His Enemy's Daughter

Chapter 5

Morning came with sunlight spilling through the balcony curtains, warm and golden, the kind that made everything look softer.

I slipped out of bed, cleaned up and pulled on a loose tee and shorts, and stepped onto the balcony. The sea was calm, the air cool with a trace of salt and flowers. 'This day seemed promising already', I thought as took a big whiff of the salted air.

I strutted downstairs to the dining table. At the table, Matteo was already halfway through a plate of toast, pretending not to listen to his mom explain the importance of “a proper Italian breakfast.” Lucia waved me over excitedly like I’d been gone for days, not hours.

"Morning Sleeping beauty" Sofia smiled and looked at me as I approached the table. "Hope you slept well"

"Morning everyone and I did sleep well, Thank you" I said.

I sat down and grabbed a toast and put it on my plate, filled my cup with juice and ate graciously. I had to observe good eating habit as Mrs. Baines usually said, and since I'm not at home so more reason to be near.

Breakfast went smooth and simple.

___

Mid-morning already, I spotted Lucia in the courtyard, darting across the warm tiles as she chased the family dog, her laughter echoing like little bells. I sat by the outside terrace smiling at her endless energy, still carrying the softness of childhood that I secretly envied.

I had just gotten off the phone with my dad—our usual half-awkward, half-comforting catch-up—when I heard Aunt Sofia’s footsteps behind me. She carried her sunhat in one hand, her other holding a woven basket.

“You shouldn’t spend your morning hiding inside,” she said with a gentle smile. “The city is more alive this time of day.”

Before I could answer, Lucia popped her head to us. “We’re going to the market, right?” she asked, eyes wide as she walked towards us.

Aunt Sofia nodded. “Yes. The Saturday market has the best fruit and flowers."

"When the guys are back, we'll go to our favorite restaurant and try baguettes and donuts and everything delightful."

"Baguettes?" I squeaked, because in my head Italy and baguettes felt delightful, Sofia laughed.

___

We walked through cobbled streets that dipped and rose like they were trying to keep tourists humble. The market buzzed with life—voices overlapping like music, vendors calling out prices, the smell of sugar, butter, and ripe fruit tangling in the air. Stalls overflowed with peaches so soft they looked like they’d bruise under a glance, cherries in neat little baskets, and melons stacked like treasure.

Lucia darted from stand to stand, tugging at Aunt Sofia’s sleeve whenever she spotted something shiny, and luscious.

We bought some peaches as they were very juicy, and some apples. Aunt Sofia said she'll make fruit salad for us later.

The fruit market experience was fun filled.

___

The afternoon sun softened as we drove into the city. As Aunt Sofia Promised, we'll go to the restaurant when the guys get back.

Rafael insisted we eat properly and not be stuffed with junk food. But I had a deafening ear for that, I was sure going to order donuts and all the good things.

We arrived at the restaurant, Vintage and picturesque. In bold red the name of the restaurant "La Fortezza" was written. I made a mental note to ask what it means.

Inside was more exquisite, white tablecloths, low-hanging lights, the smell of roasted garlic and fresh basil curling in the air.

“This place?” I whispered to Mateo as we walked in. “Feels too perfect to be real.”

He smirked. “It’s one of Dad's. Of course it’s perfect.”

I wasn’t even surprised. Rafael collected businesses the way some people collected fridge magnets—casually, but with style. The staff greeted him like he was royalty, and within minutes, we were being ushered to a corner table with a view of the piazza outside.

I was distracted by the sight of wood-fired pizzas being carried past, so I wasn’t looking when it happened.

My shoulder slammed into something solid—too solid. Not a wall, not a chair. A man.

“Mi stai prendendo in giro…” he muttered under his breath, brushing at the place I’d touched him. His Italian rolled low, sharp, and not meant for my ears.

I blinked up, and for a heartbeat the restaurant faded out. He was tall—muscular in a way that didn’t come from the gym but from living like a weapon. His shirt clung to broad shoulders, and when he moved, the fabric pulled against a chest that looked unfair. His aura was… heavy. Dark. The kind of presence you felt before you even saw him.

And then—he kept walking. Just like that. Past me, past the tables, like I hadn’t been there at all.

I turned, pulse quick, watching the broad line of his back disappear toward the far end of the restaurant. My lips parted but nothing came out.

When I finally walked to our table, Mateo raised his brows. “What was that all about?”

“You tell me,” I muttered, sinking into my chair. “I think I just ran into a… wall. With muscles.”

Rafael’s gaze lingered on me a second too long, eyes narrowing ever so slightly before he smoothed it away with a practiced smile. “Sit. Let’s eat,” he said, voice warm but edged.

But then Sofia slid the bread basket closer, laughing about the chef’s obsession with olive oil, and the world tried to tilt back to normal. Still, my mind replayed the brush of that man’s shoulder, the weight of his presence, but I still enjoyed the baguette something I've always wanted to try.