Chapter 1

CHIARA

‘ I n my solitude, you haunt me

With reveries of days gone by

In my solitude, you taunt me

With memories that never die.’

The soft, aching strains of Billie Holiday’s voice poured through the car speakers.

Her voice, raw and full of heartbreak, wrapped around me like an embrace, mirroring the melancholy that clung to me.

The cobblestone roads beneath my tires sent gentle rumbles through me.

Naples’ lights flickered like stars fallen to the ground, casting a warm glow on the evening that only seemed to make me feel colder inside.

Outside my window, life carried on with a warmth I somehow struggled to experience.

Happy families bustled along the sidewalks, their laughter spilling into the street as they enjoyed an early supper.

Their faces lit with joy as children tugged on their parents’ hands, chattering in excitement.

The scent of roasting garlic and fresh bread wafted through the late summer air. Mixing with the distant sound of clinking glasses and soft chatter from the trattorias and cafés lining the piazzas.

Couples strolled hand in hand, their steps slow, unhurried, as though time bent to their happiness.

They paused under the lamplight, leaning in close, kissing as if the rest of the world faded away for them.

The scene resembled a painting—‘ la vita è bella ’ —out of reach and remote to me as the early quarter moon hanging over the rooftops.

I felt like a ghost in this city, driving through life while everyone else seemed to live it to the full, their moments rich with connection and love.

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel as I drove past, the sight of their intimacy only deepening the hollow ache inside me.

Alone in a sea of togetherness, I observed happiness play out in slow motion as if mocking my isolation.

Billie’s hushed and languid voice soothed me as if she, too, understood this kind of aching loneliness. The notes lingered in the air, mixing with the sights outside my window—the warmth of Naples and the coldness in my heart colliding.

The piazzas flashed like scenes from a life I didn’t belong to, the laughter and love in stark contrast to the emptiness I carried inside me.

I kept driving, attempting to escape the hollowness, but it followed, sinking deeper with every embrace I spotted and each family I passed.

I drifted through it, Billie’s voice and I, a shadow among all the light.

I forced myself to think of something else to ward off my misery.

The gallery—the upcoming show, the faces that would soon fill the space, admiring the pieces I curated.

Running the show space had always been a labor of love, but tonight, it seemed like a heavier burden, one I was unable to shake.

I wanted to blame my malaise on exhaustion, but something more profound was gnawing at me. A sense of unease I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I turned onto a quieter road leading to the city’s serene edges, where the houses were more prominent. Most sat further apart with sprawling gardens hidden behind stone walls and gates.

The lights in the windows glowed with an inviting sparkle. I imagined families gathering for dinner or sitting by fireplaces inside.

Breaking bread, eating pasta, drinking wine, laughing.

For a brief moment, I envisaged what that life would feel like—coming home to love and warmth like that instead of solitude.

The thought lingered, tugging at me as I passed house after house, each different but all somehow the same.

I sighed, brushing a loose strand of tawny hair out of my face. My grip tightened on the steering wheel as I rounded the final curve that brought me closer to my house.

My ivy-covered, renovated four-bedroom stone heritage residence was tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac. It had a rambling front garden and glowing windows.

Although it was not a mansion, it was charming and mine—a place crafted with my hands, filled with art, furniture, books, and memories.

The villa sat over two floors connected by an internal and an external staircase.

The lush, cozy living areas and my primary enjoyed fantastic sea views of Marina Piccola, yet set in a reserved and peaceful position.

My street was accessible by foot from the Piazzetta, with neither steps nor climbs, making it ideal for my morning runs.

It also featured a furnished double-suite, two-bath guest quarter at the end of the garden, where I hosted friends.

I pulled into the short gravel driveway and turned off the engine. For a moment, I listened to the quiet ticking of the car cooling down, the muted chirping of crickets filling the night air.

Home.

I loved returning to my sanctuary, even on nights like this, when the day’s weight seemed heavier than usual, where I forgot my troubles and the freakin’ storm breaking around me, threatening to shatter and upend my world.

I shoved my sadness aside and imagined the soft feel of my bed, the warm glow of the fireplace, and maybe even a glass of red wine to cap off the long, exhausting day.

But as I reached into my bag to grab my keys, my hand closed on an empty inner pocket.

No keys.

A groan slipped from my lips, frustration bubbling up as I sifted through my tote, hoping they’d somehow fallen to the bottom.

Fotto! I’d left them back at the gallery.

Of course.

In my rush to escape, I must have forgotten them on my desk.

Most times, I kept both sets together, but my recent paranoia had made me pull them apart, worried an assailant would have entry to both my gallery and home with one set. So, I’d divided them to make them harder to access. It was either one or the other.

I also knew it was futile and ridiculous to believe I could keep my life’s unseen, darker elements away with two sets of separate keys.

Still, I’d given it my best shot. The problem was my efforts these days were one major energy suck.

After my long day, exhaustion hit, and the thought of driving back into the city at this hour almost brought me to tears.

After a series of curses and bangs on the steering column, I accepted my fate.

The tension in my neck tightened as I turned the car around, my hands gripping the leather of the classic turn wheel harder than necessary.

The streets lay deserted now, my journey back to the town center underpinned with an undercurrent of annoyance that colored everything darker.

Galleria Gisela loomed ahead, its elegant lit sign in front of the dark facade of the architectural building I’d procured with my mother’s inheritance.

I parked at an odd angle before it, nabbed my tote, and locked up with a furtive glance up and down the street before I dashed to the door.

My heels echoed against the wet pavement, evidence of an earlier rain shower.

Shadows fell over the entrance, the only light coming from the faint street lamps that dotted the curb.

The city appeared quieter now, too quiet, the kind of stillness that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge.

I hurried inside, fumbling with the door before I slipped into the darkened gallery.

The space echoed with an eerie reverb, the familiar paintings and sculptures now casting strange contours across the walls in the dim light. I shivered though the temperature hadn’t dropped.

Something felt off.

A trickle of unease crept down my spine, a whispering voice telling me I wasn’t alone.

Don’t be ridiculous, I scolded myself, shaking the thought off.

I just needed to grab my keys from the office and get the hell home.

My heels clicked as I crossed the gallery floor, the sound bouncing off the interior like a taunt—each step louder than the last, a reminder of the later-than-usual hour.

But that same uneasy sensation wouldn’t leave me.

It clung to me, making my chest tighten with every breath.

When I reached my workspace, my hand paused on the doorknob.

The air around me shifted, oppressive and thicker than usual like the gloaming carried weight.

I sensed the tension building within me, that inexplicable premonition pressing harder against my senses. I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

My heart leaped into my throat.

There, sitting in my chair, I tagged a dark silhouette.

The bright glow of a lit cheroot flared, casting his face in a half-shadow before disappearing into the smoke again.

I gasped, stumbling back a step, my pulse skyrocketing in sheer panic.

My hand scrambled within my tote, fingers trembling as I reached for the only weapon I kept—an old but reliable pepper spray canister.

My breath hitched as I tried to hold the bag steady, ready to mist him if he made a move.

Before I had the chance to pull it out, the man’s voice cut through the thick silence.

‘Put it away, signora,’ he drawled.

The rasp, dry and deep, sending shards of emotion through me. ‘You won’t need that. I’m here because you called for me.’

What the hell?

My mind reeled, fear and confusion battling for control as I stared at him.

I hadn’t summoned anyone. Had I?

He leaned forward and turned on the small desk lamp, throwing his face into relief.

My entire body lurched because the man was sexy as fuck.

I raked my eyes over him.

In the golden glow, I made out his features—all man, lethal and menacing as they came.

Lean, tall, and muscled, his rippling, sinewed arms strained his dark suit jacket.

His hair, full, lush, and inky, swept over his broad brow, and his brutish nose flared, sculpted with an aquiline cut.

I tagged the hint of a chiseled jaw under his neat beard and luscious lips.

When he sliced his eyes at me, I jolted.

Pale aqua, reminiscent of the dreamlike sea I’d visited once.

Gazing into those enigmatic eyes brought an old memory into sharp focus: diving into a sea of pure, silver-blue, and dazzling water.

I wanted to plunge into them, to get immersed in their azure sensuality, surrounded by the longest dark lashes that many women would die for.

I slow-blinked when he smirked.

The air between us thickened as he took another drag of the cheroot, his head tilted back on my chair, and smoke curled toward the ceiling.

Those eyes, pale and piercing, stayed on me, sharp and alert.

Never missed a detail, scanning me from head to toe with the cool detachment of a predator surveying its prey.

My hand tightened around my pepper spray as I questioned whether I’d find any truth to his statement.

Even as his cologne, an initial burst of evocative citrus, aquatic notes, and musk invaded my nostrils and flooded me with an instant, aching wetness.

‘Seen enough, Chiara?’

My hands trembled, but something about his voice—his cocky, confident growl—rooted me in place.

This was not just any break-in.

It was something else altogether.