. "My daughter is alive. And she is with a Moretti."

She picked up a phone. "Dispatch the Syndicate. I don't care about the boy. I want my daughter. And if the Morettis stand in the way... give them the war they've been asking for."