Chapter Six: A New Beginning
1314 Words
The sea air of Portofino tasted different from the icy winds of Russia—warmer, saltier, and thick with promise. It carried the scent of olives, lemon blossoms, and freshly baked focaccia from the harbor cafés. On quiet days, the breeze rattled the drying fishing nets strung along the piers, whispering like the ghosts of old sailors.
It was a town built from colors—terracotta walls, cobalt shutters, sun-yellow doorways—and yet, no amount of color could erase the grayscale ache inside Betty Petrova.
From the balcony of their modest hillside home, she stared out at the Ligurian Sea. Below, the water shimmered like poured glass, gentle waves nudging the moored fishing boats. Behind her, laughter tinkled like a wind chime—Elysa was singing to herself as she drew chalk suns on the kitchen tiles.
But Betty’s eyes never left the sea. She had seen too much. Lost too much. No amount of sunlight could bleach the blood from her memories.
Lucifer’s footsteps creaked on the balcony wood. He stood behind her, silent for a moment before resting a warm palm on her shoulder. She flinched—but relaxed into his touch. Even now, years later, her body hadn't unlearned fear.
“She’s safe,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the early dusk. “Elysa is safe.”
“I know,” Betty whispered. “But where is she, Luc? Where is our other half?”
Lucifer didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The silence stretched between them, their heart both bled from the same wound.
But for Lucifer, the scar on his knee was a constant reminder of his failure.
******************
Portofino had been more than a hiding place—it was their resurrection. A new beginning and chance at life again.
Richmond had secured the escape. The last moment at the dock was a blur of teary goodbyes and baby giggles. Elysa had reached out for him, her little fingers tangling in his coat lapel. The old sea wolf had pressed a silver pendant into her tiny hand—a token shaped like a sea star, warm from his palm.
“This will protect her,” he had said.
Lucifer had watched his friend walk into the mist with a heavy heart, never certain they’d meet again.
Now, years later, that same charm glinted around Elsa’s neck, bouncing as she skipped down stone alleys to school each morning, her tiny backpack swaying.
Lucifer found his rhythm in woodworking—chiseling mahogany and pine, letting the scent of sawdust and citrus oil seep into his skin. His hands, once used to pull triggers and crush bones, now crafted elegant chairs and delicate inlays. People in town called him Il Fantasma del Legno—the ghost of the wood—for his ability to breathe life into dead trees.
Betty reopened her world through needle and thread. Her boutique, tucked between a gelato shop and a spice merchant, soon became the talk of Portofino. The silk scarves she dyed by hand—brushed in oceanic hues and floral swirls—sold faster than she could make them. But her fingers trembled at night, when the world was quiet. Her needle faltered only when memories of another girl—one with the same dark eyes as Elsa—crept in through the silence.
Sometimes she swore she heard a cry in the night. A twin echo of Elyse, her lost daughter.
***************
On the mornings when the sea was glass-smooth, Elysa would wake first. She’d tiptoe barefoot onto the balcony and press her face to the balustrade, looking out as though expecting a ship to come bearing answers. She was clever, unnervingly so, and Betty could feel it: Elsa knew something was missing even without anyone telling her so.
One such morning, Betty found her daughter staring at her reflection in a rain-specked window.
“Mom?” Elysa asked quietly, her voice barely more than breath. “Why do I feel like someone’s calling me… even when no one’s around?”
Betty’s heart twisted.
She knelt beside her daughter and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Because there’s someone out there who’s always thinking of you. A part of your soul that lives far away.”
“Is it the angel you told me about?”
“Yes,” Betty said. “Your guardian angel. Her name is Elyse.”
“She’s my twin, isn’t she?”
Betty froze. Elsa had never been told—not in words.
“I see her sometimes,” Elysa added, her eyes wide. “In my dreams.”
Betty pulled her into a trembling embrace. Tears rolling down her cheeks.
"There's no such thing, Elsa. She's just your guardian angel," she muttered. "Now, rest your little heart sweetheart."
**************
It happened on a day drenched in sunlight. The kind of day that lulled the town into soft stillness, where even the gulls cried lazily and the scent of espresso hung in the air like incense.
Lucifer stood in his shop, shaping a walnut banister. His workshop smelled of resin and sweat, the hum of a radio playing old Neapolitan love songs.
The front bell jingled.
He wiped his hands on a rag and stepped into the showroom.
A man stood silhouetted against the sun-soaked doorway.
The scent of his cologne—amber, cedar, and something metallic—hit Lucifer before his eyes adjusted. His pulse kicked.
The figure stepped inside, slow, deliberate. The shadows peeled back to reveal him.
Nicklaus.
He hadn’t aged a day. Still dressed in that expensive arrogance—black coat, leather gloves, a smirk sharp as a blade. The scar across his jaw, once fresh, had turned silver-white.
Lucifer’s muscles tensed. His hand slid instinctively toward the bottom drawer—the one with the revolver.
Nicklaus noticed. “Still twitchy, I see,” he drawled in accented English. “Old habits don’t die. Unlike most of our friends.”
“What do you want?” Lucifer growled. His knuckles were white on the drawer handle.
Nicklaus didn’t answer. He walked a slow circle around the room, running his fingers over the polished wood surfaces like a ghost visiting a former life.
“I came to return something… or maybe to steal something back.”
Lucifer stepped forward. “You touch my daughter, and I will bury you in the ocean without a trace.”
Nicklaus chuckled. “Which one?”
The world seemed to stop.
Lucifer’s breath hitched. He hadn’t spoken her name aloud in years. Not to a soul.
Nicklaus leaned in, so close Lucifer could smell the blood on his breath.
“You still think you’re the only one who escaped Moscow’s fire?”
Lucifer grabbed him by the collar, slamming him into the workbench. Tools clattered to the floor.
“Where is she?”
Nicklaus didn’t flinch. “Let go, Luc. You're in no position for violence. We do not want to attract unnecessary attention, do we?”
Lucifer bared his teeth.
Nicklaus grinned. “She’s alive.”
Silence.
“Alive,” he repeated, as if the word was sacred. “But whether she’s yours anymore… is another story.”
Lucifer’s fist clenched. But Nicklaus was already pulling away, slipping from his grip like smoke.
At the door, he paused. The sunlight framed him in a golden halo. He looked back.
“She has your eyes, you know. But she’s been taught to shoot first—and never ask. Just like you.”
He knew what it meant.
Either some had his lost daughter. And they aren't done with him yet. Or Niklaus could be lying.
Niklaus for a minute, because distracted with one of the art piece. Lucifer used the opportunity to reached slowly into the drawer with the revolver.
"What the f**k are you doing here, Niklaus?" He asked pointing the gun at him.
- Writer
