The sun rose like blood over the Sicilian hills.
Ana stepped out of the dusty car, her boots crunching against gravel as she stood in front of a rusted wrought-iron gate. The old vineyard beyond it looked abandoned—choked with vines, its house weathered by time and memory.
She checked the coordinates again.
This was the place.
*Haven*.
The name was carved into a stone pillar to her right, half-obscured by ivy. Her breath caught. The word didn't feel peaceful—it felt like a warning.
She pushed the gate open with a creak, every sound echoing louder in the silence. Birds didn't sing here. Even the wind moved like it was watching.
Ana made her way up the overgrown path, heart pounding. The main house stood like a ghost—shuttered windows, paint peeling, doors closed as if trying to hold in secrets.
She knocked once.
No answer.
She tried the handle. It gave way easily, the door swinging inward on creaking hinges.
The inside smelled of dust and lavender. Sunlight streamed through cracked windows, casting patterns on the wooden floor. Old furniture sat beneath white cloths. A chandelier hung like a skeleton above the hallway.
Ana stepped inside.
She wasn't sure what she was looking for. A journal? A photo? Anything that could connect her mother to this place. To Hayden's mother. To the violence that bound their families like barbed wire.
Her footsteps echoed as she moved through the rooms. A study with empty bookshelves. A kitchen with rusted pots. A staircase that groaned under her weight.
Upstairs, the air felt heavier.
She found a bedroom with faded blue walls and lace curtains. A jewelry box sat on the vanity. Inside it, a broken locket. She opened it.
No photo. Just a tiny, folded note.
She unfolded it with shaking fingers.
It read:
**"If you're reading this, you're not safe. The Moretti boy isn't who he says he is. But neither are you."**
**– M. Nicholas**
Ana staggered back, breath shallow. Her mother had been here. Her handwriting, her scent still faint on the paper. But what did it mean?
*"The Moretti boy isn't who he says he is."*
*Hayden?*
Or… someone else?
She tucked the note into her pocket and turned—only to stop dead in her tracks.
A woman stood in the doorway.
Older, maybe in her fifties. Sharp eyes, silver-streaked hair tied in a braid down her back.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to come," the woman said.
Ana stepped back. "Who are you?"
The woman didn't move. "Someone your mother trusted. Once."
"You knew her?"
"I knew *both* of them. Maria Nicholas and Isabella Moretti." Her eyes narrowed. "And I know the boy who sent you isn't far behind."
Ana's throat went dry. "I left him."
"No one leaves a Moretti," the woman said. "Not really."
"I'm not his property."
"Maybe not. But he's yours."
Ana frowned. "What does that mean?"
The woman walked slowly into the room, brushing her fingers along the vanity like she was remembering a dream. "You're more like your mother than you know. And he's more like his father than he'd ever admit. But their story ended in blood. Yours doesn't have to."
Ana stepped forward. "Then help me. Tell me what they were hiding."
The woman studied her. "If I do, there's no going back. You'll learn things that can't be undone. About your mother. About Hayden. About why you were *always* meant to be part of this war."
"I don't care," Ana said. "I need the truth."
The woman smiled—sad and strange. "Then let's begin."
She led Ana down a narrow hallway into a back room that looked like a small library. Dust covered the books. But behind one shelf, the woman pulled out a key and unlocked a hidden door.
A staircase led downward.
Stone walls. Cold air. Candlelight flickering in the dark.
"This house is older than your mother," the woman said. "Older than this feud. It's where the blood began."
Ana descended slowly, her fingers trailing along the damp stone.
At the bottom, there was a chamber.
Maps. Files. Photos. Letters. A table covered in old weapons. A large board with red string connecting names she didn't recognize.
She walked up to it and froze.
At the center:
**Maria Nicholas**
**Isabella Moretti**
Below them:
**Ana Vega**
**Hayden Moretti**
Her breath caught.
They weren't just casualties of this war.
They were its design.