Chapter 60 Luca

Chapter 60 Luca
William doesn’t come with us. He has way to much to do as the Don of this family.

Instead, he stands at the front steps as we load into the vehicles—silent, watchful, his control stretching far beyond the gates of the estate.

Mark and Finley take the lead vehicle. Olivia rides beside Ivy in the backseat of the second car. I sit across from them, my attention fixed on Ivy despite my efforts not to stare.

William leans down briefly toward Ivy’s open window.

“Stay in sight,” he tells her. “No wandering. No risks.”

“I’m going to pick herbs, not start a war,” Ivy mutters.

His expression softens with humor shining in his eyes. “With you? You could do that with just a wave of your hand.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s affection there too. The door closes. The engine hums to life.

As we pull away, I glance back.
William hasn’t moved.
He watches until the gates close behind us.

The road stretches ahead—lined with bare trees and pale light. The convoy moves steadily, controlled. Mark and Finley scan every turn like the road itself might attack.

Inside the car, Ivy fidgets with the strap of her satchel, fingers restless. Olivia sits alert but unobtrusive, the picture of quiet competence.

Ivy glances at me. “So,” she says casually, “are you going to tell me why William looked like he wanted to murder you?”

Olivia’s eyes flick toward me briefly, then away—professional, but listening.

“He’s stressed,” I say.

She snorts. “You’re terrible at lying.”

I meet her gaze, and for a second the world narrows—just her sharp eyes and the questions she isn’t asking yet.

“Ivy—”

“Later,” she interrupts softly. “You owe me an explanation.”

Not a question.
A promise.

The town comes into view soon after—stone buildings clustered close, shop signs swaying gently, smoke curling from chimneys. Heads turn as the vehicles pass. Some recognize her. Some look away too quickly.

Ivy straightens.
Purpose settles over her like armor.

But beneath it, I can feel the tension tightening—the guards, the warning William carved into me, and the truth Ivy is edging closer to.

This trip was never just about herbs.

And I don’t know how much longer I can protect her—
From myself.

The herbalist’s shop sits tucked between a baker and a tailor, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. Bundles of dried herbs hang upside down along the doorframe, their scents already bleeding into the street—earthy, sharp, comforting.

The moment Ivy steps inside, she changes.

Her shoulders relax. Her eyes brighten. Purpose settles into her bones like she’s stepped into a place that answers her.

The bell above the door chimes softly as we enter. Mark and Finley position themselves without being told—one near the entrance, the other lingering by the shelves pretending to study jars while actually watching reflections in the glass. Olivia stays close to Ivy’s right side, alert but respectful, giving her just enough space to move freely.

I hang back half a step.

The shop is narrow but deep, lined with wooden shelves packed with jars labeled in careful script. Dried roots, crushed petals, twisted bark, powders sealed in wax. The air is thick with chamomile, sage, and something bitter I can’t quite name.

Behind the counter, an elderly woman looks up. Her sharp eyes flick first to Ivy—then to the guards.

Recognition sparks.

“Well,” she says slowly, setting down her mortar. “If it isn’t trouble walking in with an escort.”

Ivy smiles, genuine and warm. “Good morning, Mara.”

Mara’s expression softens immediately. “Child,” she scolds gently. “You look thin.”

“I almost died,” Ivy replies casually, like she’s commenting on the weather.

Mara clicks her tongue. “That’ll do it.”

They seem to know each other really well, which makes me curious. 

“Ivy vine, have you been here before?” I ask her, softly. 

Ivy turns with a smile. “This is the shop me and Mama came to a couple days ago. I met Mara and we instantly hit it off.”

I find myself watching Ivy more than the shop—how she moves down the aisles with confidence, fingers hovering over jars without touching until she’s sure. She reads labels under her breath, murmuring names like old friends.

“White horehound,” she mutters. “No… too dry.”

She lifts a lid, inhales carefully. “Mm. Still viable.”

She glances at me suddenly. “See? The dried stock does lose potency.”

I huff softly, not sure how to answer because I know nothing about medicine. 

Her smile widens, victorious.

Olivia shifts slightly as a pair of townspeople enter behind us. Their eyes linger on Ivy too long. Mark straightens. Finley’s hand brushes near his coat.

Ivy doesn’t notice—or pretends not to.

She stops at the fresh herb case near the back, kneeling to inspect bundles laid on damp cloth. “I need feverfew, fresh rosemary, and angelica root,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. “And if you still have valerian—”

“I do,” Mara answers. “But I wasn’t expecting you to come fetch it.”

Ivy pauses.
Her fingers still.

“I wasn’t expecting to have to,” she admits quietly. “But someone decided I shouldn’t be poisoned again.”

Mara snorts. “Sensibly dramatic family?”

Ivy glances toward the guards. “Painfully so.”

I step closer then, lowering my voice. “You okay?”

She nods—but then looks up at me, eyes sharp. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m protecting,” I correct.

She arches a brow. “That’s William’s line.”

I wince. “Occupational hazard.”

Her gaze lingers on my face longer this time, searching. “You still haven’t told me why things were tense before we left.”

“Later,” I echo her earlier word.

She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Fine. But don’t think I forgot.”

Mara watches the exchange with open interest. “You sure know how to  pick complicated friends.”

Ivy smiles faintly. “They’re loyal.”

My chest tightens.

A sudden crash outside—the sound of a crate tipping—sets Mark’s head snapping toward the door. Finley shifts, blocking Ivy’s line of sight subtly.

Ivy stiffens. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Olivia says calmly. “Just a delivery.”

Mark confirms with a nod after peering through the window. The tension eases, but it leaves a residue—sharp, metallic.

Ivy exhales slowly and returns to her work, but I can see it now: the way her fingers tremble just slightly before she steadies them.

I step closer, just enough that my presence is a quiet anchor. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

She looks up at me again, softer now. “I know.”

Her voice drops. “That’s why I asked you.”

The words hit harder than any warning William gave me.

I swallow. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

Mara clears her throat pointedly. “Unless you’re planning to flirt all day, child, you should let me wrap those.”

Ivy laughs—light, real—and hands over the herbs. “Yes, please.”

As Mara bundles them carefully, Ivy turns toward me again. “When we’re done,” she says quietly, “we’re talking.”

I nod. “Alright.”

But as she smiles at me—alive, brilliant, stubborn—I know that conversation is going to change everything.

Because this shop isn’t the only place Ivy feels at home.

And if I’m careful…
She might start feeling at home with me.