Chapter 1
VINCENZO
Lombardy, Italy
The wind tore across the ridge like a blade dragged slowly over skin, sharp and carrying with it the raw scent of pine and the distant chill of snow that hadn’t yet fallen.
It clawed at my shirt, slipped beneath the fabric, and kissed old scars I no longer bothered to hide.
Up here, there was no warmth. No softness. Just the brutal honesty of the mountains.
Far below, the valleys stretched wide and indifferent—lush green folding into shadow, dotted with stone houses and narrow roads that twisted like veins through the land.
One of those roads led to Bergamo.
To the cathedral where a wedding is being held today—my wedding.
To a bride in white, standing at the altar — waiting for me.
And I will go to her.
I just need to handle something first—something important—right here on this mountain.
My jaw tightened.
Let her wait.
I stood at the edge of the ridge, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my black trousers.
The fabric of my white shirt clung faintly to my skin, damp from the morning mist that hadn’t yet burned away.
No jacket. No tie. No symbol of the role I was supposed to play today—the groom.
In my left hand, the Beretta sat familiar. Steady. Cold.
Then it trembled.
Not fear—I knew fear.
This was older. Something that had never left, just buried deep inside me.
It moved quietly through me, constant... like an old wound that never truly healed.
The wind clawed at my scars again, and suddenly I was nine.
The small door creaked open again.
I knew those footsteps before I even looked up—before I saw his face.
His cane tapped against the floor, slow and certain.
I remember the sound more than anything.
The pause before the door opened.
What followed is something I’ve never been able to put into words.
Only the aftermath remained.
