Bound by blood and love

Rain slicked the streets of Palermo, turning cobblestones into glistening mirrors of the night. The city hummed with secrets, and in the heart of it, Elira Costanzo pressed her umbrella tighter, her heels clicking softly as she walked past shuttered cafes and silent statues. She didn’t belong here—at least, not anymore. Her father's death had pulled her back into this world, dragging her from a quiet life in Florence into the center of Sicily's dark underbelly. Elira’s family name still held weight here—Costanzo, once allied with power, once feared. But the silence of the streets tonight reminded her that alliances faded like whispers in the wind. And then she saw him. A man leaning against the hood of a matte black Maserati. He wasn't just waiting—he was watching. Dark suit. Darker eyes. A cigarette hung between his fingers like an afterthought. He stood like someone who commanded rooms without a word. A storm behind calm eyes. “Elira,” he said, the sound of her name brushing against the rain like silk. She stopped, the umbrella trembling slightly in her grasp. “Do I know you?” He smiled, slow and dangerous. “Not yet. But your father and I—we were acquainted.” Something about the way he said it chilled her. Her father had made many acquaintances. Few were still breathing. “I’m not here to continue his business,” she said, lifting her chin. “Pity. I am.” He tossed the cigarette, the ember fizzing out in a puddle. “Elira Costanzo,” he said again, walking toward her with a predator’s grace. “I’m Matteo De Luca.” The name hit like a punch to the chest. De Luca—the family her father had warned her about. Ruthless. Cunning. Unforgiving. “You shouldn’t be near me,” she said softly. Matteo stopped just inches from her. His cologne was intoxicating—dark amber, spice, danger. “On the contrary,” he said, brushing a finger down the umbrella’s edge, water collecting and dripping to the pavement. “I should be closer.”