He’ll already know where I live. Probably knew before he stepped onto the island. So I cut left, then right, moving deeper into the village, past shuttered shops and darkened verandas.
When I first hear it, I think it’s a very eager mosquito, jonesing for a feast.
But the sound persists. Growing a little louder each second, minus the kamikaze dance of a blood-sucking insect.
I hold my breath at the faint, mechanical whine. Slow despite myself, head tipping back, looking for the source.
When I see it, my throat seizes.
A drone.
Sleek. Black. Silent except for that high, predatory hum as it hovers above the rooftops, tracking me with obscene, laser-red precision.
He’s tracking me with afucking drone.
A laugh bubbles up, sharp and hysterical, before dissolving into breathless panic.
Of course he is.
I break again, sprinting until stars burst behind my eyes, until my body finally rebels. I duck into a narrow alley behind the closed library, the old one with the faded blue shutters, and fumble for the spare key taped where everyone knows it is.
Because people trust me here.
Because Lucy is safe. Lucy belongs.
The door clicks open.
I slip inside and lock it behind me, sinking to the cool tiled floor as darkness swallows me whole. My chest heaves, sweat slicks my spine, and my feet throb in furious protest.
Outside, the whine fades.
And even as I curl up on the floor, heart still racing, one truth settles heavy and undeniable in my bones.
I’ve been running from my mafia don husband for eighteen months.
And now he’s found me.
2
LUCIA / LUCY
Iknew even before I curled myself into an armchair at the farthest corner of the small library—after stacking two desks and several chairs behind the door—that sleep would be near impossible.
I was right. I don’t sleep for more than a handful of minutes at a time, startling at every sound.
The scrape of a chair…the rustle of palm leaves against glass. The hoot of an owl.
A drunk laugh drifting up from the street.
Every noise has Giovanni’s silhouette behind it now, and that alone makes me furious.
Because I refuse to spend the rest of my life flinching like prey just because my husband has decided to resurface like some Sicilian ghost with a yacht-sized ego and a private army.
Who does he think he is?
Actually—don’t answer that.
The anger builds, eating away at the corners of sleep until I’m wide awake, glaring into the dark. It’s a hot, reckless thing that simmers beneath my skin until just before sunrise, when I finally snap upright, heart hammering, decision made.
