Chapter Eleven
1230 Words
Luca woke because something was wrong.
Not danger exactly. Not yet.
It was the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind — not the kind you woke up to in hotels or rented apartments where the world simply hadn’t started yet. This quiet had weight. It pressed. It listened.
He opened his eyes.
Domenico stood at the foot of the bed.
No greeting. No movement. Just there — arms folded, stance relaxed in a way that suggested he could move very fast if needed.
Luca groaned. “Do you people ever knock?”
“No,” Domenico said. “You have lost that privilege.”
Luca pushed himself up on his elbows. His muscles protested immediately — bruised from his failed escape attempt, scraped where stone and vine had won.
“What time is it?”
Domenico checked nothing. “Late.”
“For—”
Domenico stepped forward and seized his forearm, hauling him upright in one efficient motion. Luca stumbled, barely catching himself on the edge of the bed.
“Hey—!”
“Up,” Domenico said. “Dress.”
“I don’t even know where you’re taking me.”
“That,” Domenico replied mildly, “is intentional.”
Luca dragged on his clothes, every movement stiff. His thigh screamed when fabric brushed skin.
“Did you have to grab me like that?” he muttered.
“Yes.”
They were halfway to the door when Luca swore under his breath — sharp, reflexive, American.
The sound of wood striking flesh cracked through the air.
Pain exploded across the back of his thigh.
“f**k—!”
“Language.”
The voice came from the doorway.
Luca spun, half-bent, clutching his leg.
An older woman stood there.
Small, compact, wrapped in dark clothing that looked pressed even at dawn. Her hair was pulled back tightly, silver threaded through black. Her posture was immaculate.
In her hand was a wooden spoon.
Not decorative.
Not symbolic.
Used.
Her eyes raked over Luca with open irritation.
“So,” she said, accent thick, clipped. “This is the American who thinks my walls are a playground.”
“I— I didn’t—”
The spoon snapped against his other thigh.
Luca yelped, hopping back a step. “Jesus—!”
The spoon lifted again.
“Do not swear in my house,” she snapped. “And do not use that name in my mouth.”
“I’m sorry,” Luca blurted. “I didn’t know—”
Crack.
This one caught higher. Sharper.
“Sit,” she ordered. “Before I lose patience completely.”
Domenico dragged a chair forward with his foot and shoved Luca down into it.
The woman stepped closer.
Up close, Luca could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes — not softness, but precision. A face shaped by years of correcting men who thought they knew better.
“You Americans,” she said, tapping the spoon against her palm, “you are loud. You move without thinking. You believe wanting something is the same as deserving it.”
Luca swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to disrespect—”
“You tried to leave,” she cut in. “You bled on stone older than your bloodline.”
“I didn’t bleed,” he said automatically.
The spoon stopped mid-air.
The silence that followed was heavy.
She leaned down until her face was level with his.
“You correct me?” she asked softly.
Luca’s mouth snapped shut.
Crack.
He hissed, biting back another curse.
“Good,” she said. “You learn faster when you stop talking.”
She straightened and turned sharply.
“Domenico.”
“Yes, Signora Elena.”
Luca’s mind snagged on the name — Elena — filed it away without knowing why it mattered.
“Take him,” Elena said. “Breakfast. If he humiliates me again, I will remind him where he is.”
Domenico inclined his head. “Of course.”
They moved him quickly, Luca limping despite himself. The morning air hit his face, sharp and bracing.
Breakfast had been laid out with military precision — bread, fruit, eggs, coffee already poured.
Luca barely noticed.
Because beyond the terrace, movement caught his eye.
Ten men stood in a loose semicircle.
And she stood at the center.
Dressed in black, hair pulled back, body loose with readiness.
She disarmed the first man in seconds — twisted his wrist, took him to the ground, stepped back.
Crack.
The target shattered.
Luca froze.
“Eyes here.”
The spoon struck the table so hard the cutlery jumped.
Elena’s glare was lethal.
“You stare without permission,” she said. “You forget yourself.”
“I— I was just—”
“No,” she snapped. “You were gawking.”
She gestured sharply. “Eat.”
Domenico leaned down. “I advise obedience.”
Luca picked up his fork with shaking fingers.
Gunfire punctuated the air at regular intervals. Orders barked in Sicilian. Corrections delivered without mercy.
He tried not to look.
“You are not a guest,” Elena said, sipping her coffee. “Guests are invited.”
She set the cup down precisely.
“You are a complication my daughter is deciding how to manage.”
That landed harder than the spoon.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Luca said carefully. “I’m just here to investigate—”
The spoon slammed down again.
“Investigate what?” Elena demanded.
Luca hesitated, then answered honestly. “The Donella.”
The gunfire stopped.
The silence was absolute.
Elena turned her head slowly toward the lawn.
So did Luca.
She stood still now, pistol lowered, listening.
Elena laughed — sharp and humorless.
“Oh, you poor stupid boy,” she said. “You don’t even know when the wolf is standing in front of you.”
Luca’s pulse thundered. “I haven’t found anything,” he said quickly. “No one talks. The town protects her.”
“As they should,” Elena snapped. “She feeds them.”
She leaned across the table, spoon inches from his face.
“And you,” she said quietly, “will stop digging.”
“I can’t,” Luca said. “It’s my job.”
The spoon struck again — final, decisive.
“That,” Elena said, “is not my concern.”
Footsteps approached.
She did not look away from Luca as she came closer.
“I told you to bring him,” her voice cut in — tight, furious, controlled.
“I did,” Elena replied. “He attempted escape.”
Those eyes landed on Luca.
“You are reckless,” she said. “And still alive by accident.”
“I didn’t know—”
“That,” she snapped, “is becoming tiresome.”
She turned away. “Domenico. He stays.”
“Yes.”
Elena lifted the spoon one last time and pointed it at Luca.
“You will learn manners,” she said. “Or you will learn pain.”
She left without another word.
Luca sat there, thighs burning, heart racing.
He still didn’t know her name.
But he knew this:
He wasn’t being punished.
He was being trained.
And whatever she was — whatever he was hunting —
It had already decided he wasn’t leaving unchanged.
- Writer
