The Moretti estate had finally fallen into a steady rhythm again. The men no longer moved like soldiers; they moved like people learning to live. The smell of gun oil had faded from the halls, replaced by the warmth of food, laughter, and the hum of everyday life.
Damian spent his mornings in the study, handling business that didn't involve blood—shipments, vineyards, or rebuilding the docks. Alessia often passed by the open door, pretending not to notice him, even though her eyes always lingered a little too long.
Their marriage had been based on duty, not affection. But in the quiet, something unspoken began to form.
At breakfast, Alessia sat across from him, reading the newspaper while he reviewed reports. The silence between them was no longer tense; it was comfortable, almost familiar.
"You don't have to keep pretending you like the coffee," she said without looking up.
Damian glanced at the cup. "It's not bad."
"It's terrible," she replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
He looked at her for a moment, then set the cup down. "Then make it better."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're giving me orders now?"
He leaned back in his chair. "Suggestions."
That was how it was between them—a dance of defiance and restraint. She tested his patience; he tested her boundaries. And somewhere in the middle, they began to understand each other.
One evening, Alessia found him in the study, standing in front of a portrait. The woman in the painting had Damian's eyes—calm, unreadable, but kind.
"She's beautiful," Alessia said softly.
Damian didn't turn. "She was."
"Your mother?"
He nodded once.
"What happened to her?"
He hesitated, his jaw tightening. "She was killed. Years ago. Wrong place, wrong time."
Alessia stepped closer. "Because of your father?"
He turned then, his voice low. "Because of the life he built. And I don't want to talk about it."
The silence that followed wasn't cold—it was heavy, full of things neither of them knew how to say.
Days turned into weeks. The estate settled into a rhythm—dinners shared, conversations that began to stretch longer, silences that no longer felt like walls.
At night, Alessia would sometimes hear him pacing in the study, the faint sound of a piano playing from the old record player. She never asked what he was thinking about during those hours, but she started to understand that peace, for Damian, was something he didn't quite trust.
And yet, he was trying.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, they stood on the balcony overlooking the vineyards. The sky was streaked with gold and violet.
"It's strange," Alessia said quietly. "To live without fear."
Damian turned to her. "You're afraid of peace?"
"I'm afraid it won't last."
He looked out at the horizon. "Neither of us was built for quiet. But maybe we can learn."
She met his gaze, and for the first time, she didn't look away.
The wind moved gently through the olive trees below, carrying the scent of summer.
For now, the world was still.
And in that stillness, something between them began to breathe.