Chapter 4

Chiara’s POV

Six years later

“Luca, remember what I told you about picking fights,” I said firmly as I knelt in front of my son.

I already knew how much trouble he could be. His dark eyes—so much like mine—sparkled with mischief as he shifted from one foot to the other. Beside him stood his twin sister, Sofia, tongue poking out in concentration as she struggled with the straps of her tiny backpack.

She looked up at me, eyes wide and glowing with excitement.

“Mommy, we’ll be good!” Sofia promised, nodding hard enough to make her curls bounce.

“That’s what you said last time,” I reminded them, my gaze lingering on Luca. He had always been overly protective of his sister—even when she didn’t need it—and that instinct had already caused a few… incidents.

“And no running too far in the park. Stay close. Listen to Anita.”

Luca puffed out his chest. “I’ll protect Diana.”

I couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at my lips.

He was only five, but his instincts were too sharp for his age. Too strong. Something I tried very hard not to think about.

I sighed and ran my fingers through his unruly hair. “I know you will. But still—listen to Anita, okay?”

I turned to their nanny, Anita, who watched us patiently. She was human, which still made my chest tighten with unease, but she had proven herself over and over again. The twins adored her.

“Don’t worry, Chiara,” Anita said gently, adjusting Diana’s backpack. “We’ll have fun, won’t we?”

“Yes!” Sofia clapped her hands. “We’ll be perfect little angels!”

Anita laughed. I tried to let the sound ease the tight knot in my chest.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling.

They were still so young—but age meant nothing when it came to wolves awakening, to instincts surfacing. I prayed whatever slept inside them stayed dormant just a little longer.

“Okay,” I breathed. “You have my number. And you two—behave.”

I kissed their cheeks, then turned and walked outside.

The crisp autumn air bit into my skin. Dry leaves crunched beneath my boots as I descended the steps.

And there he was.

Raffaele.

“Chiara,” he drawled, leaning against his black SUV, arms crossed. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d changed your mind about spending the weekend with me.”

I rolled my eyes, though a smile betrayed me. “Dream on.”

He opened the passenger door for me. Raffaele was impossible to ignore—tall, broad-shouldered, commanding. His dark hair was perpetually messy, a sharp contrast to his defined jaw and intense green eyes. A sleeve tattoo wrapped around his left arm, black geometric patterns and ancient symbols etched into his skin like a story of loyalty and war.

Cocky smile. Steady presence.

Since the day I ran from the Mezzaluna d’Argento Pack, he had been there—helping me rebuild, supporting me, trusting me. Eventually, I became his right hand in the Pietraluna Pack.

In all those years, we were inseparable in work.

A true Alpha. A solid partner.

The engine roared as we pulled away, the city fading into open countryside—rolling hills, olive groves, dense forests. My thoughts drifted back to the twins, worry curling deep in my gut.

Raffaele glanced at me. “They’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “Anita knows what she’s doing.”

“I know,” I murmured. “They’re my world.”

His gaze softened. “And you’ve raised them well. They’re tougher than they look.”

The estate appeared soon after—grand, old stone walls rising from neutral territory. Packs from all over Italy had gathered. The air buzzed with low voices, tension, power.

Raffaele’s hand rested briefly at my lower back as we walked inside. Not possessive—protective.

Then I saw the guest list.

My breath hitched.

Mezzaluna d’Argento Pack.

The world tilted.

Six years.

Six years since I ran.

Six years of pretending that part of my life was dead.

“Chiara?” Raffaele asked. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing a smile.

And then—

The crowd parted.

And there he was.

The man I escaped from.

Lorenzo.

Standing there like the past had never let me go at all.

Time seemed to slow the moment our eyes locked.

Lorenzo looked almost the same—commanding, unyielding, that sharp jaw and those piercing eyes that once ruled my entire world. But something in him had changed. There was an edge now, something colder, harder, as though the years had stripped pieces of him away and left only steel behind.

I had run so far.

I had hidden so well.

And yet—

He stopped dead the instant he saw me.

His gaze flicked to Raffaele standing beside me, then snapped back to me, sharp and assessing. His frown deepened, tension coiling thick and heavy in the air between us, suffocating in its silence.

My fingers tightened around the invitation card, the parchment crumpling under my grip as I struggled to steady myself—to not shrink beneath the weight of his stare.

I thought I had escaped him.

I thought distance had been enough.

But as Lorenzo’s eyes stayed locked on mine, dark, demanding, filled with unspoken questions, the realization struck like lightning straight through my chest—

Nowhere had I gone had ever truly been far enough