*Syracuse, Sicily, Italy – 1954

Outside Niccolò Casseri’s exclusive clubhouse, where only the elite dared to tread, business was being handled in the open. The air was thick with the scent of the Mediterranean, a cool evening breeze offering little relief from the tension in the alleyway. Niccolò, his reputation built on fear and power, had a trembling man pinned to the stone wall, fingers knotted in his collar, a pistol pressed firmly into his stomach—hidden, yet unmistakable.

“Dante, you’re a dead man, you hear me? By sunrise, they’ll be dragging your sorry carcass out of the sea. You sneaky little traitorous figlio di putt—”

Niccolò’s threat faltered, his grip loosening ever so slightly. His sharp gaze, once filled with unrelenting fury, softened as something—or rather, someone—caught his attention. Strolling past, seemingly unaware of the scene unfolding, was her.

Lena.

The woman who haunted his nights and eluded him by day. A vision of beauty so renowned in Syracuse that even noblemen whispered her name with longing. The daughter of a humble fisherman, yet she carried herself like royalty, effortlessly drawing admiration, envy, and desire in equal measure.

For a fleeting moment, Niccolò forgot about Dante entirely. His scowl melted into something dangerously close to admiration. Without a second thought, he shoved Dante aside, punctuating the gesture with a sharp slap to the back of the head.

“Vaffanculo, vuoi?” he muttered, barely sparing the man another glance.

Then, with the swagger of a man who always got what he wanted, Niccolò sauntered after Lena, whistling lowly, like a wolf catching the scent of its prey.

“Lena! Lena!” he called, his voice rich with amusement. “You’d walk past a man who dreams of you night and day? Have a heart, bella, it’s cruel.”

Lower now, more to himself than to her, he murmured in a rare moment of sincerity, “Sei l’amore della mia vita.”

The love of his life.*