Chapter 1
Chapter 1 – Dominika Kováčová POV
The sky stretched wide and impossibly blue over Sicily, the sun casting golden light on the rough cobblestones and shuttered buildings. It was a world away from the gray winters of Bratislava, a place that smelled of salt and citrus and life, and yet, despite the beauty, I couldn’t fully relax. A low sigh escaped me as I lifted a wooden crate of tomatoes from the delivery truck, feeling the rough grain dig into my palms. Three months had passed since Sofia, and I had arrived, fleeing the remnants of a life that had left nothing but scars. Our uncle, who now went by Roberto to fit in with the language and the locals, had welcomed us, offered a small refuge, and for that I was grateful—but grateful didn’t erase the weight on my shoulders.
I worked at his market from dawn until the afternoon heat drove the tourists away, moving crates, arranging fruit, and stacking vegetables. My body ached constantly, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind that reminded me I was still alive, still capable. Sofia couldn’t help. She hadn’t been well for months. Cancer. A word that felt too small for the storm inside her. I pictured her upstairs, lying on our shared bed, phone in hand, ballet dancing across her screen as she hummed along quietly. She had always been a dreamer, fragile and soft, and I hated that the world—our world—had stolen so much from her before it had even let her live. She deserved sunshine, laughter, and a normal life. But none of that existed for us. Not yet.
I set the crate down and ran a hand through my hair, letting the weight of it all press against my chest. The market was quiet now, the late morning lull broken only by the clatter of crates from the back and the occasional bell above the door. I liked this part of the day, when it was just me, the smells of ripe fruit and warm bread, and the faint buzz of distant conversation in the alleyways. For a moment, I allowed myself to breathe, to imagine what life could be if things had been different.
“Dominika! Careful with that one!” Roberto’s voice called from behind the counter, rough but gentle. I turned, offering a half-smile. He was counting coins again, methodical, always steady. Always present. He was a quiet anchor in the middle of our storm, the kind of man who worked hard and asked nothing in return.
“Don’t worry,” I said, shifting the crate to my other arm. “I’ve got it.”
His eyes softened, just for a moment. “You’ve grown strong, niña. Too strong for your own good.”
I frowned. “I don’t have time to be weak.” The words left my mouth harder than I intended, sharper than I felt. I carried the memories of Bratislava in every muscle, in every heartbeat. Weakness had killed people I loved. Weakness had almost killed me.
Silence fell after that, comfortable in its own way. I leaned against the counter for a moment, listening to Sofia’s faint laughter upstairs, imagining her spinning in a ballet, arms stretched toward the sunlight streaming through our small window. I envied her softness, her ability to dream despite everything. I wanted to protect it, keep it intact, even if it meant carrying the rest of the world on my back.
I glanced outside. The street was quiet now, the sun cutting long shadows across the stone. I couldn’t stop thinking about the future, about what I had to do to keep Sofia alive. Money. Connections. Anything. Whatever it took. For her, I could cross lines I had spent my life trying to avoid. I could fight, steal, lie, and kill if it came to that. I didn’t want to, but I would.
And yet, even knowing that, I felt the faintest flicker of something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years: hope. The sun, the warmth, the small market where life quietly went on, all of it was a reminder that maybe, just maybe, the world could be gentle enough for Sofia to live in—if I made sure it was.
I finished unloading the truck, stacking the wooden crates with careful precision, one by one, until the market was arranged the way Roberto liked it. The late morning sun had turned the cobblestones beneath my feet almost too hot to touch, and I stepped outside behind the market, letting my body slump onto the worn stairs. My denim overalls, once a pale blue, were streaked with dirt and sweat, and the white T-shirt underneath clung to me, damp and heavy. My long blonde hair had escaped its tie, a messy high ponytail swinging over my shoulder, strands sticking to the back of my neck.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to step into someone else’s life. Comic, really. Wash off the grime, pull a dress over my skin, strap on heels, and suddenly I’d be the kind of girl who could catch the eye of a wealthy man. But I knew myself too well. I would probably end him in his sleep before breakfast, because I knew exactly what those men were like—selling fairytales to snare young, naive women who thought wealth equaled love.
I was twenty-two, young enough to be reckless if I wanted, old enough to know better. The gray concrete blocks of Bratislava East had taught me that the world was full of predators, and there was no one to stop them but yourself. Naivety had died along with my childhood.
I pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it with the lighter I always kept in my pocket, and inhaled deeply. The smoke stung my lungs in a way that felt almost cleansing, sharp and bitter and grounding all at once. I leaned back on the stone, letting the heat of the sun beat against my face, closing my eyes for a few moments.
Somewhere above, Sofia was probably resting, dreaming, spinning invisible pirouettes on the threadbare carpet of our bedroom. I wondered if she thought the world could be gentle. She had to, or it would crush her entirely. I exhaled slowly, the smoke curling up into the air, and let my mind wander over the bills, the doctor visits, the endless worry that had followed us from Bratislava to Sicily. Money didn’t grow on trees, and a small market could only stretch so far.
A soft voice broke through my thoughts, footsteps clattering lightly against the stone steps.
“You can’t keep smoking those, you know.”
I cracked an eye open and saw Roberto’s tall frame descending the stairs beside me, the sunlight catching the lines of his face, normally cheerful, now tinged with worry. I took another drag, letting the smoke curl lazily into the air, a small act of defiance.
“It’s better than stressing myself into a vein-popping headache,” I muttered, exhaling slowly.
He chuckled, low and warm, shaking his head as he set down a plate with a sandwich and a tall glass of lemonade on the bottom step beside me. The condensation made small circles on the stone. “You’re impossible,” he said, brushing a hand over his short-cropped hair. “Come on, eat something. You can’t keep pretending you’re indestructible.”
I glanced at the sandwich, then back at him, and smirked faintly. “I’ll survive,” I said, though my stomach grumbled in reluctant agreement. The truth was, I was always surviving, always moving, always calculating the next step to keep Sofia alive. Eating a sandwich wouldn’t change that.
Roberto lowered himself onto the step beside me, careful not to crowd my space. He carried a quiet kind of presence—steady, grounding, like the worn stone beneath us. “You’ve been at it all morning,” he said. “I know you’re trying to keep things running smoothly, but even you need a break.”
I sighed, finally setting the cigarette aside and letting the embers die against the cobblestones. The sweet scent of lemonade and bread was almost comforting, though it did little to calm the knot of worry I carried. “I don’t get breaks,” I said softly. “Not with Sofia upstairs.”
Roberto’s gaze softened, flicking toward the market and then back to me. “She’s lucky to have you,” he said quietly. “Most people wouldn’t have the strength—or the nerve—to do what you do every day.”
I forced a small shrug, trying to appear indifferent, but I felt the weight of the words pressing against me anyway. Strength wasn’t always something I wanted. Sometimes it was just survival disguised as bravery. I tore a bite from the sandwich, letting the cool lemonade slide down my throat, and stared at the sunlit street, thinking about how fragile everything really was.
The market remained quiet, save for the occasional distant clatter of a cart or a passing voice, the ordinary world pressing on in its slow, stubborn rhythm. And yet, even in that normalcy, I couldn’t shake the sense that it was temporary. That the calm we had now, the small moments of sunlight and laughter, could be torn away in a heartbeat.
I looked at Roberto, and for the briefest moment, allowed myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, the world could hold us gently for a little while longer. But the tension in my shoulders reminded me—it never had. And I would do whatever it took to keep Sofia safe, even if it meant stepping into shadows I wasn’t sure I could return from.
“Why did you leave Bratislava?” I asked, watching Roberto rub his face with a rough hand, his blue eyes heavy with fatigue. Blue eyes. The same piercing color as my father’s. The same eyes I had, though mine carried more suspicion than hope these days.
“It was hard,” he said slowly, exhaling a low, tired sigh. “I didn’t have many options. And your father… he was a pest.” He shook his head, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “He was my little brother, stubborn as hell, but I loved him. Goods and bads, all of it.”
“He got in with the wrong people,” I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the warmth of the noon.
“Hej,” he replied, slipping into Slovak for emphasis. “I told him before I left that he should find a real job, something safe. But your mother was pregnant with Sofia, and your father… he was desperate to give his family more than we ever had. Both your mother’s family and ours… we were poor. Everyone did what they thought was right at the time.”
I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest tightening. “Why Sicily?”
He chuckled softly, and for a moment, his voice carried a hint of nostalgia. “I won’t lie. I’ve always hated Bratislava. Too cold… especially in winter. I always yearned for more… warmth. The sun, the streets, the smell of the sea… it felt like freedom. Like life.”
I studied him, noticing the way the light caught the faint wrinkles around his eyes, the way his hands, calloused from years of work, rested on his knees. He carried so much, yet he had somehow survived. Somehow made a life here. I envied that stability, envied the ordinary rhythm he had built.
“I wish… I wish things could’ve been different,” I said quietly, almost to myself. “For Sofia. For me.”
Roberto’s gaze softened, and he reached over to press a hand lightly against mine, the gesture small but grounding. “Life isn’t perfect, niña,” he said. “It’s messy. Sometimes cruel. But you survived Bratislava. You’re alive. And you brought your sister here. That’s more than most people could do.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, letting the warmth of his hand remind me that at least a part of the world still made sense. But even as I let myself breathe for a moment, my mind wandered, as it always did, to the future. Bills, doctors, survival. The weight I carried for Sofia was relentless, and I knew it would never lift. Not fully.
Yet for now, sitting there on the stone steps with Roberto beside me, listening to the faint chatter of the street, I allowed myself the tiniest flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time. A fragile, fleeting hope that maybe—just maybe—we could carve out a small corner of life that was safe, warm, and ours.
And for Sofia, that had to be enough.
Roberto slowly rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his pants. “I made lunch for Sofia,” he said, his voice soft, careful. “Could you bring it upstairs? I’m sure she’d rather see you than me.”
I nodded, taking the plate he handed me. The small sandwich and fruit smelled faintly of home, simple but nourishing. Cradling it in my hands, I felt the familiar tug of responsibility tighten around my chest. Every meal, every small gesture, was a battle against the disease that had stolen so much from Sofia already.
The stairs creaked beneath my weight as I climbed, the familiar path between market and bedroom carrying years of silent worry and whispered promises. Outside, the sunlight streamed through the narrow window, dust motes dancing in the warmth, and for a moment, I let myself imagine Sofia smiling, carefree, spinning through a sunlit room without a care in the world.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open gently. Sofia lay on the bed, her pale hair spilling across the pillow, phone in hand, earbuds in, a soft hum of music filling the room. Her delicate features lit up when she caught sight of me. “Lunch?” she asked, voice small but bright, hopeful.
I set the plate on the nightstand and sat beside her, careful not to jostle the blanket. “Yeah,” I said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Roberto made it. But I’m bringing it to you.”
She gave me a small smile, that fragile warmth that always made the weight on my shoulders feel slightly lighter. “I missed you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
I reached out and squeezed her hand, forcing my own smile, even though inside I carried the constant churn of fear and anger. “I’m here,” I said firmly. “Always.”
We ate in quiet companionship, the faint hum of ballet music from her phone mixing with the sound of her slow, careful chewing. For a moment, the world outside the window—the sun, the streets, the life that waited beyond these walls—felt distant, almost irrelevant. In this small room, with her warmth beside me, I could pretend we had some semblance of peace.
But the truth never stayed buried for long. Even as I poured her lemonade into a small cup and placed it within reach, my mind wandered, cataloging bills, appointments, and the endless chain of obstacles I would have to overcome to keep her alive. Each bite of sandwich, each sip of drink, reminded me that survival was never simple, never safe—and yet, somehow, we endured.
I brushed my hand along the edge of the bed, feeling the faint tremor in Sofia’s fingers. My chest tightened. One day, that tremor might become too much. And when it did… I would do anything. Anything at all to keep her safe.
“You’re overthinking again,” Sofia’s gentle voice pulled me back from the spiral of my own thoughts.
“What?” I muttered, blinking as if I’d been caught in a daydream.
She gave a weak, playful chuckle, though her frailty made it sound almost like a sigh. “When you think too much, you frown. You’ll get wrinkles, and you’re already more beautiful than me. You’ll ruin yourself.”
I let out a humorless laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t have time to worry about wrinkles, Sofia. I have to worry about keeping you alive.”
Her small hand reached out, brushing my knuckles with a tenderness that made my chest tighten. “I know. But you can’t carry everything alone. Even you need to breathe.”
I glanced at her, really looked at her—the way her pale skin caught the sunlight spilling through the window, the softness of her hair, the fragile hope in her blue eyes. “I can’t stop thinking,” I admitted softly, my voice lower than I intended. “Not when you’re sick. Not when—” I stopped myself, because saying it aloud made it sound too real. Too heavy.
Sofia tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes despite the illness. “You worry too much. You always do. Even when we were little, you treated the whole world like it was on fire. Maybe it was, I don’t know… but you still saved me from the smoke.”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “And I’ll keep doing it,” I whispered, brushing her hair back from her face. “No matter what it costs me.”
She gave me a small, wistful smile, one that felt like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. “Promise me you’ll laugh sometimes, Dom. Even if it’s just a little. Even if I’m not there to see it.”
I hesitated, the weight of the promise pressing down on me, but I squeezed her hand anyway. “I’ll try,” I said, though I didn’t feel confident in the word. Not yet.
For a moment, we sat in quiet, the faint hum of ballet music filling the room, the soft sound of our breathing blending together. Outside, the sunlight slanted across the floor, dust motes dancing like tiny golden sparks, and for the first time that day, I let myself believe that maybe, for now, we could just exist. Just survive in this tiny slice of warmth and calm.
Sofia leaned back against her pillow, picking at her sandwich lazily. “You know,” she murmured, a playful tone threading through her weakness, “if you keep working so hard, I might have to hire you out as a bodyguard. You’d be perfect. People would pay for that, I bet.”
I snorted, shaking my head. “Yeah, I can see it now. Dominika Kováčová, freelance protector of rich idiots.”
She laughed softly, and the sound, fragile and sweet, lingered in the room like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep but had to.
After lingering with Sofia a little longer, I finally forced myself to stand and leave the room. If I stayed too long, I’d start thinking again, and thinking never did me any favors. Work was easier. Work kept my hands busy and my mind quiet.
Downstairs, the market smelled of fruit, dust, and warm wood. Roberto was behind the counter speaking with an old woman about tomatoes, his voice calm and patient. The clock on the wall read 18:30. Evening in Sicily still looked like afternoon in Bratislava—bright sun, golden light spilling through the doorway, the air warm against my skin.
“Deliveries?” Roberto asked when he noticed me.
I nodded.
He pointed to the small stack of jars already waiting on the counter. Honey and marmalade, sealed and labeled with his careful handwriting. Simple things, but the tourists and neighbors loved them.
“Three streets down, then the yellow house near the church,” he said. “They already paid.”
“Got it.”
I packed the jars carefully into the square delivery backpack, making sure they wouldn’t knock against each other. The glass clinked softly, a delicate sound that made me instinctively more cautious. Breaking even one meant less money. Less money meant problems.
And we already had enough of those.
Outside, my bike leaned against the wall where I’d left it earlier. The metal was warm from sitting in the sun. I swung one leg over and pushed off, the tires rolling onto the uneven stone street.
Sicily, in the evening, had a different energy than the daytime market rush. People lingered outside cafés, voices rising and falling in Italian I was still getting used to. The smell of espresso, grilled meat, and sea air drifted through the streets. Somewhere nearby, music played from an open window.
It was almost beautiful enough to make someone forget the world could be cruel.
Almost.
I pedaled through the narrow streets, weaving past parked scooters and chatting neighbors. A couple argued loudly on a balcony above me, hands flying in dramatic gestures. Two kids kicked a worn soccer ball across the road, forcing me to slow down.
“Scusa!” one of them shouted.
I lifted a hand. “It’s fine.”
The first delivery was easy. An old man who smelled like tobacco opened the door and greeted me like he’d known me for years, even though we’d only met twice. He insisted I take a piece of candy before leaving.
The second house belonged to a woman who barely looked up from her phone when she grabbed the jars.
Normal life. Ordinary things.
I almost relaxed.
By the time I got back on my bike again, the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the buildings in deep orange light. Long shadows stretched across the streets. The air cooled just slightly, enough to feel against the sweat on my neck.
I pedaled toward the last address Roberto had given me—the yellow house near the church. The church bells rang just as I turned onto the street. And that’s when I noticed it. A black car was parked across the road.
Engine running. Windows dark.
My instincts stirred immediately, that old Bratislava survival sense crawling up my spine like a warning whisper. Maybe it was nothing. But the world had taught me one rule very well. When something feels wrong… it usually is.
I pedaled closer, trying to ignore the sudden quickening of my heartbeat. The car didn’t move. My eyes drifted to the dark windows, instinctively searching for movement, for the outline of someone watching. A car by itself wasn’t dangerous. Sicily had plenty of them. But the way this one sat there, engine humming softly like a patient animal waiting for its moment… it felt wrong.
The church bells rang again, deep and heavy, echoing through the quiet street. I forced myself to breathe and kept going. It was just a car. Nothing more.
The yellow house near the church appeared at the end of the street, sunlit and ordinary. An old woman answered the door after a moment, smiling politely as I handed over the jars. Honey and marmalade exchanged hands, a few quick words in broken Italian, and it was done. Simple.
Normal.
Exactly the kind of normal I tried to hold onto.
I stepped back onto the street and swung my leg over the bike, ready to head back to Roberto’s market before the sun disappeared behind the rooftops.
Then someone whistled.
Sharp. Intentional.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned my head toward the sound.
An alley cut between two buildings to my right, narrow like most streets in this town, the walls close enough to trap the heat of the day. In the shade of it stood a man leaning lazily against the wall like he owned the place.
A white T-shirt stretched across his chest. A gold chain caught the last rays of sunlight. His skin was tanned, his hair thick and brown, styled in that effortless way men somehow managed when they knew they looked good.
Mediterranean charm, I supposed.
Three more guys sat on the stone steps behind him, smoking, watching the street like bored cats.
“Ragazza bionda,” the man called.
In three months, I had learned enough Italian to survive conversations at the market. Ragazza meant girl.
I glanced around the street.
No other girl.
So… me.
I rested one foot on the ground, the other still on the pedal, studying them the same way I’d studied the black car earlier. Calm on the outside. Calculating on the inside.
“Yeah?” I called back, my accent thick but understandable.
The man smiled slowly, pushing himself off the wall. “You’re Roberto’s niece.”
Not a question.
A statement.
My grip tightened slightly on the handlebars.
“Maybe.”
The guys behind him chuckled.
He stepped a little closer into the light, confident, relaxed, like a man who had never been told no in his life. “Giovanni,” he said, tapping his chest.
Of course, he had a name ready like that.
I didn’t give him mine.
“What do you want, Giovanni?” I asked flatly.
His eyes flicked to the delivery backpack, then back to my face. There was amusement there… but also something sharper. Measuring.
“Relax,” he said, lifting his hands slightly. “We’re just talking.”
One of the guys on the stairs muttered something in Italian that made the others laugh.
I didn’t laugh.
I had grown up around men like this. Bratislava was full of them. Loud. Confident. Dangerous in small ways that sometimes became big ones.
Giovanni tilted his head, studying me more carefully now.
“You’re not from here,” he said.
“No.”
“Slovakia.”
That made my stomach tighten a little.
“People talk,” he added with a shrug.
Of course they did. Small towns always did.
His gaze lingered a moment longer, curious rather than hostile. Then he smirked. “You look like someone who doesn’t belong on a delivery bike.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you look like someone who should mind his business.”
That made the guys behind him burst out laughing. Giovanni grinned wider. But there was something else in his eyes now.
Interest.
Not the cheap kind. The dangerous kind.
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice just enough that it felt more private. “You’re bold,” he said. “That’s rare.”
I met his gaze without blinking. “Move out of the road,” I replied. “I have work.”
For a second, the alley went quiet. Then Giovanni stepped aside. Just enough for me to pass. But as I pushed the pedal and rolled forward, he spoke again.
“You know… You could be doing better than delivery girl work.”
I paused, one foot still on the pedal, and slowly turned my head to glance back at him over my shoulder. Giovanni had slipped his hands into his pockets, posture loose, relaxed—almost entertained. Like this whole interaction was some kind of game, and he already knew how it ended.
“What exactly are you suggesting, Giovanni?” I asked, my tone measured. Calm. I’d learned long ago that men like him liked reactions. I didn’t plan on giving him one.
“There are ways of making money,” he said casually, taking a few slow steps closer, “much faster… and in much bigger sums.”
As he moved, the sleeve of his shirt shifted, revealing the inside of his forearm. A tattoo caught the fading sunlight. A Doberman’s head. Sharp ears. Bared teeth. Not a random tattoo. The kind men got when they wanted people to understand something without asking questions.
My eyes lingered on it for a moment before lifting back to his face. “What’s the catch?” I asked flatly. “I’m not some naïve girl who thinks money grows on trees.” I tilted my head slightly. “Only the sun shines for free.”
One of the men on the steps snorted at that.
Giovanni, however, smiled wider. “Good,” he said. “I hate naïve people. They panic too quickly.”
That sentence hung in the air a little longer than I liked. I didn’t move my bike. Didn’t look away.
Giovanni studied me the same way a card player studies someone across the table.
“You’re not stupid,” he continued. “You work hard. You keep to yourself. You watch people before speaking.” His eyes flicked briefly to my face, then to my hands on the handlebars. “And you’re desperate.”
My jaw tightened. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I?” He tilted his head slightly. “Sick sister. Medical bills. Small market income.”
A cold feeling slid into my stomach. Behind him, the guys on the steps had gone quiet now. Watching. Listening.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
Giovanni shrugged like it was the most normal thing in the world. “This town talks.”
That was true. I hated that it was true.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall again, completely comfortable. “So,” he said, “I’m offering you an opportunity.”
“Opportunity,” I repeated slowly. “That word usually comes with problems.”
He laughed under his breath. “Oh, it definitely comes with problems.”
The honesty surprised me. Which made it worse. I stayed silent. Letting him talk.
Giovanni looked up at the sky for a moment, like he was considering how much to say. Then his gaze dropped back to mine.
“Tell me something, Dominika,” he said.
Hearing my name from his mouth made my spine stiffen.
“If someone offered you enough money to change your life… would you take it?”
I didn’t answer immediately. Sicily suddenly felt very quiet. The church bells had stopped. Even the breeze seemed to pause between the buildings.
Finally, I spoke. “That depends,” I said.
“On what?”
“What they want in return.”
Giovanni’s smile returned slowly. Not friendly. Satisfied.
“That,” he said, “is the right question.”
He pushed himself off the wall and stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Let’s say there’s a man in this country,” he continued, “a very powerful man.”
The guys behind him shifted slightly. Not joking anymore.
“Some people,” Giovanni said, “would pay a fortune to see him dead.”
The words landed heavily in the air between us. I stared at him. Waiting. He watched my reaction carefully. And when I didn’t flinch… his smile deepened.
“Now,” Giovanni said quietly, “imagine if the person who did it… was someone nobody would ever suspect.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, the pieces clicking together in my head in a way I didn’t like. “You want me to kill someone for money?” I said quietly, the words laced with disbelief and venom. “You’re a nutcase.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. The men on the steps shifted, exchanging glances, like they were waiting to see how Giovanni would react. The alley suddenly felt tighter, the air thicker. Giovanni, however, didn’t look offended. If anything, he looked amused.
A slow grin spread across his face as he ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Straight to the point,” he said. “I like that.”
“I’m serious,” I snapped, my voice low but sharp. “Find someone else for your psycho fantasy.”
I pushed slightly on the pedal, ready to leave.
“Five hundred thousand.”
The number hit the air like a brick. My bike stopped moving. I hated that it did. Slowly, I turned my head back toward him. Giovanni watched me carefully, like a fisherman who had just felt the line pull.
“You heard me,” he said calmly.
My grip tightened on the handlebars. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Behind him, one of the guys muttered something under his breath, but Giovanni lifted a hand slightly, and the man went quiet again. My brain was already working against me, numbers crashing into reality.
Five hundred thousand.
Hospital treatments. Doctors. Private clinics. Things people like us were never supposed to afford.
I forced my expression to harden. “You’re insane,” I said. “And stupid if you think I’d believe that.”
Giovanni tilted his head slightly. “You think people like me throw numbers around for fun?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled. “Fair.”
The sun dipped lower behind the buildings, shadows stretching across the alley, and for a second, none of us spoke.
Then I asked the only question that mattered. “Who?”
The word slipped out before I could stop it. Giovanni noticed. Of course he did. His smile turned sharper.
“There it is,” he said quietly.
I felt irritation flare in my chest. “Don’t look so proud of yourself. Curiosity doesn’t mean yes.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it means you’re listening.”
He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice again. “This man,” he said, “is not just some street thug.”
“No kidding.”
“He’s the most protected criminal in this country.”
That alone sounded like suicide.
I almost laughed. “Then you’re even dumber than I thought.”
Giovanni’s eyes glinted. “Maybe.”
He leaned in slightly. “But everyone bleeds.”
The words sat cold in the space between us. I studied his face, trying to understand if he was bluffing, testing me, or completely insane.
“Why me?” I asked.
That seemed to genuinely amuse him. “Because,” he said, gesturing vaguely at me, “look at you.”
I frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Giovanni gestured toward me again, like the answer was obvious. “Come on. You are beautiful, sì. Very bella.” He tilted his head slightly, studying me in a way that was more calculating than flirtatious. “And I’m not saying that like some pervert. Even with the oversized, dirty overalls… I can see it.”
I stiffened a little, not liking the direction of the conversation.
He continued anyway. “A skirt,” he said, motioning vaguely as if painting the picture in the air, “a little effort, all dolled up… you would have no problem getting close to him.”
The implication settled over me like a layer of dust.
I stared at him for a long second. “You want me to play bait,” I said flatly.
One of the guys on the steps let out a quiet whistle. Giovanni didn’t deny it. Instead, he shrugged. “I prefer the word strategy.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Strategy that ends with me dead.”
“Not if you’re careful.”
“Or in prison.”
“That too,” he admitted casually.
The honesty almost irritated me more than if he had tried to lie. I shifted slightly on the bike, eyeing the alley again, weighing distance, exits, numbers. Old habits. Bratislava had taught me that conversations like this could turn bad very quickly.
“You’re out of your mind,” I said again.
Giovanni watched me quietly, like he expected that answer. “Maybe,” he said. “But desperate people do brave things.”
My jaw tightened. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” His gaze sharpened just slightly. “I know hospital visits are expensive.”
Silence stretched between us. Behind him, the sky had started turning deep orange as the sun sank lower behind the rooftops. I hated that he was right about one thing. Desperation changes the math.
Still, I shook my head and pushed the pedal forward a little. “You picked the wrong girl.”
Giovanni didn’t move to block me. But his voice followed. “Half a million, Dominika.”
I stopped again.
Damn it.
He noticed, of course. “That kind of money doesn’t come around twice,” he continued calmly.
I slowly turned my head back toward him. “And the man?” I asked.
Giovanni smiled. Not proudly. Almost cautiously now.
“The most dangerous man in this country,” he said.
A small pause.
Giovanni watched me for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting as if he had already anticipated my next question. Then he said it.
“Machiavelli.”
The name meant absolutely nothing to me. But the reaction behind him did. The men on the steps, who until now had been relaxed and amused, suddenly went quiet. One of them shifted uncomfortably, and another crushed his cigarette a little too quickly against the stone. That silence said more than Giovanni’s words ever could.
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “That’s his name?” I asked.
Giovanni shook his head once. “That’s the name he goes by.”
“A nickname,” I said.
“Something like that.”
I studied him for a moment longer, trying to read past the confidence on his face. “And the real name?”
He watched me carefully before answering. “Valentino Romano.” The name rolled off his tongue with a strange mixture of respect and irritation.
Still… nothing in my head clicked. No recognition. No fear attached to it. Which apparently made me the only person on that street who felt that way. I glanced briefly at the men behind him again. One avoided my eyes entirely. Another looked down the street like he suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.
Interesting.
“So let me understand this,” I said slowly. “You want a random delivery girl to walk up to the most dangerous man in Italy and kill him.”
“Sicily,” Giovanni corrected.
“That doesn’t make it better.”
He smirked. “You wouldn’t be walking up to him with a knife like some movie,” he said. “There would be planning.”
“And who exactly is doing that planning?” I asked.
“I am.”
That alone nearly made me laugh. “You?” I said.
Giovanni didn’t seem offended. “You’re underestimating me.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Exactly.”
The breeze moved through the narrow street, carrying the smell of the sea and distant cooking from someone’s kitchen. The world around us kept moving like this conversation wasn’t happening.
I leaned slightly forward on the handlebars. “And why do you want him dead so badly?” I asked.
This time, Giovanni didn’t answer immediately. His jaw shifted slightly. “Let’s just say,” he said, “men like him make a lot of enemies.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you need right now.”
I stared at him another second, then shook my head again. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe.”
“I could go to the police.”
That made one of the men behind him laugh. Giovanni didn’t.
“You could,” he said calmly. “But you won’t.”
“And you’re so sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Because you need money.”
The bluntness of it made my chest tighten again. I hated how many people seemed to know that. I pushed the pedal slightly, and the bike rolled a few centimeters forward.
“I’m not a killer,” I said.
Giovanni watched me closely. “Everyone says that,” he replied quietly.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching longer across the street. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The street felt strangely still, like the whole town had stepped back to watch what I would do. The last light of the sun slid between the buildings, turning the dust in the air gold.
Giovanni suddenly reached into his pocket. I expected a cigarette. Instead, he pulled out a thick roll of money. My brain barely had time to register the green edges of euro bills before he tossed the money toward me.
Instinct took over. I caught it. The weight alone made my stomach drop.
“What is this??” I blurted, staring down at the stack in my hands, completely thrown off balance.
Giovanni looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Five thousand euros,” he said casually, stepping back as if he’d just handed me a flyer instead of more money than I had seen in months. “To think about my… business offer.”
I looked from the cash back to him, my mind racing. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he said again with that same easy shrug.
My fingers tightened slightly around the roll before I even realized I was holding it that hard.
Five thousand.
Not promised. Not theoretical.
Real.
Right now.
Giovanni reached into his pocket again and flicked a small folded piece of paper toward me. It landed against the money in my hand.
“My number,” he said. “In case you decide to stop pretending you’re not interested.”
“I never said I was interested.”
“No,” he agreed calmly. “But you didn’t throw the money back either.”
That irritated me more than it should have. Behind him, one of the men chuckled quietly.
I exhaled slowly through my nose. “You’re trying very hard to manipulate me.”
Giovanni smiled. “I’m giving you options.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Depends on the person.”
The church bells rang again in the distance, marking the hour. The sound echoed through the narrow streets, lingering between the buildings.
I looked down at the money again. Five thousand euros. Hospital bills flashed through my mind. Medication. Tests. Doctors who actually gave a damn.
My jaw tightened.
Giovanni watched the conflict on my face like someone observing a chessboard.
“Think about it,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “That’s just for listening.”
Just for listening. That sentence alone was dangerous.
He started walking backward toward the alley, the others already standing up behind him. “But Dominika,” he added.
I lifted my eyes to him.
“If you want the rest,” he said, “you’re going to have to be brave.”
Then he disappeared into the alley. The street suddenly felt normal again. Too normal.
I sat there on my bike for a few seconds, the warm evening air brushing against my skin, the distant sounds of people talking and dishes clinking drifting through open windows.
And in my hands—five thousand euros.
I swallowed.
Then stuffed the money and the paper quickly into my backpack like someone might suddenly appear and accuse me of stealing it. My heart still hadn’t slowed down when I pushed the pedal and rode back toward Roberto’s market.
The sky had turned deep orange now, the sun melting into the horizon. A beautiful evening. The kind people wrote postcards about. But all I could think about was a name.
Valentino Romano.
Machiavelli.
And the terrifying realization that five thousand euros was just enough money to make a terrible idea start sounding reasonable.
