Chapter 2 Isabella
The morning sun is just beginning to warm the kitchen when I hear Elena's feet pattering across the wooden floor. I'm at the stove, stirring polenta for our breakfast, mentally calculating how much longer the bag of cornmeal will last. Two weeks, maybe three if I stretch it.
"Mama, can I go see the chickens?"
I glance at my daughter. She's already dressed herself, shirt on backward, mismatched socks, dark curls escaping the braid I wove last night. Three years old and fiercely independent, just like her mother.
"Stay where I can see you," I tell her, pointing through the window toward the small coop beside the barn. "And don't open the gate. Just look."
"I know, Mama." She rolls her eyes in that way that makes her seem much older than three, and I have to hide my smile.
The door bangs shut behind her, and I watch through the window as she skips across the dusty yard, her stuffed rabbit dragging behind her by one ear. My chest tightens the way it always does when she's out of my sight, even for a moment.
Eighteen months of looking over my shoulder. Eighteen months of jumping at every car that passes on the distant road, every stranger in the village market. Eighteen months of wondering if today is the day Draco finds us.
I push the thought away and focus on the polenta, stirring in the last of the parmesan. We'll have bread and jam too, and some of the figs that are finally ripe. It's not much, but it's ours. We’re safe, hidden.
My father bought this farm forty years ago, back when he still had dreams of leaving the city, of living a quiet life. He never did, not until I needed him to. Not until I showed up on his doorstep in Rome with a black eye, a terrified toddler, and nowhere else to go.
He brought us here. Told no one. Used cash for everything. Taught me how to work the land, how to survive on almost nothing, how to disappear.
Then his heart gave out six months ago, and I've been alone ever since.
The polenta starts to bubble, and I'm reaching for the pot when Elena's voice cuts through the morning air.
"Mama!"
That's not her playful voice. That's not her calling because she found a pretty stone or wants to show me something. That's fear.
I drop the spoon and run.
The door slams against the wall as I burst outside, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Elena!"
She's standing at the edge of the olive grove, twenty feet from the barn, pointing toward the trees. When she sees me, she runs, and I catch her, dropping to my knees to look her over.
"Are you hurt? What happened?"
"Mama, a man fell down!" She points back toward the grove, her eyes wide but not crying. Curious more than scared. "He's sleeping by the trees."
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "What?"
"There's a man, Mama. He won't wake up."
My mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last. Someone from the village? One of the workers from the vineyard down the road? Or worse, much worse, someone sent by Draco?
"Go inside," I tell Elena, gripping her shoulders. "Right now. Lock the door and don't open it for anyone but me. Do you understand?"
Her bottom lip trembles. "Is the sleeping man bad?"
"I don't know, baby. But I need you safe. Go. Now."
She nods and runs toward the house, clutching her rabbit. I watch until she's inside, until I hear the lock click, then I turn toward the olive grove.
My father's old hunting knife is in the barn. I move quickly, quietly, grabbing it from the workbench and gripping it tight as I step into the dappled shade of the trees.
It takes me a moment to see him.
He's collapsed against the base of an ancient olive tree, half-hidden by the gnarled roots. Dark hair. Tall, even crumpled on the ground. Expensive clothes, a black shirt torn and stained with blood, dark slacks covered in dirt.
And blood. So much blood.
It's dried on the side of his face, matted in his hair, streaked down his neck. His right eye is swollen shut, his jaw bruised purple. His breathing is shallow, barely visible.
I should run. I should grab Elena and whatever we can carry and disappear before he wakes up. But I don't move.
Because I recognize what I'm looking at. The expensive clothes. The build, broad shoulders, strong arms. It’s the body of a man who's both comfortable with violence and the target of it.
This is my world.
The world I ran from.
And this man is dying.
I take a step closer, the knife still in my hand. He doesn't stir. Doesn't react when I crouch beside him, when I press my fingers to his throat to find a pulse.
It's there. Weak but steady.
His face is a mess of bruises and dried blood, but underneath, he's handsome in a harsh way. Sharp jaw, straight nose that's been broken at least once before. Even unconscious and broken, there's something commanding about him. Something that makes my instincts scream danger.
"Who are you?" I whisper, knowing he can't answer.
I should call someone. The police. An ambulance. He needs a hospital, needs stitches or surgery probably, needs more help than I can give him.
But if I call, they'll ask questions. They'll want my information. They'll create a record, a trail that leads straight to this farm.
Straight to Elena.
My hands shake as I touch his shoulder, giving him a small push. "Can you hear me?"
Nothing.
I push harder. "Wake up. You need to wake up."
His eyelid—the one that isn't swollen shut—flutters. A low sound escapes his throat, something between a groan and a growl.
"Can you stand? Can you walk?"
His eye opens, unfocused and glassy. He stares at me like he's seeing through me, through the trees, through everything. His lips move but no sound comes out.
"I need to move you," I tell him, though I'm not sure he understands. "I can't leave you here. Can you help me?"
He tries to push himself up and immediately collapses back against the tree, his face going gray. The movement makes fresh blood seep from a cut above his temple.
God help me.
I shove the knife into my belt and hook my arms under his shoulders. He's heavy—pure muscle and dead weight—and it takes everything I have to get him partially upright. His head lolls against my shoulder, and I can feel his breath, hot and ragged, against my neck.
"Come on," I grunt, pulling him forward. "Work with me. I can’t leave you here."
Somehow, he manages to get his feet under him. We stagger together, more falling than walking, across the dusty ground toward the barn. Each step is agony. His weight drags on me, threatening to pull us both down. Blood from his head drips onto my shoulder, warm and sticky.
The barn door is open, and I aim us toward the pile of old hay bales in the corner. We collapse together, and I barely manage to roll away before his full weight pins me.
He's on his side now, breathing hard, his one good eye sliding closed again.
I sit back on my heels, gasping for air, my arms trembling from the effort. My shirt is smeared with his blood. My hands are shaking.
What am I doing?
I grab an old blanket from the shelf that smells like dust and drape it over him. Then I run back to the house.
Elena is pressed against the window, her eyes wide. I unlock the door and pull her into my arms.
"Is he dead, Mama?"
"No, baby. He's hurt, but he's not dead."
"Are you going to fix him?"
I close my eyes, pressing my face into her hair. "I don't know."
But I do know. I already made the choice when I dragged him into the barn instead of leaving him outside.
I get Elena settled with her coloring books and strict instructions not to leave the house. Then I gather what I have—clean rags, water, the ancient first-aid kit my father kept, a bottle of grappa for disinfectant and head back to the barn.
The man hasn't moved. His breathing is still shallow, his face slack. I set my supplies down and get to work.
The blood has dried, crusting in his hair and on his face.
I wet a rag and carefully clean around the worst of the wounds.
There's a deep gash above his right temple, the source of most of the bleeding.
It needs stitches, but I don't have the skill or supplies for that.
The best I can do is clean it, press a folded cloth against it, and hope.
His eye is swollen completely shut now, the bruising spreading down his cheek. His jaw is probably fractured. Possibly his skull.
He should be in a hospital.
But he's here, in my barn, bleeding into hay that hasn't been used in years.
I work for an hour, cleaning wounds, checking for broken bones, doing what little I can. He doesn't wake. Doesn't make a sound except for those shallow, unsteady breaths that I keep checking for, terrified each time that they'll have stopped.
When I'm done, when there's nothing left to do but wait, I sit back and really look at him.
Whoever he is, whatever he's done, someone wanted him dead. The beating wasn't random. It was methodical. Deliberate. Someone took their time.
And yet he survived long enough to stumble through an olive grove in the dark and collapse on my land.
I should be afraid and I am.
But there's something else too. Something that twists in my chest as I watch him struggle to breathe.
I know what it's like to run. To be hunted. To have nowhere safe to go.
Maybe that's why I can't turn him away.
I pull the blanket higher, making sure it covers him, then I stand and look down at this broken, dangerous stranger.
"Don't make me regret this," I whisper.
Then I slide the heavy iron bolt on the barn door, locking him inside, and go back to my daughter.