The jet sliced through Sicilian clouds like a blade.
Zayne sat reclined in his leather seat, eyes fixed on nothing, glass of untouched whiskey sweating in his hand. Across from him, Luca flipped through a file folder.
"We land in fifteen," Luca said, not looking up. "I already sent the men ahead to sweep the Palermo estate."
Zayne nodded.
He hated flying. Not because of fear — but because he wasn't in control. In the air, everything felt fragile. Temporary.
Just like his father's life.
The plane dipped slightly, breaking through the clouds. The coastline of Sicily stretched below, golden and brutal, kissed by the sea.
Zayne's jaw tensed.
This was the first real lead in seventeen years. It wouldn't be the last.
---
Palermo — Hours Later
They arrived at the estate quietly. No drama. No flashing cars. Zayne's men knew better.
The villa was built into the cliffs, high above the port. Private. Old money. Full of dust and secrets.
Inside, his crew was already unpacking boxes. Luca walked beside him as they moved through the stone halls.
"This place used to belong to the Bernettis," Luca said. "They were close to the Morettis back in the 90s."
"Until they weren't," Zayne replied.
He stopped in front of a wall of paintings. Dusty. Forgotten.
One, slightly crooked.
He adjusted it.
Behind the frame, tucked into the wall, was a small safe.
Zayne's heartbeat kicked.
Luca stepped forward, cracked it open with a tool kit, and slowly pulled out a leather folder.
Inside: brittle documents, maps, a gold lighter… and a photograph.
Zayne took it carefully.
Black-and-white. Faded.
Four men in suits. Three of them recognizable as early Moretti lieutenants.
The fourth — blurred at the edge.
But there it was.
The lion ring.
Zayne's eyes sharpened.
Luca let out a breath. "We're getting close."
Zayne didn't respond. He couldn't. His pulse was too loud in his ears.
He tucked the photo into his coat.
---
Palermo City — Just Before Sunset
They left the estate for a short walk through the heart of Palermo. Zayne hated being in public, but he needed to see the city — feel its pulse.
It was older than Rome, in some ways. Raw. Worn. It smelled like salt, oil, and danger.
They passed a plaza where street musicians played soft Sicilian jazz. Zayne kept walking.
And that's when it happened.
He turned a corner and slammed into someone.
Books — at least five — flew out of her hands and tumbled to the ground.
She gasped.
Zayne blinked. His eyes scanned her.
Curly dark hair. Caramel skin. Slim waist, black jeans, white blouse. She was breathing fast, startled, blinking up at him with wide brown eyes.
"I—sorry—" she stammered.
He didn't answer.
Just stared.
Her lips parted, slightly confused, maybe a little offended.
Zayne stepped back once, gave her one last unreadable look, then turned and walked away like it didn't matter.
Like she didn't matter.
---
But she did.
Amira watched him go, stunned.
What the hell just happened?
He hadn't even said sorry. Just walked off like some cold-hearted villain from a noir movie. But… he was beautiful. Striking. And those eyes — dead, but alert. Like someone who had seen too much.
She picked up her books slowly, shaking her head.
"Asshole," she muttered.
But her heart was racing.
And she hated that it was.
---
Later That Night — The Bar
Zayne didn't want to go out. But Luca insisted.
"You need to breathe," Luca said. "One drink. Just to loosen your spine."
"I don't need fun."
"You need human contact before you start seeing ghosts again."
Zayne relented. Barely.
They went to a small upscale bar on the edge of town — rich in shadows, dimly lit, jazz playing low from the corner.
Zayne took the booth farthest from the door. Always.
He was halfway through his second whiskey when the scent hit him.
Jasmine. Coconut. Smoke.
He glanced sideways.
It was her.
The girl from earlier. Book girl.
She hadn't seen him yet. She was at the bar counter, ordering a drink — annoyed, possibly arguing with the bartender.
He didn't move.
She turned her head. Her eyes found his.
And she froze.
Then slowly, deliberately, she walked over to his booth.
Luca raised an eyebrow and looked at Zayne, but said nothing.
She stopped at the edge of the table.
"Well," she said, voice sharp, but curious, "we meet again."
Zayne looked up at her. Calm. Cold.
"You dropped your books."
Amira blinked. "You dropped my books."
"You were in the way."
She crossed her arms. "Wow. So you're rude and blind."
Zayne almost smirked. Almost.
He gestured to the seat across from him.
She didn't move.
He pulled out a few euros and waved down the bartender. "Another for her. Whatever she was having."
Amira looked genuinely surprised. "You don't even know what I was drinking."
"I don't care."
Luca snorted under his breath.
She sat.
"I'm Amira," she said finally.
Zayne said nothing.
She raised a brow. "You do know how names work, right?"
After a beat, he answered, "Zayne."
She let the name sit there, like she was trying to decide if it was real.
"Well, Zayne," she said, "you have a terrible way of making first impressions."
He shrugged.
"You always this charming?" she added.
"No. This is me in a good mood."
She laughed. Actually laughed.
Luca stood. "I'll give you two a moment."
Zayne didn't stop him.
Amira sipped her drink. "So, what brings you to Palermo?"
Zayne looked her dead in the eye. "Business."
She tilted her head. "Let me guess. Import-export?"
He just looked at her.
She grinned. "Of course."
---
They talked for a little longer. Nothing personal. Just sharp exchanges, quick-witted jabs. She was bold. Not afraid of his silence, or the way he stared like he was memorizing people just in case he needed to bury them.
When she got up to leave, she looked back.
"Next time," she said, "try saying sorry when you knock a girl over. It works wonders."
And then she was gone.
Zayne watched her disappear into the night.
He hadn't even meant to speak to her.
But now he was thinking about her again.
And that was dangerous.
---
Back at the Villa — Past Midnight
Zayne stood by the window of the estate, glass in hand, the photo still tucked into his coat.
His eyes drifted to the corner of the room where her books had scattered hours ago.
She didn't know who he was.
And he didn't know who she was.
But something about her made him feel... less hollow.
And Zayne Vitale didn't believe in coincidences.
---