I strolled toward the café nestled in the heart of the market square. This place had a strange way of grounding me. No one here knew me as Raffaele Gallanti or The Shadow. To them, I was just another man weaving through the crowd, nameless and unnoticed.
The bell above the door jingled softly as I stepped inside, inhaling the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods.
“Good morning, dear,” a familiar voice called from behind the counter. The old woman glanced up, her lined face breaking into a warm smile.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my voice low and nondescript. I moved to my usual table by the window. It gave me the perfect view of the square.
Within minutes, she brought over a steaming cup of black coffee and a blueberry scone. “Your regular,” she said with a wink. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, watching her retreat to the counter.
I sipped the coffee, letting the bitterness roll over my tongue as I looked out at the scene beyond the glass. A couple walked by. The man leaned down to whisper in the woman’s ear, and she giggled. His gaze lingered on her, pride and adoration lighting his face.
To most outsiders, my territory reeked of menace. They saw my people through warped lenses—monsters cloaked in magic and menace, their happiness unnatural, their joy a trick of the shadows. But they were wrong.
My territory wasn’t a prison. I’d built this place for them. Crafted it from the bones of my enemies and the blood of my lineage.
Yet, even as I watched them enjoy the freedom I’d created, the cold, hollow stretch of space inside me never seemed to thaw.
They got love. I got legacy.
My chest ached as I watched the couple. My mind betrayed me, conjuring an image of Vivian in the woman’s place. Her soft laugh, the fire in her eyes when she was angry, the rare moments when she let her guard down and allowed her vulnerability to shine through—it all played in my head unbidden.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I set the coffee cup down, staring into the dark liquid as if it held answers. I had never felt this way about a woman before. I’d built my life on distance, control, and power—on the belief that caring for someone, anyone, was a weakness I couldn’t afford. My father had beaten that lesson into me, over and over, until it was etched into the very marrow of my bones.
And yet, Vivian was under my skin. Not only through the bond we shared, though that didn’t help. No, it was more than that. Her defiance, her intelligence, the way she never backed down even when she was terrified—all of it had chipped away at the walls I’d spent years constructing.
I hated it.
But gods help me, I craved it too.
The couple outside paused at a flower stall, the man tucking a strand of the woman’s hair behind her ear before handing her a bouquet of roses. She beamed up at him, and I wondered what it would feel like to have someone look at me that way.
No, I couldn’t let myself fall into that trap. Whatever I felt for Vivian, whatever emotions were bubbling up inside me, I had to bury them. She hated me, and that was for the best. If she ever saw the real me—the parts of me I kept hidden behind masks and shadows—she would run. And I wouldn’t blame her.
The thought stung more than it should have.
I stared into my coffee, trying to banish the image of her from my mind. It was impossible. She was everywhere, in every thought, in every corner of my mind. I was becoming obsessed, and I knew it. The very idea of someone like Vivian wielding that kind of power over me was maddening.
And yet, when I thought of her, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as broken as my father had made me believe.
I ran a hand over my face. “Get a grip,” I muttered under my breath. I couldn’t afford to let her see this side of me. The man who sat here, watching couples stroll by with wistful longing, wasn’t The Shadow. He wasn’t the man Vivian needed him to be.
The couple was gone now, and I moved my gaze to a young family with a toddler tugging at his father’s hand. The squarewas alive with life, with people who didn’t have to worry about curses, alliances, or betrayals.
This was why I stayed. This was why I didn’t pack up and leave for NYC indefinitely, why I didn’t abandon The Below for a simpler life. These people were my responsibility, whether they knew it or not. They needed me, and as much as I despised the chains that came with my role, I couldn’t walk away. If my magic became too weak for me to protect them, I’d need a backup plan. Perhaps I’d pay the magistrate a visit.
With my magic faltering, I couldn’t help but wonder if the same thing had happened to my father. Had he experienced the same issues, and if so, how had he addressed them? He’d obviously had enough power to tie his soul to an object, which was no easy task.
It wasn’t as if I could fucking ask him. I couldn’t let him know my magic grew weaker by the day. He’d kill me without a second thought because he wanted nothing more than to be the sole mafia lord for our territory. And if left to his own devices, he’d burn everything to the ground to gain more power. He was a sadistic son of a bitch, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.
I took another sip of coffee as I tried to make sense of my failing magic. I’d never noticed my father faltering or seeming any less than a powerful mafia lord.
And then it hit me.
