Her Only Protection

Chapter 3: A Past Buried in Ashes

I couldn’t breathe.

The cold air of the ruined chapel bit my lungs, but it was the image on Enzo’s phone that truly froze me. My father. Bound. Gagged. Bleeding. My entire body trembled as if the truth itself was a thunderclap inside my bones.

“I don’t understand…” I whispered, voice cracking. “He’s not part of this. My father is a university professor. He doesn’t know anything about the mafia!”

Enzo Looked at me, eyes dark and unreadable. “Apparently someone thinks otherwise.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head violently. “No. He’s not involved in your world. He couldn’t be.”

Enzo Placed across the chapel floor, shards of stained glass crunching under his boots. He muttered something in Italian I didn’t catch, then turned to face me.

“People like the man in that video—his name is Dario Moretti, by the way—don’t make idle threats. If they took your father, it’s because they believe he matters. Which means you matter more than you’ve let on.”

“I don’t!” I cried. “I’m just an art student!”

“An art student who somehow memorized the face of a mafia don from a photo she saw once, years ago.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does in our world,” he said grimly. “It means everything.”

I crumpled onto a stone bench, my heart thrashing against my ribs. The video had replayed in my head a dozen times already. My father’s unconscious form. The mocking smirk on Dario’s face. And the words: You’re not the only one with secrets.

“What did he mean?” I whispered. “What secrets?”

Enzo Exhaled and knelt in front of me. “That’s what we need to find out. But before we do… we have to get out of this city.”

“Leave? Now? My father’s—”

“Being used to draw you in,” Enzo Cut in. “If we rush in blindly, we’ll both die, and he’ll still be in their hands. I’ve seen how Moretti plays the game. We have to move smarter than him.”

My jaw clenched. “Then help me move smarter. I want to find my father.”

“And I will help you,” Enzo said. “But first, we have to disappear.”

***

An hour later, I sat in the passenger seat of a sleek black Maserati, tearing through the winding countryside roads toward the southern region of Italy. Enzo handled the wheel with terrifying calm, barely flinching even as rain began to hammer the windshield.

We were heading to an old Dante safe house near Matera — a remote place with no internet, no cameras, and no way to trace us. According to Enzo, it had once been a monastery before his family bought it in the ’60s and turned it into a haven for “delicate” operations.

I gripped my seat as he sped down a narrow hillside curve.

“I still don’t get it,” I muttered. “Why me? Why my father? We’re not part of this world.”

Enzo tapped a button on the console. A small drawer slid open to reveal a thick file, stamped with a symbol I didn’t recognize — a phoenix rising from fire, wrapped in thorns.

He handed it to me.

“This was in my father’s archive,” he said. “I didn’t know it existed until last week.”

I opened it and felt my stomach drop.

Inside were photographs — grainy, black-and-white images of a man who looked hauntingly familiar. He wore a military uniform and bore a striking resemblance to my father. The file listed his name: Marco Leonardo.

My father’s full name.

The next few pages were intelligence reports — transcripts, locations, timelines.

My father, it seemed, had once been part of a secret counterintelligence division targeting organized crime. Undercover. Deep cover. Thirty years ago.

“No,” I whispered. “That’s not possible. He never—he never said anything.”

“He couldn’t,” Enzo said. “Men like that disappear when the mission ends. They bury the past and pretend it never happened.”

I looked up at him, eyes wide. “So this isn’t revenge. It’s retribution.”

Enzo nodded. “And you’re the collateral.”

The safe house in Matera sat high on a ridge, surrounded by olive trees and crumbling stone walls. The monastery-turned-hideout had been reinforced with steel doors, infrared motion detectors, and a tunnel system buried beneath the chapel floor.

Inside, Enzo led me through a narrow hallway to a high-ceilinged bedroom lit with oil lamps. A small fireplace crackled in the corner. On the far wall hung a cross, blackened by time and war.

“You’ll be safe here,” Enzo said, pulling a chair to the door. “I’ll take my first watch.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, numb. “Why are you helping me?”

Enzo didn’t look at my right away. He stared at the fire like it held some ancient truth.

“Because I owe you,” he said. “You showed me something real in a world built on lies. When I saw you sketching my father’s face, I knew it meant something. I just didn’t know what.”

“And now?”

“Now I think you’re part of a war that started before we were even born.”

I crossed my arms. “So you’re saving me because of guilt?”

“No,” he said. “I’m saving you because I want to. Because despite everything, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

My breath caught.

And then the alarm rang.

A shrill, piercing tone echoed through the monastery walls.

Enzo Sprang up, grabbing his pistol.

“They found us,” he growled. “Impossible. This place is off-grid.”

My blood turned to ice.

Enzo Checked the monitors in the surveillance room. One screen flickered — showing two cars approaching down the hill, headlights off.

He pulled up the encrypted comms terminal and typed furiously.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m activating Protocol Red.”

I blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means we’re not alone anymore.”

A soft ping echoed from the monitor.

A message appeared:

ENROUTE. HOLD POSITION. DO NOT ENGAGE.

Enzo Frowned. “Someone’s sending a backup. I didn’t request this.”

“Who?”

Before he could answer, gunfire erupted outside.

The walls shook with the impact of bullets. I hit the floor as windows shattered. Enzo Fired back through the narrow gunport, hitting one of the intruders. The second gunman ducked behind an olive tree, returning fire.

“Go to the tunnels!” Enzo barked.

“What about you?!”

“I’ll hold them off.”

I hesitated for half a second, then sprinted toward the chapel floor. I reached the altar and lifted the trapdoor, climbing down into the dark corridor below.

But halfway down the tunnel, I heard footsteps — not behind her, but ahead.

And then a voice echoed through the stone passageway.

“Well, well… the daughter of Marco Leonardo. As beautiful as your father was dangerous.”

I froze.

A man stepped out of the shadows — tall, dressed in a navy coat, with silver hair and eyes that glinted like knives.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“I go by many names. But your father knew me as Il Nico — The Swan.”

My eyes widened.

Il Nico was a myth. A ghost from mafia legend. A master assassin who had supposedly retired decades ago.

“Your father ruined my empire,” he said softly. “And now, you’re going to help me build a new one.”

He reached for me.

But before he could touch her, the tunnel behind them exploded with gunfire. Enzo charged in, a second pistol blazing in his hand. Il Nico ducked back into the shadows, vanishing into the stone.

Enzo pulled me close. “Are you okay?”

“I saw him,” I gasped. “He said he knew my father. Said I’d help him… rebuild.”

Enzo’s face darkened. “If he’s involved, this goes deeper than I thought.”

We fled the tunnel and emerged on the edge of the cliffs behind the monastery.

A black helicopter hovered overhead, casting wind and dust in every direction.

A rope ladder dropped.

A masked man leaned out and shouted, “Enzo Date! Come now!”

Enzo grabbed my hand. “We’re getting out of here.”

They climbed as bullets whizzed past us. Enzo fired one last shot, hitting a gunman below, then pulled me up into the helicopter.

The door slammed shut. The helicopter banked hard to the east.

I collapsed onto the floor, gasping. “Where are we going?”

Enzo Looked at the pilot, then back at her.

“To Naples,” he said. “To find your father.”

“And the assassin?”

Enzo’s jaw clenched.

“He won’t stop until one of us is dead.”