Beyond death

Date Night

Enzo POV

I approached the gate at the end of Alba’s driveway, leading my bicycle with one hand while the other adjusted the satchel slung across my chest. The iron gate loomed large and imposing, its intricate design reflecting the old-world craftsmanship of Bracciano. A sharp whistle from Frankie—the signal I’d been waiting for—granted me entry. The gate creaked open slowly, as though it were burdened by the passage of time. Frankie, Alba’s father, was a man of routine, often working late into the night in his spell-room beside the kitchen. I’d timed my arrival carefully, ensuring I wouldn’t upset him by keeping Alba out past curfew. Eleven o’clock was non-negotiable.

The path to the villa stretched long and straight, bordered by fruit trees whose blossoms filled the spring air with a delicate, sweet aroma. As I pushed the bicycle along the gravel, the evening’s final rays of sunlight bathed the estate in hues of gold and amber. The villa, with its terracotta roof and ivy-covered walls, stood timeless against the backdrop of the setting sun.

I left my bicycle near the steps and climbed them, my boots brushing against the worn stone. Just as I reached for the bell, the heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing Alba. She stood framed in the doorway, her forest-green dress catching the light in just the right way to highlight the playful ruffles and cinched waist. Her dark hair, clipped back elegantly, shimmered with a faint coppery sheen, and her hazel eyes seemed to glow in the fading daylight. She was breathtaking.

“Buonasera, bella,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could think. “You look stunning.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she smiled shyly. “Thank you,” she replied softly, her voice carrying a mix of nervousness and excitement.

“Are you ready?”

“Just let me grab my shawl,” she said, stepping back inside briefly. She returned moments later, draping a delicate cream shawl over her shoulders.

We descended the steps together and walked to my bicycle. I helped her settle onto the cushioned passenger seat fixed above the rear wheel, ensuring her shawl wouldn’t catch. Her hands lightly rested on my waist, and I could feel her warmth even through the fabric of my jacket. As I pedaled away, the cool spring breeze carried the scent of fresh blossoms and damp earth, mingling with the quiet sounds of the countryside.

The piazza was alive when we arrived, the townsfolk strolling under the glow of lanterns strung between stone buildings. Il Ristorantino del Castello occupied a prime spot near the square, its outdoor tables offering an unimpeded view of Castello Orsini-Odescalchi. The castle’s imposing silhouette, bathed in soft golden light, stood watch over the town as it had for centuries.

I helped Alba down from the bicycle, her sandals tapping lightly against the cobblestones. She smoothed her dress, and her hair caught the light as she removed the ribbon she’d tied for the ride. I couldn’t help but admire the effortless way she carried herself.

“Buonasera, Enzo! Buonasera, signorina!” Giovanni, the greeter, called out as we approached. Small towns like Bracciano made it impossible to remain anonymous, especially for someone like me—the mayor’s son and a fixture in the local coven. Giovanni had known me since I was a boy and had always treated me with an odd mix of respect and curiosity.

“Buonasera,” I replied, smiling warmly. “A table for two, please.”

He led us to a small table near the edge of the piazza, where the soft murmur of conversation blended with the occasional strum of a mandolin from a nearby street performer. The castle loomed in the background, its shadows lengthening as twilight deepened.

“What shall we start with?” I asked, scanning the menu. “Antipasti to share?”

“How about the alici fritte?” Alba suggested, her eyes lighting up.

“Fried anchovies it is,” I agreed, closing the menu. “And for the main course?”

“Grilled octopus for me,” she said. “Pasta this late would be too much.” She laughed softly, and the sound felt like a melody.

I nodded. “The croaker fish for me.”

As we waited for our food, the conversation turned to lighter topics—childhood summers in Bracciano, Alba’s experiences in Rome, and memories of evenings spent with our families. The tension I’d felt earlier, the nervous energy coursing through me, began to ebb. But Alba’s curiosity was never far from the surface.

“What are your thoughts on the town miracle?” she asked suddenly, her voice soft but insistent. Her hazel eyes locked onto mine, searching for something—truth, perhaps, or reassurance.

My stomach tightened. The question was innocent enough on the surface, but its implications were anything but. Bracciano’s miracles were not just stories; they were the lifeblood of our coven, and their secrets were guarded fiercely. I glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot, before leaning in closer.

“The walls have ears, Alba,” I said quietly. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Over lunch.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, frustration flickering across her face. But she nodded, her curiosity tempered by an unspoken trust.

When the food arrived, it brought a welcome distraction. The golden anchovies, crisp and fragrant, paired perfectly with a tangy lime mayo. Alba’s delighted exclamation after her first bite made me smile.

“I can’t believe I’ve never tried this place before,” she said, her voice filled with genuine wonder. “All those summers spent rushing back to my grandparents’ house… I’ve been missing out.”

“Your grandparents’ cooking is legendary,” I replied. “But yes, this place is special.”

As we shared bites of our mains, the conversation drifted back to lighter topics. Alba’s laughter was infectious, and for a moment, the weight of Bracciano’s secrets seemed far away. But as the night wore on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight was more than just a date. It was the start of something deeper—and far more dangerous.

Alba POV

I couldn’t stop thinking about Enzo. There was an ease about him, a warmth that made me feel safe. But beneath that warmth was something else—something guarded. The way he’d avoided my question about the town miracle only heightened my curiosity. Bracciano was not like other places, and I wanted to know why.

As we shared dessert—a perfectly balanced tiramisu—I studied him. His light brown eyes held a depth I couldn’t quite decipher, and his easy confidence was undercut by moments of quiet intensity. He fascinated me in ways I couldn’t explain.

When he brought me home, the night’s magic lingered. At the door, he leaned in for the traditional cheek kisses, but I turned the wrong way, and our lips brushed. The kiss was fleeting but electric, leaving my heart racing. My cheeks burned as I quickly corrected the mistake, but the look in his eyes told me he’d felt it too.

“Goodnight, Alba,” he said softly, his voice filled with unspoken promises.

As I watched him disappear into the night, I knew tomorrow wouldn’t just be another date. It would be the beginning of answers—and perhaps, even more questions.