Chapter 4: The strangers

*Aria's POV*

Aria's POV

Morning arrived too quickly.

Dawn crept over the mountains in thin gold streakes, brushing against the rooftops and spilling through the attic window like it was trying to gently pry me out of sleep. But I hadn't slept. Not really. My eyes had remained half-open through the night, ears trained on every creak of the old buildong, every gust of wind, every shift in the snow outside.

I hadn't felt this kind of unease in years.

Not since him.

Not since I ran.

Adrian stirred beside me, his tiny body rolling into my warmth and curling against my stomach. His amll hand rested instinctively iver my ribs, right where he used to kick from the inside. Four years later, I still felt that echo.

"Morning mommy." He mumbled, half-asleep.

I kissed the top of his head. "Good morning, amore."

His lashed lifted, silver-gray eyes blinking up at me. Lucian's eyes. A constant reminder of the man who owned the shadows in my life, even now.

A reminder I loved more than I could ever ebar alound.

"Why are you awake so early?" He asked through a sleepy pout.

"I couldn't sleep." I said softly.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Nightmares?"

If only.

"No." I whsipered, brushing his cheek. "Just thinking."

Adrian accepted that answer easily. He wasn't like other children, he felt more than he understood. I had always been afraid he inherited that from the Drakov bloodline: that sharp instinct, that quiet awareness, that predators intuition disguised behind innocence.

And last night, every instinct in me screamed.

"Come on." I said, lifting him from the covers. "Let's get you dressed. We need to open the bakery early today."

"Do I get to frost pastries?" He asked hopefully.

"If Mr Rino agrees." I said, forcing a smile.

Adrian grinned and ran to the wardobe with tiny stomping feet.

Good. Let him stay cheerful. Let him stay innocent. Let him stay unaware of the storm pressing its weight against our little word.

A storm wearing a dark coat and snow-dusted boots.

A stranger who should not have been here.

My chest tightened.

Strangers didn't belong here.

Which meant last night wasn't an accident.

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By seven the bakery was warm again. Heat from the ovens filling the air with the sweet scent of butter and sugar. The village woke slowly, like it always did, quiet and sleepy. Mr Rino hummed as he kneaded dough, flour dusting his beard like powdered snow.

Adrian sat on a little stool, sipping his fingers into a bowl of icing and pretending to be a master chef. He always thought I didn't notice when he ate the frosting.

"Good morning Elena." Rino said without looking up. "You look tired."

"I didn't sleep well."

"Storm kept you up?"

"Somehting like that."

I kept my tone neutral. Calm. Unbothered.

If I had learned anything from my mother's world, it was that fear looks exactly like a spotlight—you keep your expression still, your voice soft, your posture relaxed.

Never show the weak point.

I moved to the counter, arranging fresh pastries behind the glass. Outside, snow glittered across the village square. A group of elderly women walked toward the church, gossiping under their scarves. Two children chased each other through the snowbanks.

Everything was normal.

Except it wasn't.

My pulse spiked when the bell above the bakery door chimed.

For a split second, I thought— him.

But it was only Mrs. Falco wanting her daily loaf.

I served her with a steady hand, but the tension twisting my stomach didn't ease. Every sound felt sharper, louder—footsteps crunching outside, a car door shutting in the distance, laughter echoing from the inn.

The inn.

Where the stranger had gone.

I forced myself to breathe.

He could've been anyone.

A traveler.

A tourist.

A lost hiker.

There were a dozen harmless possibilities.

Only one dangerous one.

Lucian's world.

Lucian's enemies.

Lucian's men.

"No," I whispered under my breath, wiping the counter. "Not here. Not after four years."

I had been careful. Methodical. Invisible.

No digital footprint. No contacts. No mistakes.

Lucian had probably moved on with his life by now—become colder, harder, as the rumors whispered.

He ruled his mafia with an iron fist.

He burned down an entire network after my "death."

He built an empire on top of his grief.

He survived.

Just like I did.

Until now.

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