if i vanish, blame the wind

The sky above Santorini melted into a deep orange hue, spilling across the sea like paint on canvas. Our table sat right at the edge of the terrace, facing the ocean. The summer breeze brushed gently against my skin, carrying the salty scent of the sea mixed with a faint hint of rosemary from the restaurant kitchen. Soft jazz music played in the background, barely audible.

Matteo hadn’t touched his wine.

“Someone died this morning,” he said, staring into his empty glass. “Two men from Palermo. Shot in the street, broad daylight. Old-school. Brutal.”

The steak knife in my hand paused over the still-bloody meat. I looked at him, waiting. He was always like that… opening conversations like dropping a grenade on the table.

“They were probably trying to make a statement,” he went on. “Or send a message. We know who did it. But not enough to strike back without starting a full-blown war.”

I leaned back into the linen-covered rattan chair and took a deep breath. The candlelight on the table flickered in his dark, weary eyes.

I reached out, touching the tense back of his hand on the table. His fingers were stiff. Cold, even in the summer. I rubbed them gently.

“Matteo…” I whispered calmly. “Let our people handle it. We didn’t come all the way here to talk about death over ravioli.”

He looked at me. For a long time. As if trying to read something behind my blank expression. “I know,” he murmured eventually, then turned his gaze to the sea. “It’s just hard to stay quiet when everything feels like tiny cracks before the wall breaks.”

I gave a small nod and returned to my meal. The meat was no longer warm, but it still lingered on the tongue. Matteo was a man built for the battlefield, but fragile in uncertainty.

And lately, our world was full of uncertainty.

“Tell me about your day,” he said after a pause that stretched too long. “Something light. Like… what did you guys do this afternoon?”

I gave a faint smile, sipping my wine before answering. “Mom thinks credit cards don’t have a limit. She bought five dresses in three hours. And we’ve only been here a day.”

Matteo gave a soft laugh, his face softened. “Of course. Classic Katerina Serrano.”

“And Bretta…” I looked out toward the beach, now fading into darkness. “She got upset because her sandals made her feet swell. Then she cried because no table could fit her footrest.”

“She cried?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Dramatically. In front of the jewelry store clerk. Then suddenly asked for ice cream and said she wants to name her baby after a flower.”

“A flower?”

“I don’t get it either. But she swore her daughter’s name will be Azucena.”

“Like… lily?”

“Yeah. But in Spanish, so she says it sounds more dramatic.”

Matteo smiled. Almost warm. But the smile never lasted long. His expression hardened again when his phone buzzed on the table.

I caught a glimpse of the name: Santino Morelli. Italian blood.

And trouble.

He silenced it. His eyes were on me again, but no longer soft. “If they start touching family, you’ll become a target, love.”

I shrugged slightly. “Nothing new. I was born a target.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

After dinner was over and two glasses of wine left half-full, Matteo took his third call in an hour.

“Give me five minutes,” he said quickly, voice tense, eyes locked on the phone like it could explode any second. “Wait in the beach, or... take a walk if you want.”

I nodded. No protest.

Because Matteo’s five minutes always meant twenty.

The restaurant sat on top of a white limestone building, overlooking the sea that was now turning black. Below, the narrow streets twisted like veins, squeezed between thick-walled houses and blue rooftops glistening under the soft lights.

I chose to descend slowly, my steps echoing quietly on the slightly slick stone steps. The salty air nipped lightly at my neck as I turned into a narrow alleyway. Narrower than I’d expected. The houses around me were pressed close together, separated by stone fences and flower pots placed randomly in corners.

Small windows were open, casting warm light from inside. Some carried the scent of roasted tomatoes, butter, and old music.

I wasn’t sure when I’d stopped paying attention to where I was going. My steps were too relaxed. My mind too... empty.

By the time I realized the path no longer felt familiar, it was too late. I turned into a small bend, trying to get back to the main road, but instead collided with someone’s body.

Tall. Solid. And warm.

“Watch it,” I muttered instinctively, one hand touching his chest before I could fall.

A soft masculine scent slipped into my senses. Like firewood, light tobacco, and rain on a late afternoon.

A deep voice followed, calm and low. “Are you… lost?”

I turned to look at him.

And for a moment, I forgot to breathe.

The man stood beneath the shadow of a stone lantern, part of his face hidden, but enough visible to catch the sharp jawline, straight nose, and blue eyes as piercing as the night itself. His black hair was messily swept back, one side tousled. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, the dark fabric contrasting against his olive skin.

More handsome than Matteo. Too handsome not to be dangerous.

But something in me tightened—the way he looked at me, too still. Too knowing. Like he recognized me. Or… had seen me before.

Maybe just my imagination. But the feeling came fast, cold, like a shattered mirror from the past.

I shook my head, briefly. “No,” My eyes lingered a second too long on his face before I dropped them. “Sorry.”

Just that one word, then I turned and walked away, my steps a little quicker than usual.

He didn’t follow. But I could still feel his gaze.

The alley began to widen. The restaurant sign reappeared in the distance, and the villa where we were staying was just one block away. The sound of shoes hitting stone greeted me first.

“Señora Serrano—” Jared, my personal aide, stood leaning against the white stone fence, looking tired and half-annoyed.

“I was only fifteen minutes,” I said lightly as I walked toward him.

“Twenty. Matteo almost had us sweep the whole town.”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

“Not yet.”

I gave a faint smile. Jared rolled his eyes but still opened the gate for me. As I stepped inside, I glanced back once.  The narrow alley I’d come from was still quiet. Empty.

...

Matteo was on the balcony when I entered the villa. His phone was wedged between his shoulder and ear while his fingers tapped nervously on an iPad. His voice was low but sharp, as always. Commanding without needing to shout.

Through the glass, I could see his jaw clenched. Hard as bone, firm as his resolve, which was slowly turning into obsession.

Jared set my bag on the couch and said a quick goodbye. I just nodded, brushed aside my dress, and walked into the bedroom. The dim light welcomed me, and the air inside felt too still for a villa that was supposed to be a retreat.

I unzipped my dress on my own. But even from the mirror’s reflection, I could feel eyes on me.

“Why didn’t you tell Jared where you were going?” His voice came from the doorway. Calm.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” I answered, placing the dress over the back of a chair. “Just went for a walk.”

Matteo leaned against the doorframe, still in his black shirt. The top two buttons undone, and his eyes on me like I was hiding something under my skin.

“You got lost,” he said. A statement, not a question.

I looked at him through the mirror, brushing my hair to one side. “You told me to take a walk.”

He didn’t answer. Just walked in. Then stopped behind me and stared at our reflection in silence. Our faces side by side in the mirror. Mine with tired eyes and a reddening neck, his with a gaze that never truly settled.

Matteo’s hand rose, touching my shoulder. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I know.”

“People will start thinking you’re alone if you keep wandering off like that.”

“I’m not alone. I’m your wife.”

“Then act like it.”

That last line landed like a small blade. Not because of his tone, but because of how bare it was. I looked at him through the mirror’s reflection.

“What do you mean?”

Matteo stared straight into the mirror, not at me. “I mean don’t make me look like the kind of man who can’t protect his woman.”

I gave a short laugh, humorless. “His woman?”

He didn’t flinch. Just dropped his hand and turned me to face him.

“The world’s looking for an excuse to stab us in the back, Krystal. And you...” his eyes locked onto mine, making my chest feel tight, “....you’re the best excuse they’ll ever get.”

“Then maybe the problem isn’t me,” I whispered. “Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve made too many enemies.”

Matteo laughed, but there was no weight in it. Then he kissed my forehead, “You’re always too smart for your own good.”

...

The next morning, two new bodyguards appeared in the villa courtyard. I wasn’t asked. I wasn’t given an explanation. They just showed up. One always ten steps behind me, the other quietly checking every room before I entered.

Bretta complained as we were heading to a boutique.

“Do they think we’re getting kidnapped at a linen shop?” she said, nodding toward one of the guards who was now helping pick tablecloth colors.

I only gave a faint smile, hiding my frustration behind oversized sunglasses and lipstick far too bright for the morning.

But Matteo didn’t stop there. My phone started losing signal in random places. Some of my social media accounts logged out by themselves.

And when I asked, Matteo only gave one answer: “It’s for your safety. Our world is shifting.”

Bretta stood in the middle of the fitting room, wearing an ivory silk dress with a low neckline and a belly that was starting to show. She stared at her reflection in the mirror with a dramatic expression, one hand on her hip, chin slightly raised.

“Don’t tell me I look like an overpriced marshmallow,” she said without blinking.

“If overpriced marshmallows wore Jimmy Choos and diamond necklaces, maybe,” I replied, running my fingers along a rack of evening gowns in soft palettes.

Bretta sighed loudly. “My feet are swollen, my back hurts, and this baby—” she pointed at her stomach, “—won’t stop kicking like it’s auditioning for a ballet.”

“I told you not to come to Santorini. But you said—and I quote—‘I want to glow pregnant under the Aegean sky.’”

“Well, I didn’t know glowing also meant sweating through everything and having a mood swing every two hours.”

I placed a teal gown back on the rack. “And Mauro told you to rest. Over and over.”

Bretta rolled her eyes. “My husband’s too dramatic. He thinks I’m gonna break just from walking five steps from the bed to the kitchen.”

“Because you do break. Every two minutes. Crying, yelling, sulking over iced tea that apparently didn’t have enough lemon—”

“Oh my God, Krys. I’m pregnant, not possessed. A little compassion, maybe?”

I laughed and finally pulled a burgundy satin dress with a subtle thigh slit and off-the-shoulder cut. Classic. Elegant. Not too flashy, but still lethal.

Bretta walked over, eyeing the dress like she was seriously considering swapping it for the one she was wearing. “If I wasn’t the size of a sailboat, I’d make you change and give me that dress.”

“Unfortunately, you are the size of a sailboat. And this dress isn’t for you.”

She gave my shoulder a light pat, then flopped dramatically onto the boutique’s cushioned sofa. A boutique staff member rushed over, offering lemon water and a back pillow.

“So, tonight’s party...” she said, leaning back. “Is Matteo going to stop talking about murder and sabotage long enough to make a toast?”

I held the dress up to my body and looked at the mirror. “If he doesn’t, at least I’ll look amazing while he does it.”

Bretta chuckled softly, but her eyes darted to our security standing still at the edge of the boutique. “Jared doesn’t like this place. Too many back doors, he said.”

“He doesn’t like a lot of things,” I muttered, checking my phone that still had no signal.

My eyes scanned the room. The dresses hung like a calm, colorful fog. But it all felt like a backdrop.

The scene before something happens.

And for some reason, since last night... everything had felt like the moment before something happens.

...