CHAPTER THREE
1248 Words
Aria arrived at the airport, her heart heavy with pain. She got all her clearances done and boarded the plane. A few hours later, she was on her way back to Canada, but her mind was far from at rest.
She hadn’t visited her father’s grave since the day he was buried.
Staring out the airplane window, flashes of her childhood began to haunt her. Those sweet times when life was good—when mummy and daddy were still together. When her mother would return from work with gifts, hugs, and stories.
What she couldn’t understand was what changed so drastically that her mother had to leave.
She remembered the moments she shared with her father after her mother left. They were sad moments, yet somehow happy—because they still had each other.
But then came the night her world completely shattered.
She was only 14.
That night, she had already prepared dinner. It was supposed to be another of their sweet father-daughter evenings. But suddenly, her father noticed shadows by the window.
“Who could that be?” he asked.
Aria didn’t know either. Fear settled in quickly.
Her father stood up, trying to act strong. He told her to stay inside while he checked. Moments later, he returned—panicked—and told her to take the back door. They had to run.
Just as they tried to escape, a gunshot rang out.
They both ran, but the bullet had already caught him. Aria didn’t realize it at first—until she turned and saw her father on the floor, crawling, struggling.
She ran back to help, but he shouted, “No! Don’t come back, Aria. Go. Run. Run as far as your legs can carry you.”
She froze. Her body shook. Her heart pounded. But she couldn’t ignore him. Still, she moved closer.
Then he brought out the journal—he had grabbed it from the table before they escaped—and handed it to her.
“This contains everything about me and your mother. Keep it safe. Find her. She’s not the enemy.”
Before she could respond, one of the masked men broke through the back door.
There wasn’t time.
Her father screamed again, “Run, Aria! Never forget to find your mother. Please… she’s not the enemy. The journal will guide you to her. Be safe. Be alive…”
Aria ran. But one of the men chased after her like his life depended on it. She ran even faster—her tiny legs barely keeping up, her hands clutching the journal like her life depended on it.
She burst out onto the estate road. It was late. The streets were silent.
She knew the area—this was her home. She took a sharp turn and hid behind a fence. The man ran past her, not noticing. She could see him clearly, but he couldn’t see her.
He paused, looked around, and then removed his mask—but his back was to her. She couldn’t see his face, but she noticed something—a visible mark on the back of his head. She burned it into memory.
When he put the mask back on and ran in the opposite direction, she followed—carefully.
She reached her house again and hid in the shadows. Her father’s cries were gone. Her heart dropped.
They had killed him.
She watched as more men arrived—one without a mask. He didn’t look familiar.
“The child escaped,” one of the masked men said.
“She’s innocent,” another added.
“Innocent or not,” the unmasked man growled, “we have her picture. If you see her anywhere in Italy, bring her to me—dead or alive. I don’t trust that Nigerian woman. If we find where she’s from, we’ll go there and end her too. Our legacy must not be tampered with.”
“Yes, boss,” they echoed.
They dragged her father’s body away. Aria cried silently.
Why did they need his body?
When they were gone, she snuck back into the house, packed a few important things, and returned to her hiding spot.
She stayed there until morning.
Now that she knew her life was in danger, she had to protect herself. She covered her face and headed to the city to find her father’s siblings.
No one could identify the men. The news of Moretti’s murder spread fast, but no one knew who took his body.
Aria told her father’s brother everything, including the part about her mother. She said if those people found out she was related to them, they might come for their family too.
That was when her father’s elder sister, who lived in Canada, arranged to take Aria out of Italy. Before she left, they built a symbolic grave for her father behind her uncle’s house. No body—just his clothes and favorite belongings.
The pilot's voice broke through the intercom:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching Toronto. Please fasten your seatbelts.”
Aria blinked. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
She missed her father so much, and it hurt that she couldn’t even find the truth behind his death. The only person who could help had already moved on and forgotten about him.
She had studied law for this—for justice. But now, it felt like justice was a dream she couldn’t afford.
All she wanted was to visit her father’s grave—say goodbye properly.
So she booked another flight. To Italy.
soon, the plane landed and all the passengers rushes out to get the luggages. Aria need to hurry before she must not miss her flight to Rome.
At the airport at Toronto, while heading to baggage claim and getting ready for her next flight, boom, Their suitcases clashed loudly.
A sharp pain shot through her shoulder as someone bumped into her hard, nearly knocking her off balance.
“Hey!” she snapped, whipping around. Her suitcase wobbled behind her.
The man didn’t flinch. He turned slowly, dressed in an expensive tailored coat, dark shades hiding his eyes, and a calm arrogance that dripped off him like expensive cologne.
“You should watch where you’re going,” he said coolly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.
Aria narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“I said—”
“No, I heard you,” she cut in. “What I’m trying to figure out is how someone can be that full of himself and still function in society.”
The man removed his shades then, revealing cold blue eyes. “Do you know who I am?”
“Should I care?” she snapped, folding her arms. “Let me guess — another self-important European with a title he didn’t earn and a brain he never uses.”
He stepped closer, clearly not used to being spoken to like that. “Leonardo Cohen. Prince of Naples. Heir to the Cohen Group. And the person you just insulted.”
She blinked.
Then smirked.
“Cute. Still doesn't excuse being an entitled jerk in an airport.”
Before he could speak again, she walked past him — suitcase dragging, head high, heart pounding. He stood there, stunned.
People turned to look at them. His security detail approached, but he raised a hand to stop them.
For the first time in a long time, Prince Leonardo Cohen had been put in his place.
By a stranger.
- Writer
