Shadows On The Grass

Shadows On The Grass
Isabella’s POV

I woke to an empty bed.

The sheets on Giovanni’s side were cold, the indent of his body already fading into nothing. No note on the pillow. No lingering warmth where his arm had been. Just the faint trace of his cologne hanging in the air like a ghost, and the quiet, relentless hum of the mansion waking up beyond the heavy bedroom door.

My chest ached with the echo of last night. Duty. The word sat heavy on my tongue, bitter and sharp, cutting every time I swallowed. I pressed my palm to the hollow space beside me, fingers curling into the cool linen, then pulled it away quickly, ashamed of the need. I had no right to feel this empty. No right to want more than the careful tenderness he’d given me in the dark.

Today was supposed to be good. Different.

For the first time in years, I wouldn’t spend the day alone in this gilded cage. My mother was here, tucked away in the far wing. Ricardo was here—my son, safe under this roof, breathing the same air as me, even if only for a little while.

I pushed the hurt down deep, buried it beneath layers of practiced calm. I couldn’t afford to be moody. Not today. Not when Ricardo’s laughter would finally fill the silence I’d carried alone for so long.

I rose slowly, the marble floor cold against my bare feet. The mirror showed a woman who looked composed—hair twisted back neatly, light makeup to hide the faint shadows under my eyes, a simple linen dress the color of sand. No one would guess I’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, replaying his voice. Duty. Wondering why tenderness wasn’t enough.

Downstairs, the dining room smelled of fresh espresso, warm cornetti, and the faint sweetness of sliced peaches. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air.

My mother sat at the long mahogany table, silver threads in her dark hair glinting in the light. Ricardo was beside her, legs swinging beneath the chair that was too big for him, already halfway through a plate piled with fruit and flaky pastry. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, hazel eyes bright and alive in a way that made my heart clench.

He looked up when I entered the room.

“Zia Isabella!” he called, waving a sticky hand smeared with apricot jam. The word zia—aunt—cut softly, a necessary lie, but I smiled wide to cover the sting.

“Buongiorno, tesoro,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him. I reached over to smooth his unruly curls, letting my fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. “Did you sleep well in your big boat-bed?”

He nodded vigorously, mouth full. “It’s huge! Like a real boat! Nonna said maybe we can go see the sea today.”

My mother’s eyes met mine over his head—warm, knowing, careful. She said nothing about the lie we were living, just poured me coffee from the silver pot with steady hands.

Carlo stood near the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, silent and immovable as always. His presence was a wall—protective, yes, but also a constant reminder. No slips. No truths spoken aloud. Not here. Not ever, if Giovanni had his way.

We kept breakfast light. Safe. My mother talked about the gardens she’d glimpsed from her window, the lemon trees heavy with fruit. Ricardo chattered about wanting to chase lizards and build sandcastles. I nodded, smiled, asked questions that kept the conversation flowing away from anything dangerous.

But my eyes never left him. I watched the way he carefully peeled a peach with small fingers. The way he laughed when juice ran down his chin. Every gesture, every sound—he was here, real, mine. And for these few hours, I let myself pretend it could stay this way.

After breakfast, Carlo drove us into the city. Giovanni had arranged it without a word to me—quietly, efficiently, the way he arranged everything. The Lamborghini purred through the iron gates, black and sleek and impossibly fast, drawing stares even in a city used to wealth.

Ricardo pressed his face to the tinted window the whole way, exclaiming at every passing scooter, every flash of turquoise sea between buildings. “Look, Zia! A boat! A big one!” My mother sat beside him in the back, holding his hand gently, murmuring stories about when she was young.

I rode upfront with Carlo, close enough to turn and watch them both whenever I wanted. The drive felt like freedom, even with the guard beside me.

The mall was cool and bright, all gleaming glass and echoing voices. Air-conditioning kissed my skin as we stepped inside. We wandered slowly—no rush, no schedule. Ricardo tugged us toward toy shops with wide, wondering eyes. My mother lingered over silk scarves in soft colors, holding them to the light.

I bought him a small wooden boat, hand-carved, the kind children float in fountains. His grin when I handed it to him—wide, unguarded, full of pure joy—made something inside me crack open in the best way.

We stopped for gelato in the open food court. Stracciatella for Ricardo, pistachio for me, lemon for my mother. He got chocolate flecks on his nose almost immediately. I wiped it away with my thumb, laughing softly when he wrinkled his face in protest.

For a few hours, the world felt almost normal. Almost like we were any family. Almost like the shadows weren’t waiting just beyond the bright lights.

My eyes never truly left him. Not really. I tracked his small form through the crowds, counted his steps when he ran ahead to peer into a fountain. Catalogued every stranger who glanced too long, every security camera, every exit sign.

We were near the escalators, heading toward a children’s clothing store on the upper level, when I saw it.

A tiny red dot.

It danced across his forearm—brief, fleeting, like sunlight reflecting off moving glass.

I blinked hard.

It was gone.

Then there again. Steady this time. Centered on the soft skin inside his elbow.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

No.

Not here. Not now. Not in daylight, surrounded by people.

The mall hummed around us—music overhead, laughter, the clink of cups. Everything looked safe. Ordinary.

But I knew that dot.

I’d seen it in nightmares. Heard about it in the hushed warnings my father used to give when he thought I wasn’t listening.

A laser sight.

My breath caught in my throat. Time slowed to a crawl.

The dot slid higher, deliberate, tracing up his arm toward his shoulder. His chest.

My mind screamed absurdities—no, impossible, not in a crowded mall, not with Carlo right behind us—but the fear was instant. Primal. Bone-deep.

Ricardo turned back to me, smiling wide, holding up the little wooden boat he’d been carrying.

“Zia—look! It floats for real! Can we—”

The word wasn’t fully out of his mouth when it happened.

A loud crack split the air—sharp, deafening, like thunder trapped inside glass.