Chapter Two: The Harbor Pact

The harbor was still asleep when Amaro arrived. The sky was painted in shades of lavender and steel, and the fishing boats bobbed gently in the water like forgotten dreams. He wore a dark jacket over his linen shirt, his eyes scanning the mist for any sign of her.

Lucia had said dawn.

He checked his watch. 5:12 AM.

The silence was unnerving. Sardinia was never truly quiet—there was always the hum of the sea, the whisper of wind through cypress trees. But this morning felt different. Like the island itself was holding its breath.

A soft footfall echoed behind him.

He turned sharply, hand instinctively reaching for the pistol tucked beneath his jacket.

“Easy,” said a voice. “It’s just me.”

Lucia stepped out of the shadows, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear.

“You came,” Amaro said, relief washing over him.

“I almost didn’t,” she whispered. “My father suspects something. He’s been watching me.”

Amaro took her hand. “We’ll leave now. I have a boat ready.”

Lucia hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you first.”

Amaro frowned. “What is it?”

She glanced around, then leaned in close. “My father has a mole inside your family. Someone close to Don Vittorio. He’s feeding him information—plans, movements, everything.”

Amaro’s blood ran cold. “Who?”

“I don’t know. But last night, I overheard him talking to someone on the phone. He mentioned a name—‘Falco.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

Amaro’s jaw clenched. Falco was his cousin. Trusted. Loyal. Or so he thought.

“If that’s true…” Amaro began.

“It is,” Lucia interrupted. “And there’s more. My father doesn’t just want to destroy your family. He wants to take over Naples. He’s planning a coup.”

Amaro stared at her. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I love you,” she said, voice trembling. “And because I won’t let him use me as a pawn anymore.”

Amaro pulled her into his arms. “Then let’s go. Now.”

They hurried toward the dock, where a small motorboat waited. Amaro helped Lucia aboard, then started the engine. The boat roared to life, slicing through the water as the sun began to rise.

But they weren’t alone.

From the cliffs above, a figure watched through binoculars. He spoke into a radio.

“They’re moving. Confirmed. Target is Amaro De Luca. The girl is with him.”

A voice crackled back. “Do not engage. Let them reach the mainland. We’ll intercept there.”

The figure lowered the binoculars, a cruel smile on his lips.

Falco.

—

By midday, Amaro and Lucia reached the port of Civitavecchia. The mainland felt colder, grayer, as if the magic of Sardinia had been left behind.

They checked into a small hotel under false names. Amaro paid in cash, using an alias he’d used before—Marco Bellini. Lucia became Sofia Romano.

Inside the room, Lucia paced nervously.

“What now?” she asked.

Amaro sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. “We need to get to my father. Warn him.”

Lucia nodded. “But if Falco’s watching him…”

“We’ll go through someone else. Someone he trusts.”

“Who?”

Amaro hesitated. “My aunt Bianca. She’s old-school. She hates Falco. If anyone can get us to Don Vittorio safely, it’s her.”

Lucia sat beside him. “Do you think he’ll believe us?”

“He’ll have to.”

Suddenly, the room phone rang.

Amaro froze. “No one knows we’re here.”

Lucia’s eyes widened. “Don’t answer.”

Amaro picked up the receiver slowly.

“Marco Bellini,” he said.

There was silence. Then a voice, low and familiar.

“You’re in danger. Leave the hotel now. They’re coming.”

The line went dead.

Amaro turned to Lucia. “We have to move.”

They grabbed their bags and slipped out the back entrance, avoiding the lobby. As they reached the alley, two black cars pulled up in front of the hotel.

Men in suits poured out, armed and alert.

Lucia gasped. “They found us.”

Amaro pulled her into a side street. “Come on. We’ll take the train.”

They ran through the winding alleys of Civitavecchia, finally reaching the station. Amaro bought two tickets to Florence—another alias, another escape.

On the train, they sat in silence, watching the countryside blur past.

Lucia leaned her head on Amaro’s shoulder. “Do you think we’ll ever be free?”

Amaro kissed her forehead. “We will. I promise.”

But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure.

—

In Florence, they found refuge in Bianca’s villa—a sprawling estate hidden behind high walls and ancient olive trees. Bianca was in her sixties, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued.

She greeted Amaro with a slap across the face.

“That’s for disappearing,” she said. Then she hugged him. “And that’s for surviving.”

Lucia watched, amused.

Bianca turned to her. “You must be the Moretti girl.”

Lucia nodded. “Lucia.”

Bianca studied her. “You’ve got your mother’s eyes. And your father’s fire. Dangerous combination.”

Amaro explained everything—the mole, the coup, the escape.

Bianca listened, then poured herself a glass of grappa.

“Well,” she said, “looks like war’s coming early this year.”

“What do we do?” Amaro asked.

Bianca leaned back. “We expose Falco. We gather proof. And we make your father listen.”

Lucia stepped forward. “I can help. My father keeps records. Ledgers. If we find them, we’ll have everything.”

Bianca nodded. “Then we go back to Sardinia.”

Amaro stared at her. “Are you insane?”

Bianca smiled. “Always.”

—

That night, as the villa slept, Amaro stood on the balcony, staring at the stars.

Lucia joined him, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” she asked.

Amaro took her hand. “We have to.”

Lucia looked up at him. “If we survive this… I want a life with you. A real one. No secrets. No blood.”

Amaro kissed her. “Then we’ll build it. Brick by brick.”

But in the shadows below, a figure watched from the trees.

Falco had followed them.

And he wasn’t alone.