The city was too quiet.
I pulled my shawl tighter as I walked, the sound of my heels sharp against the stone streets. Venice at night was supposed to be beautiful, but right now it felt like a trap. Every corner looked the same, every canal black and endless.
I wasn't lost. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. But the more turns I took, the less sure I was.
Then I heard it. Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Following.
My chest tightened. I quickened my pace, searching for light, for people, for anything. Nothing. The streets were empty, like the whole city had gone to sleep and left me behind.
The footsteps grew louder.
I spun around a corner—straight into trouble.
Three men stood ahead, blocking the narrow street. Leather jackets, shadows on their faces, cigarettes glowing faintly in the dark. Their smirks made my skin crawl.
"Che abbiamo qui?" (What do we have here?) one of them muttered, exhaling smoke into the air.
The second one chuckled. "Una piccola turista, tutta sola." (A little tourist, all alone.)
My stomach dropped. I turned to run—only to crash into someone behind me.
A hand caught my wrist. Strong. Unshakable.
"Running alone in Venice at night?" His voice was deep, smooth, heavy with an accent. "Cara… you either want to be caught, or you want to be saved."
I looked up. A man in a dark suit. Broad shoulders. Eyes the color of ice—blue, sharp, and unrelenting, watching me like he already owned me.
The three men shifted. One spat his cigarette to the ground, sparks scattering.
"Antonio," he sneered. "Questa è la tua nuova bambola?" (Is this your new doll?)
The grip on my wrist tightened, protective now. Antonio's blue gaze never left mine, but his words cut through the night.
"Andatevene." (Walk away.)
They laughed. The tallest flicked his knife open with a click.
"O cosa?" (Or what?)
Antonio shoved me back against the wall so quickly I lost my breath. Then he moved.
His fist cracked into the first man's jaw. The cigarette slipped from his lips, rolling across the stones, its faint glow dying out in the dark. When I looked up, I saw the man was already bleeding from his mouth, crumpled on the ground.
The second lunged with the knife, but Antonio twisted his wrist until the blade slipped free. In one motion, Antonio caught it—and drove it deep into the man's stomach. A guttural gasp tore out of him as his knees hit the ground.
Antonio bent closer, his blue eyes cold and merciless.
"Hai dimenticato chi sono?" (Have you forgotten who I am?)
The man coughed, clutching at him weakly. "Ti prego…" (Please…)
Antonio's jaw stayed hard. Mercy wasn't in him. "Mi dispiace" (I'm sorry)… those words didn't exist in his dictionary.
He stabbed again. And again. The body collapsed flat on the stones.
The third man swore under his breath—"Merda!" (Shit!)—and bolted into the shadows, too terrified to look back.
The alley was silent except for my heart, hammering so loud I thought it might burst.
Antonio straightened, calm as if nothing had happened. He brushed his suit sleeve clean, his blue eyes locking on mine with a weight that made it impossible to look away.
"You see?" His tone was steady, dangerous. "Questa città non perdona l'imprudenza." (This city doesn't forgive carelessness.)
My throat was dry, my voice small. "Are you… mafia?"
His smirk curved, sharp enough to cut.
"No, coramia (my heart). Mafia is too small a word for what I am."
And in that moment, I knew Venice had swallowed me whole.