Chapter 5
916 Words
Early November, 1943 – Piemonte Hills
The next morning came cold and pale. Fog rolled in from the vineyards, clinging to the ground like breath held too long. The Moretti estate stood silent, save for the crows circling above the olive grove—a foreboding omen that Sofia refused to acknowledge.
She dressed in darker colors now. A deliberate choice. A quiet war uniform.
That morning, she left the estate under the pretense of visiting the local church. Don Vittorio didn’t stop her—he never did, so long as appearances were kept.
But she wasn’t going to church.
She was going to find Marco Benedetti.
Marco had once been like a brother to her. A childhood friend, the son of a tenant farmer who had grown up alongside Sofia in the hills, always dusty and barefoot, always bold. But the war had changed him. He had joined the Partigiani—the Italian resistance fighters—after the Fascists imprisoned his father.
Now he lived in the forest, hunted by the Germans, known only to a few as a whisper in the trees.
Sofia followed the path into the woods, her steps careful but quick. Each crunch of leaf beneath her feet echoed with danger.
She found the drop-point near the ravine and left the note, tucked inside a hollowed-out stone.
"Marco. It’s Sofia. I need help. Urgent. I’ll wait. – S."
Then she returned the way she came, heart racing, praying he would answer.
Back at the estate, the tension was thicker than the fog.
Francesca avoided her eyes. Luisa said little, but her hands trembled when she poured the evening tea. And the German officer—Bauer—stayed too long at the table, asking idle questions with a smile that never reached his eyes.
“How is the wine this season, Signorina?” he asked in crisp Italian. “Sweet, or bitter?”
Sofia met his gaze without flinching. “Depends on the harvest. Some years rot easier than others.”
He chuckled. “Indeed. And your evenings? Quiet, I hope?”
Sofia only smiled.
But that night, she packed supplies more urgently. More food. More water. A map. And a small silver locket with a picture of her mother—something to remind James that life was still worth surviving for.
She waited until the moon rose high before slipping into the cellar again.
James was already sitting up when she entered. He’d shaved with a broken mirror and dull blade, and the effort had left him pale. But he looked stronger. Sharper. Alive.
“They know,” he said as she approached.
“They suspect,” she corrected. “But I’ve sent for someone. A friend. He might be able to get you out.”
He looked at her for a long time. “Are you coming with me?”
The question hit her like a stone in her chest.
“I—” She shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. If I vanish now, they’ll know. They’ll tear the estate apart. My father… Luisa…”
James looked away, jaw tight. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“You won’t. Not forever. Just long enough to live.”
He smiled softly. “You always talk like you’re writing a novel.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe this is all one long, tragic romance.”
“I don’t want it to be tragic.”
She stepped closer, brushing his hair from his brow. “Then we have to rewrite the ending.”
Two nights later, the answer came.
She found Marco waiting beneath the fig tree near the back vineyard. He hadn’t changed much—older, rougher around the edges, but still with that wild spark in his eyes.
“You’re mad,” he said by way of greeting. “Hiding a British pilot in your father’s cellar? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I wasn’t going to let him die.”
Marco cursed under his breath. “The Germans are watching you. One wrong move and they’ll burn the villa to the ground.”
“I know.”
Marco’s expression softened just slightly. “You still get into trouble like it’s a hobby.”
“This time it’s not trouble. It’s war.”
He glanced toward the distant hills. “We’ve got a path. A safehouse two villages east. If he can walk, we can move him by nightfall tomorrow.”
“He’ll walk,” Sofia said. “He’ll have to.”
That night, she told James everything.
He listened silently, then nodded. “You trust him?”
“With my life.”
“Then I trust him with mine.”
They stood there in silence, both knowing this moment was the beginning of the end of what they had in the cellar—of the stolen hours, the quiet dinners, the flicker of love between the shadows.
Sofia reached into her coat and pressed the silver locket into his palm.
“It was my mother’s,” she said. “For luck.”
He opened it slowly. Inside: her mother’s picture on one side. On the other—a small photo of Sofia herself, no bigger than a postage stamp.
“I’ll bring it back to you,” he promised.
“You better,” she whispered. “Or I’ll come find you and take it myself.”
And then she kissed him—fierce, desperate, like the world might end tomorrow.
Because it might.
- Writer
