Semua Bab UNDER THE DON’S PROTECTION: Bab 111 - Bab 120

Luca’s POVThe bungalow on stilts had become more than a place to live—it was the shape our lives had taken when the world finally stopped demanding our blood. Twenty-nine years had passed since the ice closed over the last node in Antarctica, and time had done its quiet work: softening sharp edges, turning old scars into silver lines that caught the light only when we moved a certain way. The teak deck was worn smooth by bare feet and salt spray, the roof tiles replaced four times after cyclones, the garden now a wild, thriving thing that spilled over railings in bursts of bougainvillea, frangipani, and lemongrass Rocco still tended with the same patient focus he once gave to cleaning weapons.Mornings remained sacred. I woke to the sound of waves lapping stilts and the low murmur of Dante and Rocco’s voices on the deck Dante insisting his coffee was superior, Rocco grumbling that burnt grounds ruined everything. I’d slip out of bed, pad barefoot across cool teak, and join them—table

Luca’s POVThirty-four years had passed since the ice closed over the last node in Antarctica, and the atoll had become more than a refuge—it was the only world we truly knew anymore. The bungalow on stilts had aged with quiet dignity: teak weathered to deep silver-gray, roof tiles replaced six times after cyclones, the garden now a lush, almost wild thing that spilled over railings in bursts of bougainvillea, frangipani, lemongrass, and curry leaf that Rocco still tended with the same patient focus he once gave to cleaning weapons. Time had done its work on us too—gray threading through dark hair, lines deepening around eyes from years of squinting into sun and sea, joints that protested after long swims or heavy lifting. But the scars had faded to silver threads; the nightmares came rarely, and when they did, two sets of arms always waited to pull me back to the present.Mornings remained sacred. I woke to the sound of waves lapping stilts and the low murmur of Dante and Rocco’s voi

Luca’s POVThe atoll had been our sanctuary for thirty-five years—long enough that the rest of the world felt like a half-remembered dream. The bungalow on stilts had become part of the landscape: teak silvered by salt and sun, roof tiles replaced nine times after cyclones, the garden now a thriving riot of lemongrass, curry leaf, frangipani, jasmine, and bougainvillea that climbed every railing and spilled toward the lagoon in defiant color. We had routines carved into the rhythm of the place: dawn coffee brewed on the deck (Dante’s brew finally perfect, no more arguments over burnt grounds), Rocco’s fishing line trailing lazy arcs from the extended dock, my ledgers balancing the lives of fishermen, small cooperatives, and the atoll school Anya had helped fund decades ago. The community had grown around us: new generations arrived on supply boats, children who’d grown up calling us “Uncle Luca,” “Uncle Dante,” “Uncle Rocco.” We were no longer outsiders. We were simply the three men w

Luca’s POVForty-six years had passed since the ice closed over the last node in Antarctica, and the atoll had become more than home—it was the only world we still fully belonged to. The bungalow on stilts had aged with quiet dignity: teak weathered to deep silver-gray, roof tiles replaced twelve times after cyclones, the garden now a lush, almost wild thing that spilled over railings in bursts of bougainvillea, frangipani, lemongrass, curry leaf, jasmine, hibiscus, orchids, and heliconia that Rocco still tended with the same patient focus he once gave to cleaning weapons. Time had done its work on us too—gray threading through what remained of dark hair, lines deepening around eyes from years of squinting into sun and sea, joints that protested after long swims or heavy lifting. But the scars had faded to silver threads; the nightmares came rarely, and when they did, two sets of arms always waited to pull me back to the present.Mornings remained sacred. I woke to the sound of waves

Luca’s POVForty-nine years had passed since the ice closed over the last node in Antarctica, and the atoll had become more than home—it was the only world we still fully belonged to. The bungalow on stilts had aged with quiet dignity: teak weathered to deep silver-gray, roof tiles replaced fourteen times after cyclones, the garden now a lush, almost wild thing that spilled over railings in bursts of bougainvillea, frangipani, lemongrass, curry leaf, jasmine, hibiscus, orchids, heliconia, plumeria, and bird-of-paradise that Rocco still tended with the same patient focus he once gave to cleaning weapons. Time had done its work on us too—gray threading through what remained of dark hair, lines deepening around eyes from years of squinting into sun and sea, joints that protested after long swims or heavy lifting. But the scars had faded to silver threads; the nightmares came rarely, and when they did, two sets of arms always waited to pull me back to the present.Mornings remained sacred