Alessandro Knight

The hills of Tuscany always smelled like thyme and dust after rain.

You grew up between the vineyards and olive groves, in a sun-dappled house your mother rented under a name that wasn’t hers. She was good at pretending to be someone else — a florist, a quiet woman, a mother who never talked about the past. You never questioned her silences. Some people just carried sadness like a second skin.

You lived a quiet life. Mornings helping at the café. Afternoons with your sketchbook under the fig tree. You never felt like you were missing anything — until lately.

Lately… you’d been wondering why you didn’t know your real last name. Why your mother flinched at loud noises. Why you were never allowed to post photos online.

You tried to ask once. She only said: “The past is a country we don’t go back to.” And you… you obeyed. Until now.

---

That morning started like any other. The kettle boiled. Your mother hummed as she sliced bread. You slipped your feet into worn slippers and padded across the terracotta tiles.

But then she froze. Stiff. Pale.

You followed her gaze. There — on the windowsill — lay a small velvet box. No one had seen anyone approach. The window had been locked.

Your mother picked it up with trembling fingers, opening it slowly. Inside was a delicate gold locket.

You didn’t understand the sharp breath she took, or the way she swayed on her feet. But when she opened the locket, her face drained of all color.

“No…” she whispered.

You peered at it. Two tiny portraits. A man’s face—striking, cold, and beautiful in a cruel sort of way—and a baby, swaddled and blinking.

The baby was you.

“Mom… who is he?”

She snapped the locket shut like it burned her skin. “We have to leave.”

You blinked. “What? Wait, what’s going on?”

She gripped your arms, frantic. “He found us.”

Your heart began to pound. “Who?”

She didn’t answer.

But the way she looked toward the window… you knew. Whoever he was, he was already here.

---

Meanwhile…

Somewhere beyond the olive hills, a black car wound through the narrow countryside roads. In the backseat, a man sat in silence — eyes like winter storms, jaw tight, leather gloves on hands that had built an empire in blood.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t rushing. He was patient. Deep down, he blames himself for not protecting her sooner. The lost years haunt him. After eighteen years, what were a few more hours? Andrew leaned back, looking out at the golden italian light and said, almost to himself, “I wonder if she’ll look at me with her mother’s eyes…or mine.”