Heir to vengeance

CHAPTER 2: Raised by Shadows

ARIA

Every morning, I wake up to the sound of waves hitting the shore below our small house in Riva Bay — a quiet coastal town no one important ever visits. The air always smells of salt and rain, and the fog rolls in like a secret that never leaves. I’ve lived here for fifteen years now, under a name that isn’t really mine. Aria Delane. Dante made sure the past stayed buried… but somehow, it still breathes.

I still have that same dream — the one where fire eats the walls, where thunder shakes the windows, where I hear my mother screaming my name before everything turns red. I always wake up shaking. Sometimes Dante’s voice pulls me back. Sometimes it doesn’t.

This morning, it’s the sound of his boots on the porch.

“Up,” he says through the half-open door. His voice is gravelly, low — the kind that could both soothe and scare. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

I groan and pull the blanket over my head. “You said we’d take a break today.”

“That was yesterday,” he replies flatly. “The world doesn’t stop because you’re tired, piccola.”

He still calls me that — little one. Even though I’m twenty now and could probably break his nose if I wanted to. I throw on a hoodie, tie my hair into a messy knot, and drag myself outside.

The morning is cold, biting. Mist covers the cliffs, and the sea looks dark and endless. Dante’s already standing near the edge, wearing his usual black — jeans, jacket, gloves. His face hasn’t changed much since I was little. Same hard jaw, same unreadable eyes. But the grey in his hair betrays the years.

“Let’s start,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Coffee first?”

“After you finish.”

We train in silence. He hands me a wooden knife, and I attack. Quick steps, swing, pivot. My breath fogs in the air. He blocks easily, pushes me back, and I land flat on my back on the cold ground.

“Again,” he says.

I groan, glaring at him. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“Pain makes you alert.” His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “You still hesitate before striking.”

“Because you’re my guardian, not my enemy.”

“That’s your mistake.” He tosses me the knife again. “You don’t get to choose who the enemy is.”

I hate when he’s right.

We go again, and again, until my arms ache and my lungs burn. When I finally stop, he nods — approval, though he’d never say the word. He walks to the railing, looking out at the horizon.

“You’ll leave soon,” he says quietly.

The words hang in the air like a weight.

“I got the email this morning,” I say, still catching my breath. “Valemont University. Full scholarship.”

He doesn’t turn, but I see his jaw tighten. “It’s a good school. Too good.”

“Are you… proud?” I ask, half-joking.

He exhales sharply. “I’m cautious.”

There it is — typical Dante answer. Never too emotional, never too soft. Cautious.

“Why cautious?” I ask. “It’s just a school.”

“Nothing is just anything,” he says. Then after a pause, “The rich don’t forgive. They remember.”

I frown. “What does that even mean?”

He finally looks at me, his eyes shadowed. “It means some names still carry blood. Even if you don’t remember why.”

I hate when he talks like that — in riddles, like he’s hiding something he can’t bear to say aloud. And I know he is. There are locked rooms in his mind, full of truths I’ve never been allowed to open.

I’ve asked about my parents a hundred times. The answer is always the same: “They’re gone.” Once, when I was ten, I screamed at him — “You’re lying! I remember them!” He just stood there, staring at me with that haunted look, like he’d rather take a bullet than tell me the truth.

So I stopped asking.

By noon, we’re driving into town. The truck smells like leather and rain. Dante’s one hand rests on the wheel, the other tapping against his thigh — his habit when he’s thinking. I glance at him.

“You ever been to Valemont?” I ask.

“Once.”

“What’s it like?”

“Rich. Pretentious. Dangerous.”

I laugh. “Dangerous? It’s a university, not a war zone.”

He gives me a look. “You’ll see.”

We stop by the harbor diner. The waitress, Beatrice, waves when she spots us. She’s around my age — blonde hair, easy smile, always smells like vanilla and coffee beans. She slides into the booth across from me while Dante goes to order.

“So,” she says, grinning, “college girl, huh?”

I smile shyly. “Got the scholarship.”

“I knew it!” She claps. “I told you — you’d get out of this ghost town someday.”

“Yeah… someday is in three days.” I stir my coffee, watching the foam swirl. “Feels weird.”

She tilts her head. “Weird how?”

“Like I’m leaving a cage… but I don’t know if it’s freedom waiting outside or another kind of prison.”

Beatrice gives me that soft, sympathetic look that makes me feel both warm and small. “You overthink too much.”

“I know,” I say, smiling faintly. “Maybe it’s Dante’s fault.”

“Definitely Dante’s fault,” she says, laughing. “He trains you like you’re joining the FBI or something.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want me to get hurt.”

“Or maybe,” she teases, “he’s scared to lose you.”

I don’t answer. I just stare out the window at the fog creeping over the docks. Because maybe she’s right.

Three days later, I’m standing in front of the mirror, suitcase by my feet. My reflection looks like a stranger — leather jacket, jeans, hair in waves. Dante stands behind me, his hands in his pockets.

“You look…” He hesitates. “Older.”

“I am older.”

He nods slowly. “You’re ready.”

“Dante—” I turn to him. “Before I go, tell me the truth. Why did you really take me in? Why all the training, the secrecy?”

He studies me for a long time, then says, “Because the world doesn’t play fair. You’ll understand one day.”

“Will you at least visit?”

His eyes soften — just a little. “If you need me, I’ll find you.”

I sigh. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get.”

I step forward and hug him — something I rarely do. He freezes at first, then places a hand on my back. For a moment, I swear I hear his heart beat faster. Then, quietly, he whispers, “Be careful, piccola.”

When I pull away, there’s something in his eyes — guilt, maybe. Or fear.