Beneath the Crimson Sky

Chapter 2

Piemonte Hills, Near the Moretti Estate – Midnight, October 1943

Sofia’s heart thudded as she crouched beside the wounded pilot, her fingers trembling as she reached for the edge of her cloak. She tore off a strip with more strength than she knew she had and began wiping the blood from his temple. His breathing was shallow, but steady.

“Can you tell me your name?” she asked softly.

“James,” he rasped. “Captain James Adler. Royal Air Force.”

“Sofia,” she replied. “Sofia Moretti.”

His lips curved faintly. “A beautiful name for a beautiful face.”

Sofia rolled her eyes. “Don’t waste what little strength you have on flattery, Captain.”

He winced as she examined the jagged tear in his leg. It was a clean break, thank God—but it would need to be set. And soon. The cool night wouldn’t help the shock.

“We can’t stay here,” she said quietly, glancing up at the tree line. “German patrols will comb the area by morning. If they find you…”

“I know,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I’ve seen what they do.”

Sofia hesitated only a moment before making her decision. She pulled his arm around her shoulders.

“This is going to hurt,” she warned.

“I think we’re beyond that point.”

With a grunt of effort, she lifted him, staggering slightly under his weight. He was taller than she expected—lean, but solid with muscle. She tried not to think about the warmth of him against her side or the way his breath hitched with every step.

They moved slowly, winding through the vineyard paths she’d known since childhood. James muttered under his breath in English—curses, prayers, or perhaps both. By the time they reached the edge of the estate, the sky had darkened into a deep velvet, the stars faint behind the clouds.

Sofia paused beside a stone wall that separated the vineyards from the olive grove.

“There’s a wine cellar below the villa,” she whispered. “It hasn’t been used in months. No one goes down there but me.”

James managed a faint smile. “A secret place. How very… romantic.”

She shot him a look. “Don’t make me drop you.”

The entrance to the cellar was hidden behind a lattice of ivy-covered stone. Sofia pulled it aside with shaking hands, revealing the rusted iron door. She fumbled with the key she always kept on her necklace and managed to unlock it with a soft click. The smell of dust and aged oak greeted her as they descended the narrow stairs, each step echoing in the silence.

She helped him to a cot once used by old vineyard workers during harvest season. He collapsed onto it with a groan, sweat shining on his brow despite the chill.

Sofia lit an oil lantern, setting it beside him.

“I’ll bring blankets. Food. Medical supplies,” she said. “But you have to stay quiet. No one can know you’re here.”

James reached for her hand as she turned to leave. His fingers were cold, calloused, but there was something steady in his grip.

“Thank you, Sofia.”

She swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. “Don’t thank me yet.”

By morning, the Moretti estate stirred with the usual clatter of daily life—servants bustling through the halls, deliveries from nearby towns, and the low murmur of her father speaking with German officers on the veranda. They came often now, sipping Don Vittorio’s prized wine and discussing troop movements as if they were playing a game of chess.

Sofia stood by the window in her riding habit, her gloves pulled tight over her hands. Her eyes drifted past the uniforms, past the rose garden, toward the vineyards. No one knew he was there. Not yet.

But it wouldn’t stay that way forever.

“Signorina Sofia,” came the voice of the housekeeper, Luisa. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” she replied absently.

Luisa gave her a knowing look. “You’ve always had a soft heart. But soft hearts bruise easily in times like these.”

Sofia turned away. “Thank you for the wisdom, Luisa.”

“I didn’t mean it unkindly, child. Just… be careful where you step.”

That night, after everyone had gone to bed and the last of the soldiers had left in their dusty truck, Sofia slipped into the cellar again.

James was awake, propped up slightly against the wall, reading a tattered Italian novel she had left for him earlier. He looked up as she entered.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, nodding to the warm bread and fruit in her basket.

“You need to eat,” she said, setting it down. “And stay off that leg.”

He smirked. “You give orders like a soldier.”

“Maybe I was one in another life.”

Their eyes met. Something flickered between them—something fragile, charged, undeniable.

“Why are you really helping me?” he asked suddenly, his voice softer now. “You don’t even know me.”

Sofia hesitated, then sat down on the stool beside the cot.

“My mother used to say the world owed us no mercy. That if we wanted kindness, we had to create it ourselves. I suppose I’m trying to prove her right.”

James studied her, the flickering lantern light casting golden shadows across her face.

“And what do you believe?”

Sofia looked down at her hands. “I believe in fate. In people meeting when they’re meant to. Even in the middle of a war.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then, “I think I was meant to crash near your vineyard.”

She laughed, not because it was funny—but because it scared her how much she wanted to believe him.

Outside, the wind howled through the vineyards, and the night deepened. But beneath the earth, in the safety of the old wine cellar, something fragile was taking root.

Not just a secret.

A beginning.