2. Isabella
2
Isabella
I 'm working on a neckpiece, one of Nonno’s old designs, but it feels like it could just as easily be one of mine.
My hands move, familiar and steady, weaving through the tiny details, the little filigree, the stones set just so, almost like they’re born into the piece rather than added.
It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t done this; it’s like… every piece has its own heartbeat, its own breath.
As I work, I can almost hear him. “Attenta, Isabella,” his voice says, urging me to pay attention, to feel the metal and the weight of it, to let it guide me.
My Nonno, Gaetano Marino, master craftsman, silver-haired storyteller with hands like oak roots and a laugh that could shake the walls.
He taught me everything: how to twist metal like it’s soft as butter, how to watch for the tiniest imperfections, to respect each stone and setting.
Sometimes, the memory feels so close, like I could turn around and he’d be right there at the workbench next to me, his eyes sharp and twinkling.
But he’s not here, not anymore. He’s been gone three years now. Three years. Just a heartbeat, a breath, and he was gone. I was with him at the end, thank God. It was peaceful, or as close to peaceful as it could be.
We’d sat together, and he held my hand, and he went as gently as he’d lived. That’s what I tell myself.
But there’s a minor ache that doesn’t go away, a space in me that still reaches for him, still expects to see his face when I open the door in the morning. I have his picture here in the shop, framed and tucked away in a corner.
He wouldn’t have wanted it front and center; he always said, “Isabella, it’s the work that matters.” But I can’t help it. I want him here with me.
I think about everything he did for me, everything he gave. When my parents died… Dio Mio, I was so young, a little girl lost in the world. It was a snowstorm, one of those terrible, freak things. The kind people say shouldn’t happen, like nature got too angry or something.
They were gone in an instant, and I was left behind. Nonno took me in, raised me here in the shop. He taught me how to work metal, how to listen to its voice, how to find the soul in a piece of jewelry.
He saved me, really. He filled my life with stories, with laughter, with love. And now here I am, sitting at his workbench, running this shop. Marino Jewelry, just like it’s always been.
But it’s mine now, isn’t it? He left it to me. For three years now, I’ve been carrying on. Doing my best to make him proud, to keep the Marino name as solid and respected as he did.
It’s strange, you know, how the world keeps spinning, even after the people you love are gone. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just following his shadow, trying to fill it in, to make it solid again.
The neck piece is almost complete, just needing that last look at the centerpiece, a ritual that never fails to bring me a rush of satisfaction. I pull out my jeweler’s lens, bringing it close to the intricate jewel.
It’s a habit that Nonno passed down, telling me that looking into a gemstone was like staring into a soul, peering into the time and devotion poured into it by another craftsman’s hands.
To anyone else, it’s just a stone, at best a beautiful one. But to me it’s a little piece of art, a glimpse into a world only those of us who work with these treasures understand.
I fit the piece beneath the lens, peering into it with the precision that’s become second nature. And it’s perfect, every detail in place, every line sharp and clear. Satisfaction blooms inside me, a quiet triumph.
Then the doorbell rings. Its familiar jingle pulls me out of my focus, and I look up, already settling my face into that practiced, welcoming smile. But as I look to the door, I feel the smile falter, my throat catching on any word I’d meant to say.
The man standing in the doorway is… breathtaking. He’s tall, and even through the thick black coat wrapped around him, I can tell there’s a certain strength to his frame, a kind of presence that fills the room.
Snow dusts his black hat, a few flecks lingering on his shoulders like stars scattered across a night sky. His eyes, hazel and intense, lock onto mine and hold me there, still, as though he’s reached across the room and put a hand on me without so much as moving.
We’re frozen, just staring at each other in a silence charged with something I can’t quite name. There’s an intensity, an unfamiliar pull. And as if he senses it too, he’s the first to break the silence.
“Isabella Marino?” His voice is low, smooth, yet somehow roughened by the cold outside, carrying a sense of quiet authority that says he’s a man who’s used to being listened to.
I clear my throat, pulling myself together. “Yeah,” I say, my voice sounding a little too soft, a little too hesitant. I can feel the embarrassment creeping up my neck, warming my cheeks. Dio mio, he must’ve seen the way I’d been staring.
“I’m here on behalf of The Luciana. I need you to look at the signage ring ahead of the ceremony.”
The Luciana… Of course. My cheeks cool as the reality settles in. His black coat, his hat, the air of mystery…that’s the Luciana Mafia’s unmistakable style, their quiet, looming presence that speaks more than words ever could.
Grandpa always made it clear that the Luciana was “family,” in the way you don’t question; they’re a part of our history, a bond that stretches back through generations. “They’re one of us,” he’d say. “We take care of each other.”
And they did, without question. When Nonno had that accident years ago, skidding on ice and injuring his leg, the Luciana was there. They made sure he received treatment at the best hospital and ensured all his bills were paid.
And I’ll never forget the day they came to our door after my parents died…Nonno holding me close, my small hand in his as I peeked out at these dark clad figures, half afraid, half in awe.
Their patriarch had spoken to Nonno in a way that felt as gentle as it was firm. He’d promised to look after us, and he’d kept his word. The Luciana paid for my schooling, from the first day of grade school right up through college.
A debt I’ve never forgotten, nor one I have stopped feeling grateful for.
But Nonno’s words ring in my ears, like a quiet warning:
“The price of their kindness is loyalty,” he’d say, a reminder to keep a respectful distance.
The Luciana doesn’t walk a safe path; they have enemies, those who’d hurt anyone close to them to gain the upper hand.
I’ve been careful over the years, walking that fine line, grateful but cautious, honoring our connection without making myself too visible.
I remind myself of that caution now, clamping down on the attraction that sparks through me like a live wire.
If this man is with the Luciana, he’s someone I need to keep my distance from.
“Let me look,” I say, keeping my tone professional as he steps closer and places a small, elegant case on my workbench.
Inside is a ring that immediately takes my breath away. It’s no ordinary piece; the gleam of its gold and the fire in its diamonds speak of history, of legacy.
I know this ring, or of it. I’ve heard Nonno talk about it, about how it’s part of the signage ceremony, an event where, once every twenty years, the cardinal families of Winter Haven gather to leave their mark in the city’s history.
Nonno said it was our family’s duty to care for this ring before each ceremony, that the Marino family’s craftsmanship would ensure its brilliance and perfection before it was returned to the Luciana.
I lift the ring from its case, feeling its weight, letting its cool metal settle in my palm. The diamonds catch the light, refracting it into a thousand colors. It’s a stunning piece, its beauty undeniable even before I examine it under a magnifying lens.
“I’ll make sure everything is in order. It should be ready tomorrow.” I keep my tone firm, crisp, trying to reel back the strange effect his presence has on me.
He gives a slow, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable. “I’ll be back to get it tomorrow, then.”
As he adjusts his black hat back on his head, his eyes remain on me. And there it is again…that look, that quiet intensity.
It’s like we’re caught in a space between breaths, a silent pull between us I don’t understand but feel deeply.
I know I should look away, break the spell, but I can’t. I’m just… lost, drifting in those hazel eyes, feeling something warm and electric run through me I have no business feeling.
The moment hangs, stretches, until finally, he breaks it. Without a word, he turns and heads for the door. His hand reaches for the handle, fingers curling around it, and I have every intention of letting him go. Really, I do.
But before I know it, words spill out, unplanned and unrehearsed.
“Your name… sir?”
The question lingers in the air, and I nearly raise my hand to my mouth.
Dio, why did I say that? I don’t need his name; I shouldn’t want to know his name.
And yet, here I am, curiosity alight, caught in something I can’t name or contain.
He stops, turning slowly, those penetrating eyes finding mine once more. There’s a flash of something…amusement, surprise, maybe even the slightest bit of intrigue. I feel my cheeks warm again, and my voice comes out more jittery than I would have liked.
“I never got your name?” I repeat, my voice trailing off into the unsteady space between us.
He watches me for a moment longer, and then, finally, he answers, “Alessio.” The sound of his name ripples through me, settling in my chest heavily, like something significant.
And then, for the briefest of moments, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s small, restrained, barely there, but it’s there, and it feels like a secret, a fleeting glimpse of something he usually keeps hidden.
Before I can even return the smile, he turns, steps out, and the door closes behind him, the bell’s jingle lingering in the quiet shop.
The second he’s gone, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Phew!” I say out loud, more to myself than anything, realizing how tense I’d become. My heartbeat is thrumming faster than it has any right to, my hands a little shaky.
What is this?
Maybe it’s the thrill, the danger that naturally comes with a man associated with the Mafia. But I can’t deny there’s something else, something more, an attraction, powerful and magnetic.
Like I should have stopped him, asked him more questions, kept him here just a little longer.
The ridiculous thought that I should know everything about him, and that he should know me, drifts across my mind. I bite my lip, tempting down the spark of the mischievous thought before it flares up.
“Focus, Isabella,” I mutter, shaking my head. I pick up the Luciana ring again, turning it beneath the light, the diamonds sparkling as I reach for my magnifying glass.
Yet, even as I peer into its intricate detail, the trace of Alessio’s name in the air and that almost smile stays with me, lingering just behind my thoughts, like a half-remembered dream.
The hours slip by, blending together as I lose myself in the rhythm of my work. Time blurs, the day disappearing into dusk, then into deep night. But even as I polish and perfect each detail, my mind keeps wandering back to him, Alessio.
The way he’d filled the shop with his quiet intensity, his eyes capturing mine in a way that made me feel seen, almost exposed, so I can’t quite explain. I feel his gaze all over again, remembering that short, subtle smile.
That electric charge we shared…I can’t possibly be the only one who felt it, can I?
The pull was there, magnetic, as real as anything, undeniable, something beyond a fleeting glance or passing attraction.
Even now, the thought of seeing him again tomorrow has a thrill building inside me, an eager flutter that defies all logic. It’s silly. Foolish. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t ignore the excitement curling in my chest, filling me with warmth as the night deepens around me.
As the evening stretches on, I turn my focus to the Luciana ring, examining every facet and flaw with care, brushing over the gold with gentle strokes, polishing the diamonds until they glint like stars.
In my hands, it’s not just a ring, it’s a piece of history. I think of all the Marinos who’ve handled it before me, preparing it for the Luciana’s ceremonies just as I am now.
How many of my ancestors touched this same metal, looked into these same stones? There’s something about holding this ring that feels like reaching through time, connecting with my family’s legacy.
But as the night settles over the shop, a chill prickles over me, and I sense something… off. At first, it’s just a vague feeling, easy to brush off, but it grows, winding its way down my spine until I feel almost certain I’m not alone.
I glance around, eyes darting over every corner of the shop, but there’s no one here. Nothing out of place. And yet, the feeling remains, that creeping awareness that I’m being watched.
Swallowing, I stand, shaking off the unsettling sensation and moving through the shop, double checking each lock and door. The front door is secure; I twist the bolt just to be sure. Then I walk to the back, testing the lock there too.
I stop at the security cameras, watching each screen, taking in the empty displays one by one, waiting for a flicker, a sign. But everything is as it should be. Safe.
“Tsk, Isabella,” I mutter under my breath. “ Ti preoccupi troppo. ” I shake my head, brushing the feeling away. I’m just being paranoid. It’s late, I’m tired. That’s all.
I finally return to my desk, the ring catching the dim light as I place it back in its case, giving it one last, careful look. With a soft sigh, I head upstairs to my apartment, exhaustion catching up to me.
The chill of the night is creeping in. But as I slip under my blanket, the cold only makes the warmth of my bed feel that much cozier.
I pull the covers tight around me, letting my eyes close, my breathing soft and slow.
But even now, Alessio drifts into my thoughts, filling that quiet space just before sleep. I see his face, the shadowed outline of his features, the intensity in his eyes that’s almost too much to bear. Tomorrow, he’ll be here again. The thought alone wraps me in a warmth even my blankets can’t give.