hidden heir

The morning opened with a fragile kind of light, the sort of dawn that stretched across the sky as though uncertain of whether it should remain. The horizon burned faintly with streaks of rose and gold, clouds pulling apart like curtains to reveal the hesitant glow of the sun. In the heart of the town, silence lingered over the cobblestone streets, broken only by the crowing of a rooster and the soft rustle of leaves swayed by the early breeze. Michael stood at his window, his gaze fixed on the awakening sky, his hand tightening around the edge of the sill as though anchoring himself.

For weeks he had carried the weight of suspicion and betrayal, the memory of Nickey’s voice whispering secrets that gnawed at his sleep. Yet here, in the tender light of morning, the world seemed to ask for gentleness rather than suspicion. He turned slightly, his eyes landing on Franca, who still slept on the bed behind him. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a river of dark silk, her breath rising