The car's engine died with a reluctant cough.
Lina Marchesi sat for a moment behind the wheel, hands clenched around it like it might anchor her to something real. The narrow cliffside road had curved and climbed until she couldn't tell sea from sky anymore. Now, parked before the weather-stained stone archway of La Sirena, the inn Milo Caruso never advertised, the only sound was wind threading through lemon trees.
The inn looked like it had given up. Faded shutters, a crooked wrought-iron sign swinging on rusted hinges. Moss crept up the stone walls like it, too, was trying to forget something.
She stepped out barefoot, shoes tucked under one arm. A small rebellion. Gravel bit into her soles.
The door was already open.
Not in welcome—just stuck that way, like the building refused to make a proper impression.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of old wood and salt.
"Milo Caruso?" she called, her voice hesitant, dry from the long drive. "I have a reservation."
Silence.
A radio played softly from somewhere within, jazz notes drifting through dust motes. Then, from the back hallway, footsteps.
She turned just as he appeared.
He wasn't what she expected.
Not handsome, not in the traditional sense. Broad shoulders, yes, but slouched. His left cheek was marred with old scar tissue, jawline uneven beneath it. His right eye was sharp, assessing; the other slightly sunken, half-shaded. He moved slowly, but there was nothing soft about him.
"No reservation," he said.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I booked two nights. Through your—well, whoever handles your phone. I spoke to someone named Lucia."
"She doesn't work here anymore."
"That's not my problem," Lina said, sharper than intended. She drew a breath. "I've driven five hours. I'm not leaving."
He studied her. "You're American."
She didn't respond.
"Fine. One room. Cash only. No maid service, no food unless I'm in the mood to cook. You clean up after yourself."
Lina set her bag down. "Perfect," she said coolly. "I like things quiet."