Chapter 1 – Almeria
There is peace in repetition. In measured routines. In the quiet pulse of predictability that cushions every hour of my day. For the last eight years, I have lived this way—waking before dawn, opening my flower shop with the rising sun, tending to delicate petals with calloused hands and a fragile heart that still bruises too easily.
My name is Mira Rossi now. Almeria Spadafora, a past I’m still trying and hoping to forget. And to most people in this town, I am no more than the friendly florist on the corner of Bellamy and East.
But beneath the name and the smiles is a woman constantly looking over her shoulder.
I built this life in pieces. One small, careful fragment at a time. A rented apartment above the shop. A name that doesn’t belong to me. Cash-only payments. No social media. No photographs.
And Luca. My son. My everything.
Seven years old, with the most serious eyes I’ve ever seen. He asks questions I can’t answer and reads people in ways that unsettle me. He has my mouth, my chin, my laugh—but those eyes don’t belong to me. They belong to a nightmare I never wanted to remember.
I tuck him into bed with a kiss every night and whisper promises I’m terrified I won’t keep.
Promises like, "You’re safe."
Because safety is an illusion. I know that better than most.
***
It’s Thursday. Mid-afternoon. The light streaming through the windows glints off polished vases and glass jars filled with cut peonies, chrysanthemums, and daffodils. I hum to myself as I trim rose stems, the shop fragrant and still. There’s a certain magic to this place—a soft sanctuary of color and scent, untouched by the violence of the world I left behind.
Luca is in the back corner, perched on a stool with his coloring book. He hums a tune under his breath, his humming intermingling with me, extracting little giggles from him when my hum grows louder, and making my heart flutter. Our collective melody also makes my chest ache with what I want to believe is hope.
The bell above the door chimes just then.
I glance up with a smile, ready to welcome another customer for the day.
Then freeze.
This is no customer.
He walks in like a storm being held back by a thread and even before his eyes raise to lock on me, I know who he is. The only face I can recognize from my nightmares.
Gaspare Colosimo.
My breath catches, and for a moment, I genuinely think I might faint. It has been years, and yet nothing could prepare me for this. For him.
He’s undeniably older, and no doubt harsher than when we last set eyes on each other. He wears a black wool coat over a slate suit, his shoulders broader than I remember. His face is sharper, sculpted by time and experience. The years seem to have been fair on him. One could argue that he’s gotten hotter. Sexier, even. But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. That familiar cold intensity—now quieter and clearly deadlier.
He scans the shop once, slowly. Then his eyes resettle back on me.
And I am nineteen again. A girl with trembling hands and a heart full of shame.
He should not be here.
He cannot be here.
I force my voice into steadiness. "Can I help you?"
He doesn’t speak. Just takes a step forward. Then another. Until he’s close enough for me to smell the faintest trace of his cologne—amber and something darker, like smoke.
“Almeria?”
My name on his lips sounds like a question. Like a wound.
“I’m sorry,” I say. "You must have the wrong person."
“Bullshit.”
“My name is Mira Rossi. Not Almeria or whatever it is you just called me,” I say sternly, hoping my attitude will make him have a think.
But he doesn’t buy it. His eyes narrow slightly.
Then his gaze shifts, catches on Luca behind me.
I move instinctively, putting myself between them.
"Please leave."
Gaspare doesn’t argue. He just stares at me, something unreadable churning beneath the surface.
Then he turns and walks out, without uttering another word.
The bell chimes again as the door slips shuts.
And the storm he brought with him lingers in the air like static.
Sleep eludes me later that night.
Luca climbs into my bed sometime past midnight. He doesn’t say a word, just curls up beside me and falls asleep with his fingers tangled in mine.
It’s not unusual for him to do this. Try as I might, for some reason, the boy always prefers being in my room and bed to being alone in his. Almost like he knows what being alone cost his mama.
I don’t want to think of that night in that light whenever I hold Luca. The circumstances surrounding his birth may not be pleasant, but he’s undoubtedly the best thing that has happened to me. His presence in my life rocked me, yes, but it’s also given me a new sense of purpose. I live every day for him. And if it weren’t for him, I know for a fact that I wouldn’t exist on the earth anymore.
I stare at the ceiling, haunted, my hands running through Luca’s soft, thick and full hair.
Gaspare found me. After all these years. After all the precautions.
Why now?
What does he want?
I haven’t thought about him in so long. Since the nightmares reduced. Or maybe I have. Maybe I think about him every time I pass a dark alleyway or smell rain on concrete.
He wasn’t the one who hurt me that night. Not physically.
But he might as well have been.
He left me there to be used. Broken and alone.
Because of a diary. Because of a crush. Because he believed the worst of me and never gave me a chance to correct the impression.
I can still hear his voice, laced with contempt. "Don’t lie to me, Almeria."
And I can still remember the way he walked away, never once looking back.
The next few days pass in a blur of anxiety. I jump at every noise. I keep the shop door locked during hours I never used to. I walk Luca to school myself, eyes scanning every shadow.
And then, on Saturday, he comes back.
This time, I see him approaching. And without thinking, I glide to the door, locking it just before he reaches the handle.
He stands outside, one hand in his pocket, the other falling, away from the door handle, loosely at his side. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t yell.
Just waits.
After five minutes, I roll my eyes, take in a deep breath and step out. Luca is at a friend’s house for the morning, and the shop is empty.
"Why are you here?" I ask, my voice like frost.
Gaspare meets my gaze. "To talk."
I fold my arms. "About what? The weather? Or maybe how you humiliated me and then left me to be…"
I stop myself. I don’t want to say it. Don’t want him to have that.
But his face shifts.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know something happened that night. I didn’t know then. I didn’t find out until later."
"Then why are you here now?"
He hesitates. "Because I never stopped looking. And because someone else found you first."
The words drop like lead.
"What do you mean?"
"Someone followed me here. I didn’t know until yesterday. And they recognized you."
The bottom drops out of my stomach, spreading a sickening feeling all over my body.
Gaspare steps closer, lowers his voice. "Your brother has enemies. I have enemies. And now they know about your son, Almeria.”
Panic claws at me. "I’m not Almeria. My name is Mira. And you, you need to leave. You need to forget you saw us."
He shakes his head. "It’s too late for that."
I back away. "You can’t be here. You don’t get to come back and play savior."
"I’m not here to save you. Maybe you shouldn’t think of it that way. I’m here because I owe you the truth."
I stare at him. "The truth won’t undo what happened."
"No. But maybe it can help protect you now."
He pulls a piece of paper from his coat pocket. Hands it to me.
It’s a photograph. Blurry. Zoomed in from across the street. Me and Luca.
"They know. And they’re watching."
I crush the photo in my fist.
"If anything happens to him, I will never forgive you."
Gaspare nods. "Then let me help."
I look at him, and for a moment, I don’t see the boy who abandoned me.
I see a man who looks like he hasn't slept in days since the last time he was in my shop. A man whose demons sit just behind his eyes.
But I also see danger. And I know better than to trust that face again.
"Go," I whisper.
He leaves.
But I know it isn’t over.
Not even close.
Later that night, I stand by Luca’s bed and watch him sleep. The moonlight paints his face in silver. He stirs and mumbles something about dragons and knights. I brush the hair from his forehead.
I should run again. Disappear.
But something keeps me frozen.
Maybe it’s the tiredness. The weight of eight years spent running.
Maybe it’s the photo in my hand.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the memory of Gaspare’s eyes—not accusing, not cruel—but filled with something like guilt.
I don’t forgive him. I don’t trust him.
I shouldn’t.
But if danger is already here, then I need to be smarter than I was before.
I need to be ruthless.
I have more to lose now than ever before.
And that might mean letting a devil through the door—if only to keep worse ones out.