The sea was restless. Early spring had brought warmth to the cliffs, but the wind off the water cut through the villa with sharp, salty fingers, tugging at the curtains and the loose strands of my hair. The villa perched above the Mediterranean like a silent sentinel, white walls glowing softly in the morning sun. I should have felt comfort in its beauty, but the calm only made me uneasy. The kind of quiet that whispers danger.
Marco was walking down the main hallway when I appeared in the kitchen doorway. His steps were tentative but purposeful, each one deliberate as if he were reminding himself he still had control. His hand brushed the railing lightly, fingers curling around the polished wood.
"Careful," I said, my voice low. I hated that it came out more like a command than a suggestion.
"I can manage," he said, glancing at me with that stubborn pride I both loved and wanted to throttle. His dark eyes were clearer today, sharper, but the faint shadow beneath them told me he still ached.
"I know," I muttered, forcing the softness into my tone. I stepped closer, my fingers brushing the edge of his arm. The contact was casual, almost accidental, but he flinched slightly anyway, and I cursed the tiny part of me that felt relief at that reaction.
Leonardo emerged from the study behind me, hands tucked casually in his pockets, dark hair tousled as if the sea breeze had claimed him. "He's doing better," he said quietly. No smile, just observation.
"I noticed," I said, not wanting to make conversation. Leonardo had a way of being present that made the villa feel smaller, tighter. There was always tension in the air when he was around—ambiguous, but sharp.
"I'll leave you two to… adjust," he said, and I could hear the weight of his words. He wasn't leaving. Not really. He never did.
Marco shot him a glance, eyebrows slightly raised, but didn't protest. He was used to Leonardo's presence—or maybe he was too weak to care right now.
As the day unfolded, Marco pushed himself further than I thought he could. He walked along the terrace overlooking the sea, each step slower than I wanted, each breath a little too labored. But he was determined. I stayed close, carrying a tray of water, brushing his coat free of salt dust, and smoothing the curls that fell over his forehead.
"Why are you so quiet?" he asked suddenly, stopping mid-step, hand gripping the railing.
"Thinking," I said. "About you. About everything."
"Everything?" His voice was soft, almost vulnerable, and it made my stomach clench.
"Yes. Everything," I admitted. My voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "I hate that I've spent so much time worrying about you dying. I hate that I… I can't stop thinking about what happened."
He didn't answer, just continued walking, though slower now, letting the breeze whip around us. I wanted to reach for his hand, to anchor myself, but I didn't. Pride and fear warred with desire.
By late afternoon, Leonardo had taken up a position near the study, quietly organizing papers, but his eyes never left me. It wasn't intrusive—it was the sort of observation that felt deliberate and careful. Protective, maybe. Curious, definitely. And somehow, it made me more aware of the distance I kept from both men.
The villa itself seemed to hum with tension. The sea beyond crashed against the cliffs, gulls screeching above, yet something felt… wrong. Too quiet. The gardeners had been moving about all day, trimming the hedges and carrying supplies, but every so often, their heads would tilt toward the cliffs as if sensing a shadow where none should be.
I was inside preparing tea when one of them finally spoke. "Miss Isabella… there are footprints in the sand. Not ours. Not from anyone who's supposed to be on the property."
I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs. "Where?"
"Near the cliff path, by the rocks," the man said. "I didn't think much of it at first… but they weren't human footprints, sir. Or maybe… they were someone sneaking."
Sneaking. The word landed like ice in my chest. I forced myself to breathe slowly.
"I'll check," Marco said before I could protest. His voice was calm, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "Stay inside."
"I'm not staying," I said, stepping toward him. "You're still weak. Let me—"
"No," he interrupted sharply, but not unkindly. "I need to do this myself. Stay inside. Watch the terrace."
I clenched my jaw, but I obeyed. From the French windows, I could see him moving toward the cliff path, slow, steady, and every step measured. Leonardo followed at a distance, silent as a shadow.
The hours dragged, and the light outside began to shift into the orange-gold of late afternoon. I paced the terrace, my hands gripping the railing as the sea spray hit my face. My mind refused to stay calm. Every snap of a branch and every gull's cry made me flinch.
Then I saw it—a movement near the cliff edge, partially hidden by the rocks. A figure. Standing. Watching.
My breath caught.
I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and focused. Whoever it was… they weren't moving closer yet. But the stillness of the figure, the way it held its stance, made my stomach twist into knots. This wasn't a trespasser who had wandered by. This was deliberate. Waiting. Watching.
I stepped back, heart racing. My eyes darted to Leonardo in the distance, still near Marco, and I saw his jaw tighten. He had seen it too.
Marco turned at that exact moment, catching sight of the figure, and his expression shifted. Alert, cold, dangerous. His slow recovery seemed to vanish in an instant as he calculated every step, readying for confrontation.
I wanted to call out to warn them, but my voice caught in my throat. My fingers clutched the railing so tightly it almost bit into my palms.
The figure remained motionless, watching. And then, just as suddenly, it moved back into the shadows of the cliff. Gone, but not gone.
The villa felt smaller now, the walls closing in. The sea roared louder, the wind gusted harder, and I realized we were not alone—not really. Whoever had orchestrated the kidnapping… they weren't finished.
Marco's hand found mine, gripping it tightly. "Stay behind me," he said, calm but deadly.
I nodded, swallowing hard. My pulse felt like it would explode in my ears. Leonardo came closer, his gaze scanning the cliffs, sharp, calculating, and protective.
For the first time in weeks, I felt fear—not just for Marco, not just for me—but for all of us. The calm of recovery, the fragile peace we had built… it was hanging by a thread.
I leaned closer to Marco, resting my head against his shoulder, trying to draw courage from him. The wind whipped around us, carrying the salty tang of the sea, and the figure on the cliffs felt like a shadow pressing down on my chest.
We didn't speak. We didn't need to.
The villa, the cliffs, the endless sea stretching beyond… it had become a cage. And someone was standing outside, waiting for the right moment to strike.
I closed my eyes and whispered to myself: Not again. Not here. Not now.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the terrace. And somewhere in those shadows, watching, waiting… the danger was very real.
And for the first time, I realized we weren't just recovering anymore. We were preparing.
The storm was coming.