(LUCIANO'S POV)
The house was quiet when I closed the door to my room. Too quiet.
Maria’s laughter still echoed in my head — soft, bright, the sound of everything I wanted to protect. My baby sister. Eighteen. How was that possible? To me she was still the little girl who’d tug at my sleeve and beg me to braid her hair, who’d fall asleep with her head against my arm no matter how many times I told her she was too old for it.
I sat on the edge of the bed, chest tight. Papa should’ve been here to see her grow into this — so full of light she made the whole damn house glow. But Papa wasn’t here. And I knew why.
Today had been worse than most. The men had called me for “business,” but business in our world never meant papers and signatures. It meant fists and silence, meant standing in smoky rooms with men who weighed loyalty in blood. My ribs still ached from the blows I didn’t block fast enough. My knuckles were raw, split open in two places. I didn’t feel the pain then — only now, alone, when there was no one to see me flinch.
I could’ve come home empty-handed, but I didn’t. No. I stopped at the bakery, forced a smile, and carried another cake back like a fool. Because I knew Maria would light up at the sight of it. Because for her, I’d bleed and then smile like nothing happened.
But as I unwrapped the bandages in the dark, I couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on me. Something was shifting. The air felt wrong. The streets too quiet, the men too tense.
Something was coming.
And when it did… I prayed Maria’s laughter would be enough to remind me why I had to survive it.
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(MARIA'S POV)
The next morning after my birthday, I woke with sunlight spilling across my bed and a wicked idea in my head.
Luciano had teased me enough yesterday — treason with cake, he called it — so today I would even the score.
I crept to the kitchen, rummaged until I found a piece of charcoal Mama used to mark the firewood, and snuck into Luciano’s room. He was sprawled on the bed, still in yesterday’s shirt, one arm flung over his face. My brother could sleep through an earthquake.
“Perfect,” I whispered.
I tugged one of his clean shirts from the chair in the corner and spread it on the desk. My hand moved quick and sure, the way it always did when I sketched on scraps of paper. By the time I was done, there was a ridiculous doodle staring back at me — Luciano with donkey ears, holding a cake twice his size.
I bit back a laugh, folded it neatly, and placed it right back on top of his pile.
On my way out, I glanced at him once more. His knuckles were bandaged — again. I frowned, but brushed the thought aside. Today wasn’t for questions. Today was for mischief.
When he found that shirt, I wanted him to yell so loud the neighbors would hear.
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(LUCIANO'S POV)
I woke up to the sound of someone shuffling in my room, years of instinct never letting me down but l knew who this was, my little sister trying to sneak away from the mischief that l know awaits me as soon as l open eyes.
The floor creaked as she tried shuffle towards the door , and my eyes snapped open. My ribs ached when I pushed myself up, a dull reminder of the day before. I grabbed the shirt she’d left on the chair and blinked at the donkey ears staring back at me. A bitter chuckle escaped.
“Maria,” I rasped, voice still rough with sleep. “What did you do?”
She froze, caught like a thief in the hall. Slowly, she turned. Her face was flushed red, wide-eyed, guilty, and then—she broke into laughter. Unrestrained, ringing laughter that filled the silence I carried inside me.
“Good morning to you too!” she chirped.
I stepped into the doorway, holding up my ruined shirt. “Good morning? You draw me like a farm animal and expect me to say thank you?”
She covered her mouth, but the grin broke through anyway. “Well, it’s very realistic.”
I groaned, but the corner of my mouth tugged despite myself. I should’ve been angry—my ribs burned every time I moved, my knuckles still raw from fists I didn’t want her to know about—but her joy was disarming in a way no blade ever could be.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” I muttered.
“And you’re still stuck with me,” she shot back, chin tilted in that proud little way of hers. “Guess life’s unfair to both of us.”
God help me, she was too much like Papa when she said things like that—sharp wit wrapped in sweetness.
I lunged before she could run, looping an arm around her waist. Pain flared along my side, but I ignored it, burying the wince under a laugh as I ruffled her hair.
“Luciano! Stop!” she shrieked, squirming and laughing all at once.
“This is justice,” I declared. “For crimes against older brothers.”
“Crimes? It was art!”
“Art?” I scoffed, finally letting her go. “If that’s art, then I’m Michelangelo.”
“More like Michel-an-idiot,” she muttered under her breath.
I flicked her forehead lightly, watching her yelp. The sound warmed something inside me that the streets had tried to hollow out.
“Don’t dish it if you can’t take it, piccola.”
She glared, but her smile betrayed her. “Then don’t eat my cake if you can’t share.”
From the kitchen, Mama’s voice rang out. “If you two don’t stop bickering, I’ll send you both to the market and make you argue with the fishmonger instead!”
I leaned down, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Don’t tempt her. She will do it.”
Maria laughed again, bright and unguarded. I let myself stand there for a second, ribs throbbing, knuckles stiff, watching her.
She didn’t see the blood, the back-alley fights, the price of keeping her safe. And God willing, she never would.
For her, I could take every bruise this city had to give.
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(MARIA'S POV)
The smell of coffee and warm bread drifted through the house as Luciano and I finally came down to breakfast. Mama had already laid the table, humming softly to herself as she sliced fruit.
“About time,” she said, arching a brow. “I thought you two planned to sleep the morning away.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Luciano muttered, tugging at his clean shirt — thankfully not the donkey-ear one. “I was being attacked by a criminal with charcoal.”
I grinned and slipped into my seat. “A talented criminal.”
Mama shook her head, fighting a smile. “Eat, both of you. Maria, you need strength for the day.”
I perked up. “Actually, Mama… I have to go to my friend’s house after breakfast. We’re finishing a project for school.”
Luciano raised an eyebrow, already smirking. “Project? Or gossip?”
“Project,” I said firmly. “Not everyone skips homework for mysterious late-night errands, Luciano.”
He made a face at me over his bread. “Touché.”
Mama gave him a warning look before turning back to me. “Be back before sunset, understood?”
“Yes, Mama.” I buttered my bread and tried to hide my excitement. The truth was, the “project” wasn’t just any schoolwork. It was a mural design for the academy — and the teacher had asked me to lead it. I wasn’t supposed to brag, but sometimes it bubbled up inside me.
Art had always been my refuge. From the time I could hold a pencil, I’d filled every scrap of paper with sketches — Mama cooking, Luciano laughing, even the stray cat that slept on the wall outside our house. The world felt softer when I painted it, like I could trap its beauty before it slipped away.
And now, at eighteen, I was the best painter in my class. Everyone knew it — even the headmaster who pretended not to play favorites.
But here at the breakfast table, I was still just Mama’s little girl and Luciano’s annoying sister. And maybe… I liked it that way.
“Eat,” Mama urged again, sliding another piece of bread onto my plate. “Even artists need food to dream.”
Luciano snorted. “She doesn’t dream, Mama. She plots revenge sketches.”
I threw a grape at him.
After breakfast, I gathered my sketchbook and charcoal pencils, tucking them carefully into my satchel. Mama kissed the top of my head before I left, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face.
“Stay safe, Maria,” she murmured.
“I’m going to Rose's, Mama, not the end of the world,” I teased. But the way her eyes lingered on me made me hug her a little tighter.
Luciano jingled the keys to Papa’s old car, leaning against the door frame with that careless grin. “Come on, piccola. I’ll take you.”
“I can walk.”
“I know you can. I just don’t trust the streets as much as I trust you.”
I rolled my eyes, but secretly, I liked it — the way he always looked out for me. We stepped out together, the morning air sharp and cool, the road alive with vendors setting up stalls and neighbors calling greetings.
In the car, I flipped open my sketchbook, shading the corner of a face I’d been working on. Luciano glanced at it while waiting at a stop.
“Who’s that supposed to be?”
“You, obviously,” I said, smirking. “When you’re angry. See the eyebrows?"
He barked a laugh. “You made me look like I’m forty.”
“You act like it sometimes.”
He reached over and tugged the pencil from my hand, just to annoy me.
“Luciano!”
“Consider it self-defense.”
By the time we pulled up outside my friend’s house, I was laughing so hard I nearly forgot my sketchbook on the seat. Luciano handed it back with a mock bow.
“Go. Do your ‘project.’ But don’t forget — you promised to be home before sunset.”
I saluted him, still grinning. “Yes, sir.”
For a moment, as I climbed out of the car, I thought he looked… older. Tired. Like something heavy sat on his shoulders. But when I blinked, it was gone — just Luciano again, leaning out the window, calling, “And don’t draw me with donkey ears in public!”
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(MARIA'S POV)
The Rossetti house always smelled like rosemary.
The Rossi house — Rose’s house — smelled like fresh paper and lemon polish.
As soon as I stepped in, Rose’s mother waved me toward the dining table, which was already covered in sketchbooks, rulers, watercolors, and sheets of half-finished ideas.
“You’re late,” Rose said with mock severity, tapping her pencil against her notebook.
“I brought charcoal smudges,” I answered, holding up my hands like proof. “That counts as punctuality for an artist.”
Rose rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. She was the kind of friend who could scold you and laugh at you in the same breath. We’d been partners in art projects for years, ever since she’d spilled ink on my drawing in first year and nearly cried about it. I forgave her instantly, and we’d been inseparable since.
We settled at the table, spreading out our supplies. The assignment was ambitious: design a mural representing “youth and legacy” for the town square. Most of the class had complained, but Rose and I had lit up the moment we heard it.
“Okay,” Rose said, pushing a blank sheet toward me. “You do the centerpiece. I’ll handle the borders.”
“Bossy,” I teased, but I was already sketching. The pencil moved easily under my hand, lines forming like they’d been waiting to escape. I loved this part — the silence that wasn’t really silence, the scratch of graphite on paper, Rose humming softly as she worked beside me.
After a while, Rose leaned over. “You always make it look alive,” she murmured.
I glanced at the figure on the page — a girl holding a lantern high, her hair tangled with stars. “Alive?”
“Yes. Like she’s breathing.” Rose sighed. “When I draw people, they look like mannequins. When you do it… I feel like I could talk to her.”
Heat crept up my neck, but I shrugged. “Maybe it’s because I talk to them when I draw.”
She laughed, tossing a strand of hair from her face. “That’s why you’re the best in class.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she cut in firmly. “Even Professor Bianchi knows it. He pretends to give me credit sometimes, but he always looks at your work first.”
I ducked my head, pretending to shade the folds of the lantern-bearer’s dress. Praise always made me squirm, though a part of me bloomed inside at her words.
We worked for hours, stopping only when Rose’s mother brought us tea and biscuits. By then the mural design was beginning to take shape — the girl with the lantern at the center, children dancing at her feet, olive branches curling around the edges. Hope, youth, legacy.
Rose leaned back, studying it with wide eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “It looks like… light.”
Light.
I smiled faintly, brushing away the charcoal dust from my fingers. That was what I wanted my art to be — a shield against the dark, a reminder that even shadows couldn’t swallow everything.
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(MARIA'S POV)
The streets were quiet, almost too quiet, as I hugged my sketchbook closer to my chest. The sun had started its slow descent behind the rooftops, painting everything in a warm amber glow. The air smelled faintly of bread from the baker’s shop and the sweet scent of jasmine curling over the stone walls. It should have been comforting, but something in the shadows of the alleyways made me shiver, and I pulled my cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
I hummed softly to myself, trying to chase away the unease. The day had been perfect — Rose’s laughter, the scratch of pencil over paper, the way our mural was finally starting to breathe with life. I wanted to savor that warmth, keep it close, let it cling to me like sunlight on my skin.
Footsteps echoed behind me. I paused and glanced over my shoulder. A man — dark coat, hat pulled low — was walking a few paces behind. My heart skipped a beat. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe he was just going home, like me. I shook my head and forced a laugh, trying to steady the fluttering panic in my chest.
I quickened my pace.
The footsteps quickened.
My palms grew sweaty around the strap of my satchel. The sketchbook inside — my precious pages of dreams — felt heavy in my grip, as though it were trying to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. I turned another corner, hoping the shadows would swallow me into safety, but the man was already there, waiting like a predator who had been planning this for far too long.
Before I could react, another hand clamped over my mouth, cutting off my scream. The leather was rough, cold against my skin, and a sharp pang of fear shot through me. I kicked, but my feet barely found purchase on the cobblestones. Another figure came from the side, strong arms wrapping around my shoulders and lifting me off the ground. My legs flailed helplessly, but the grip was iron.
“Let me go!” I tried to shout, but the hand muffling my voice pressed harder. My heart was pounding so violently I thought it might burst.
They moved me swiftly, pushing me toward the waiting car. My satchel slipped from my shoulder, falling to the ground with a thud. My sketchbook tumbled open, pages fluttering like trapped birds, the drawings smeared under the soles of one of the men’s boots. The lantern girl — the centerpiece of my mural — stared up at me with charcoal eyes, her light crushed beneath the heel of a stranger.
I wanted to scream, but my voice was strangled before it could escape. Tears burned my eyes as they shoved me into the car, the man’s hand clamped over my mouth, his grip iron and merciless. I clawed for air, my chest heaving, but the oxygen was vanishing, slipping further and further away. Black spots clouded my vision, and the edges of the world began to blur.
I wanted air. I wanted light. I wanted Luciano.
He had always been there—snatching me back when I stumbled, shielding me when shadows reached too close. Since childhood, he had been my unshakable answer to fear.
“Luciano, please save me,” I begged in the hollow of my mind, the words tumbling over themselves. “Please… save me.” I clung to the name like a prayer, a mantra against the dark, even as it swallowed me whole.
And then the world slipped away and the darkness swallowed me.
__________END_____________
Hey guys! How are you all? Did you like the chapter?? Please give your reviews. It takes so much time to write a chapter your support is very encouraging for me and sorry for the late update l know Sunday so karne ke liye bola tha but it takes time and sometimes l get stucked up in other things. But l promise to upload the next chapter soon.
Thank for reading. See you soon!❤️❤️❤️🤗🤗🤗
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