Chapter 2 – Gaspare
She’s alive.
I’m still reeling.
There she stood, no more than a few feet from me, in a shop that smelled like lavender and dust. Time warped around her. Everything else—the flowers, the flickering sunlight, the murmur of traffic outside—faded into static. My brain couldn't catch up to what my eyes had confirmed.
Almeria is alive.
Not a dream. Not a ghost. Not some conjuring of my guilt. Real. Breathing. Changed, but unmistakably her.
I’d buried the possibility of ever seeing her again long ago. And yet, there she was.
Hair darker than I remembered, pulled into a soft twist at the base of her neck. Her body, slender but taut with tension, like a bowstring drawn too tight. Her voice was calm, smooth—but beneath it, I heard the blade. A warning. A threat. A defense mechanism forged by years of surviving something far worse than my betrayal.
And her eyes—they’re what haunt me now.
Not wide with youthful wonder, not flirty or playful like they used to be when she caught me watching her from across a courtyard or a party. No, these eyes were colder. Deeper. Eyes that had seen things no one should.
She didn’t want me there.
She looked at me like I was the worst mistake she ever made. And maybe I was.
Back in my car, I grip the wheel too tight. My jaw aches from clenching. My men say nothing, bless their self-preservation. Lorenzo sits in the back, reading me better than anyone else could.
“You okay, boss?”
A long silence.
“I found her.”
He doesn’t need me to say her name. He’s been part of the search long enough to know who I’m talking about.
He exhales. "Alive?"
I nod and I can hear the relief in his next question.
“Is she alone?”
“Has a son. Not mine.”
I don’t know why that answer stings. It shouldn’t. I never laid a hand on her that way. But somehow, my mind is trying to make me believe I did. I’m not willing to accept that someone else took her that way. I was too furious. Too convinced she was playing me, using her sweet face and those moonlit eyes to lull me into a trap.
I misread everything.
I was cruel.
And then she disappeared.
We looked, of course. For months. My men dug through the city’s gutters, watched airports, tapped into hospital records. But she was gone. As though she’d evaporated into the night I left her in.
Something about that always ate at me. Not guilt—I was too blind for guilt then. But unease. She shouldn’t have run. Not from words. Not from humiliation, no matter how harsh. It wasn’t until later—months later—that rumors reached me. A girl bloodied in an alley.
But it matched.
The time. The place. The aftermath.
I didn’t want to believe it.
But I did.
And since then, I’ve never quite escaped the rot it left in my chest.
Now she’s back. Or maybe I just finally stumbled onto her path again.
Either way, the game’s changed.
Because this time, someone else is watching her too.
I meet with Enzo and Sancia that evening. Sancia’s tracking the syndicate whispers through her network of informants. Enzo deals with our internal cleanup. Both of them are good at what they do. I trust them more than anyone. Which says very little.
I throw the blurry photo on the table.
Enzo squints. “This is recent?”
“Yesterday. They took it while tailing me. And now they know who she is.”
Sancia frowns. “Does she know she’s compromised?”
I shake my head. "Not entirely."
I tell them what I saw. Her face. The boy.
Sancia leans back. “They won’t stop. If she matters to you, they’ll use her.”
"She doesn't matter," I lie.
But even Enzo raises a brow at that one.
"You planning to offer protection?" Sancia asks.
"She won’t take it."
"Then convince her. Before someone else does."
Later that night, I stare out the window of my penthouse. The city glows beneath me, glittering with sin. I used to love this view. Power made everything taste sweeter. But now, all I see are cracks in the glass.
I close my eyes.
I see her.
Nineteen. Rain-soaked. Betrayed.
I never laid a hand on her, but I might as well have.
I left her there. And someone else stepped in.
Someone who hurt her in ways I’d never forgive in another man.
And now she’s here. In my city. Alone. With a child.
And someone is watching.
I won’t let her vanish again.
Even if she hates me for it.
I find her again outside her shop the next morning.
She sees me and stiffens. Her hand curls protectively around her son’s shoulder as he clutches a lunchbox.
"We need to talk," I say.
"I said what I had to say. I have nothing else to say to you."
"You’re being followed."
She doesn’t answer.
"I have proof."
She hesitates. That mother’s instinct, honed razor-sharp by years of hiding, flaring to life.
I pass her the photo.
She doesn’t flinch, but her knuckles go white.
"I don’t want your help."
"You may not have a choice."
She scoffs. “There’s a lot of things that I haven’t had a choice in for the past eight years.”
My breath hitches but I control myself, choosing my words in my head carefully before I say them out loud.
“Almeria...”
She levels her gaze at me. Cold. Controlled.
"You want to help? Stay away."
But I don’t move.
Because I know she’s bluffing. Not about wanting distance. But about needing protection.
She’s terrified. She definitely wants to be protected. Just not by me.
And she has good reason to not want me around her. I’ve caused her nothing but pain in the past.
That night, I follow the tail I suspect is watching her. He doesn’t notice me. Amateurs never do.
I wait until he slips down a narrow alley to take a piss. That’s when I move. My hand around his collar, slamming him into the wall.
He doesn’t even have time to scream.
"Who sent you?"
He says nothing. Just grins.
Wrong answer.
I hit him. Hard. A crack. Blood sprays the brick wall. He tries to twist away, but I’m faster. I grab his jaw and slam his head back. Again. And again.
"You think following a woman and her kid is brave? You think that makes you a man?"
He groans and coughs as he spits out blood.
But he remains silent.
I drag him down to the pavement, crouch low, and whisper in his ear.
"You tell whoever sent you—I’m coming. If it’s a war they want, I’ll give them one. But if they even breathe in her direction again, I will rip out their eyes and make them eat them."
He coughs. Curls in on himself.
I leave him there. Broken. A message wrapped in bruises.
The next morning, I’m waiting outside her apartment. When she opens the door, she flinches.
"What are you doing here?"
"He was followed. Your son. They were planning something. I stopped it."
She goes still. "What do you mean?"
I explain. She listens. Silent. Still as stone.
When I finish, she exhales. Slow. Long. And I see something shift in her.
Not trust. But necessity.
"I can protect you," I say.
"At what cost?"
I pause.
Because the truth is, I don’t know yet.
But whatever it is, I’ll pay it.