Bells rang first. Not loudly. Just enough to stir the birds in the lemon trees and ripple through the ce curtains in second-story windows.

  Aria Moretti paused mid-step, one sandal resting on the worn stone path, and let the sound settle into her chest. Always four bells at seven. Always that sleepy hush in the vilge after the sound passed.

  San Felice never rushed. That was its magic. A little stubborn pocket of Sicily where time strolled barefoot.

  She shifted the basket on her hip. Lemons rolled gently against each other inside, still dewy, their scent warm and sharp in the air. Another flower order. Another bouquet to make. Another morning exactly like the one before. And the one before that.

  Except maybe not. There was something different in the air today, a weight beneath the sunlight—a pause between the breeze.

  A breeze caught the hem of her linen dress, lifting it just slightly as she turned the final corner into Via delle Camelie. Her flower shop waited at the end, shutters still closed, a spsh of cheerful blue against sun-bleached stone.

  Fioreria Beldonna. That name had been her mother’s. Aria touched the sign lightly, then unlocked the front door.

  Inside, the air smelled of soil and petals and yesterday’s jasmine. Quiet settled around her like a shawl.

  She flipped the sign to Aperto and began her opening ritual. Watering the pots near the window. Straightening the faded photograph by the register—her mother’s arms curled around a baby with too-big eyes. Trimming fresh vender. Breathing in.

  The bell above the door jangled half-heartedly.

  “Don’t tell me you’re sold out of daisies already,” came a raspy voice.

  “Good morning, Signora Fvia,” Aria said without turning. “And no, you’re early. Again.”

  The old woman shuffled in, pearls glinting beneath a faded scarf. “You say that like it’s a crime to be punctual.”

  “You say that like it’s not eight-thirty and the market hasn’t even opened yet.” Aria held out a small bundle of daisies, tied in twine. “Your usual.”

  Fvia sniffed, then took them anyway. “Make it two bundles. I’m hosting bridge night. And Marisa always cheats when she’s not distracted by flowers.”

  Aria added an extra sprig of wild mint to each. “For luck.”

  “I’d rather you slipped arsenic in hers.”

  “Tempting.”

  The women shared a smile. Outside, a pair of men leaned against the stone wall across the street, smoking in the shadows. Bck shirts. Unsmiling. One wore sungsses even though the alley was still half in shade.

  Not cousins of the mayor’s assistant. Not mechanics. Not anyone she recognized.

  Aria didn’t look twice. But she felt them—like a thorn pressed lightly against her palm.

  Fvia caught the gnce anyway. “Ignore them. They’ll go away if you don’t feed them.”

  Aria ughed, though it came out thinner than usual.

  After the old woman left, she turned back to the bouquet. Wedding order. Bride wanted something “sunlight-colored.” Whatever that meant.

  She clipped white peonies, lemon leaves, and soft sprigs of vender, arranging them into a loose, fragrant cluster. When she was satisfied, she wrapped the stems in pale yellow silk and slipped the bouquet into a white box.

  The bride lived only two streets away. She could walk it. Fifteen minutes, maybe less.

  Aria stepped out into the piazza, bouquet tucked gently beneath her arm. Light snted across the cobblestones, painting golden shadows beneath the archways. A cat yawned on a barrel. Someone’s radio pyed softly in the distance.

  And someone was watching her.

  No footsteps. No whispers. Just that prickle again—warm sunlight gone cold at the nape of her neck.

  She turned her head slowly. Saw nothing. Just the old colonnade, empty save for a crumbling saint and a patch of ivy.

  Still. Shadows pooled too thick beneath the arch. Leaves rustled without wind.

  Her hand curled slightly around the bouquet ribbon.

  The local priest passed her, robes trailing dust. He gave a polite nod. She returned it automatically. His gaze drifted over her shoulder for a second too long.

  "Child, you must be careful on bright days," he murmured, almost too low to hear. "Even sunshine casts shadows."

  Paranoia. That’s all it is.

  She delivered the bouquet without trouble. Kissed cheeks. Promised extra baby’s breath for the centerpieces. As she turned to go, the bride’s mother handed her a folded note. Ink blotted the corner where it read: "Fioreria Beldonna – delivery confirmed, April 16th, 1873." Aria tucked it into her basket without a word, letting the heat sweat the unease out of her bones.

  The fountain near the square gurgled zily beneath the lemon trees.

  Almost there.

  A loose sprig of vender fell from the box as she crossed beside the fountain. She bent slightly, then froze as a hand reached it first.

  A man stood beside her. Not behind. Not ahead. Simply there.

  She hadn’t heard a single step.

  “Y-you startled me,” she said, trying to ugh. It came out breathy. Embarrassing.

  “You dropped this,” he said, voice smooth and low like the stone beneath the fountain’s rim.

  He held the vender between two fingers, gloved in bck.

  Aria took it carefully. Her fingers brushed leather. Cold. Impossibly cold, even in this heat.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” she said, eyes on his suit now. It was cut too well for a tourist. Too dark for a vilger.

  “I’ve seen you,” he said.

  The vender twitched slightly in her fingers.

  Her pulse raced, her mouth dry. "Oh?" She tried to smile. "Well, San Felice is a small vilge."

  “Small, but not as quiet as it seems.”

  She turned away.

  He didn’t stop her.

  Just watched.

  And as she reached the door to the shop, her hand on the knob, she heard it.

  A soft snap. Like stem against bark.

  She gnced back.

  The man stood beside the fountain still. Gloved fingers held the crushed remains of a lemon leaf.

  And this time, he smiled.