Genoa, Italy — 1951
The rain had stopped by dawn, but the streets of Genoa still glistened, as if the city itself refused to dry. The sea's breath lingered in the air — damp, restless, whispering secrets.
Sofia woke early, the letter still lying on her nightstand, its ink faded in places where her tears had fallen. Some things are safer forgotten. She read it again and again, the words sinking deeper into her chest until they no longer felt like a warning — but a promise.
Outside, the bells of San Lorenzo Cathedral rang six times. She rose, dressed, and tied her hair with the same blue ribbon she'd worn the night she first met Marco. It was foolish, perhaps, but it made her feel connected to him — as if the thread of their story had not been cut.
By the time she reached the café, the harbor was waking. Ships creaked in their moorings, seagulls circled, and the first fishermen shouted greetings through the mist. The smell of roasting coffee filled the air, comforting and familiar, but Sofia felt something else beneath it — a tension she couldn't name.
She turned the key in the café door, but the latch resisted, as if jammed from the inside. Pushing harder, she found it opened with a slow groan. Someone had been there.
Her heart quickened. The chairs were in place, the counter wiped clean — but a single coin lay on the floor, gold and out of place. She picked it up. The engraving read RJ Group.
She'd seen those initials before. On the shipping crates near the docks — Rocky Jans Group of Companies — the wealthiest trade empire in northern Italy.
The same company whose name the café regulars whispered about in awe and fear.
She slipped the coin into her apron and locked the door behind her.
---
By noon, the café was alive again. Bianca chattered as usual, flirting with the dockworkers, while Sofia moved in a quiet rhythm, serving espressos and pastries. But every time she turned toward the window, she caught the same sensation — that someone was watching her.
A man sat across the street, his face half-hidden behind a newspaper. He'd been there all morning, not drinking, not eating, just watching.
When their eyes met, he lowered the paper, revealing nothing but a faint scar along his jaw. Then he stood and walked away.
Sofia tried to shake the image from her mind, but her hands trembled as she poured the next cup.
"Are you all right?" Bianca asked.
"Just tired," Sofia replied.
Bianca frowned. "You've been tired since that letter arrived."
Sofia looked up sharply. "How do you know about that?"
"You talk in your sleep," Bianca said lightly, wiping the counter. "You said his name. Marco."
Sofia froze. "You heard that?"
Bianca smiled. "Don't worry. I'm not judging. But take my advice — in this city, keep your secrets to yourself."
Her words sent a chill through Sofia.
---
That evening, as she walked home along Via del Campo, the narrow street seemed to stretch longer than usual. The lamps flickered, casting uneven pools of light, and the sound of footsteps echoed behind her — steady, deliberate.
She turned once. No one.
Then again. A figure moved in the distance, cloaked in shadow.
Sofia quickened her pace, her breath visible in the cold air. She turned down an alley leading toward the church, hoping to lose whoever followed. But the footsteps grew louder.
When she reached the courtyard, she spun around — and there he was. The man from across the street, the scar glinting faintly in the lamplight.
"What do you want?" she demanded, her voice shaking.
He stopped a few paces away. "You dropped this."
He held out the gold coin — the same one she'd found in the café that morning.
Her stomach turned. "Where did you get that?"
He smiled faintly. "From your pocket. You should be more careful, Signorina Martin."
Her breath caught. "You know my name?"
"I know more than that," he said quietly. "You've been asking questions about the Jans family. That's not wise."
"I haven't—"
He raised a hand. "Don't deny it. People talk. They notice when a girl from nowhere starts asking about men who run half of Genoa."
Sofia stepped back, clutching her bag. "Who are you?"
"Someone who remembers your friend," he said. "Marco."
The world seemed to tilt. "You know him?"
The man's expression shifted — something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "I knew him. Before he disappeared."
Sofia's voice dropped to a whisper. "He's alive, isn't he?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he placed the coin on the fountain's edge and turned to leave. "Forget him, Signorina. If you care for your life — forget him."
And just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the fog.
---
Sofia stood there for a long time, the sound of her heartbeat louder than the city around her.
When she finally returned home, she found her window open. A gust of wind blew through the small room, scattering her papers.
Something lay on her bed — another envelope, sealed with the same lion emblem.
Her hands shook as she opened it. Inside was a torn photograph — half of a portrait showing Marco in a suit beside an older man she didn't recognize.
Written on the back were two words:
> "Trust no one."
The handwriting was his.
Sofia pressed the photo against her heart, tears stinging her eyes. The man she loved was alive — but in a world far more dangerous than she had imagined.
---
The next morning, the newspapers carried a headline:
> "Rocky Jans Group Announces New CEO Amid Internal Conflict."
There was no photograph, only speculation — but one line caught her eye:
> "The heir, long presumed missing, is expected to take control of the company."
Her pulse quickened. Could it be him? Could Marco be the heir they spoke of?
She barely noticed Bianca calling her name until her friend grabbed her arm. "Sofia! Look outside!"
Through the rain-slick glass, black cars rolled past the café, their windows tinted, engines purring like quiet beasts. Inside one of them — she swore she saw a familiar profile.
Marco.
He turned his head, just slightly, and though the car passed in seconds, Sofia was certain. The rain caught the reflection of his eyes — the same gentle, defiant fire she remembered.
And then he was gone.
---
That night, she couldn't eat. The city outside her window glimmered, restless and cold. The letter, the warnings, the faces — they swirled together into one truth she could no longer ignore.
Marco was alive.
He was part of the Jans family.
And he was in danger — just as she was now.
Sofia sat by the window, her candle flickering low, and whispered into the dark,
> "I'm not forgetting you, Marco. No matter what they say."
Outside, a shadow moved along the street below — pausing beneath her window before disappearing into the mist.
The storm was returning.
And for the first time, Sofia understood that love wasn't her only risk anymore.
---