Chapter 1
Harlow
Free.
That’s what I finally am.
Or maybe that’s the lie I keep telling myself, the threadbare mantra I cling to when the nights stretch too long and the memories creep in.
Freedom should feel like peace, like the unshackled joy of a bird soaring into an endless sky. But instead, it feels like a void, aching, hollow, haunted by echoes of what I’ve left behind.
The nights are the cruellest.
When silence coils around me, thick and unrelenting, every shadow is a reminder—I am not free.
I am running.
Perhaps one day, I’ll convince myself otherwise.
Perhaps I never will.
Three months have passed since I landed in Palermo. Long enough to realize coming here was a mistake, but not long enough to understand why I made the choice in the first place. I tell myself it was random, that Italy is just another place on the map.
But deep down, I know the truth.
Somewhere in this country is the man who calls himself my father. A man who left me in the world without so much as a whisper of care.
I don’t even know his name.
Once, that fact gnawed at me. As a child, I sought answers, asked questions my mother refused to entertain. But silence became her weapon, wielded with surgical precision until my curiosity bled out.
Now, all that remains is indifference.
Desire, whether for something or someone, is nothing more than an open invitation to be shattered.
I have no wish to meet him. No need to know him.
Those hopes withered long ago, suffocated beneath the weight of truth.
Fathers do not abandon their daughters.
Not if they care.
Not if they are human.
Palermo is loud today. Market vendors shout over one another, hawking blood oranges and fresh fish. Tourists linger in front of the ancient cathedral, cameras snapping as its towering spires carve harsh silhouettes against the afternoon sky. There’s something poetic about the way this place clings to its ghosts.
It suits me.
This city, this world, this carefully constructed half-truth I’ve built around myself.
I weave through the crowd, my mind threatening to slip where I don’t want it to go.
Back to that night.
The sound of the door rattling.
His hands on my skin.
The glass sinking into flesh.
I stop walking. My breath snags, sharp and unsteady, as the memory claws its way to the surface, merciless. His face. His voice. The weight of him.
He’s not here now.
But he never truly leaves.
My nails press into my palms, sharp enough to sting, grounding me in the present. My vision wavers for a fraction of a second before I force it back into focus, swallowing against the tightness in my throat.
The air thickens, pressing down on my lungs like a phantom weight. I push through it, one breath at a time.
I won’t allow myself be vulnerable again.
The phone calls started almost immediately after I left.
My grandfather. My cousins.
At first, I’d sit and watch the screen light up, their names burning into my retinas like silent accusations. I knew that if they truly wanted to find me, they could. Their reach is vast. Their resources are boundless. There is no corner of this world they couldn’t infiltrate.
But I never really tried to disappear.
My trail is barely obscured, I’ve used my cards, I kept the same phone for weeks before I finally threw the damn thing away.
It was too much.
They were too much.
The gym where I work lies just ahead, discreetly tucked away from the relentless pulse of the main streets. I stumbled upon it three months ago while searching for a place to train, whether out of necessity or sheer desperation, I’m still uncertain.
Enzo, the owner, must have seen something in me that day. Perhaps he glimpsed the fractures I pretend don’t exist. Or the quiet desolation of someone clinging to anything that might keep them from being consumed entirely.
Because without this, I would be left alone with my thoughts.
And that is a battle I am not certain I would win.
Inside the gym, the scent of eucalyptus and polished wood greets me, a stark contrast to the disorder of the world outside. This place has become a kind of refuge—thin, fragile, always on the verge of splintering.
Because dark thoughts don’t disappear.
They wait.
Patient as a predator.
Andrea mans the front desk, lean and sharp-jawed, his five o’clock shadow a permanent fixture. He glances up as I walk in, a slow grin pulling at his lips.
“Late again, Hart. That’s three times this week,”
he remarks, his voice an easy mix of amusement and feigned reprimand.
“What is it, moonlighting as an assassin these days?”
He smirks, exaggerating my borrowed last name.
“Perhaps.”
My own smirk is slow.
“And if I were, you’d be the first on my list for asking stupid questions.”
Andrea leans back, crossing his arms with a grin that almost hides his unease.
“All talk. I’d wager I could outrun you before you even raised a fist.”
My smirk sharpens, turns colder.
“Outrun? Maybe. Outlive? Unlikely.”
His chuckle is lower now, edged with uncertainty, as though he’s not entirely sure whether I’m joking.
“See, it’s the subtle threats like that which keep me sharp. You’re the ray of sunshine in this place, Hart.”
I arch a brow, plucking the clipboard from the counter.
“Keep talking, Andrea. Sunshine burns.”
His laugh follows me, light but tinged with appreciation.
“And that’s why we love you. Nothing but warmth and cheer.”