Three years felt like a lifetime and merely seconds all at once.
Homelessness, living in motels, not to mention getting fake documents, hadn't been particularly easy, but it seemed Giulia was still watching, taking care of me even then.
I adjusted my faded straw hat as the Tuscan sun beat down on my back, the familiar weight of my gardening shears in my palm as I trimmed the lavender growing wild outside my small shop. Fiori di Hannah - Hannah's Flowers - the modest sign above the door painted in my own clumsy handwriting.
It wasn't a lot, but it was mine. I had a home now...
Sometimes I still hesitated when someone called me Hannah, the name sitting like an ill-fitted glove even after all this time.
"You're out early today," Elena called, waving enthusiastically from across the cobblestone street.
At twenty-four, my neighbor radiated the kind of careless joy I'd never known, her blonde curls bouncing as she crossed to meet me, balancing a tray of pastries.
"The heat," I explained, straightening. "Better to get the watering done before it scorches everything."
Elena laughed, the sound as bright as the morning. "Always the practical one, Hannah." She offered me the tray. "Cornetti. Still warm. Mamma made extra."
I took one, grateful for her mother's persistent belief that I needed feeding. "Grazie. You'll spoil me."
"Someone should." Elena leaned against the wall of my shop, studying me with the open curiosity that had initially terrified me when I first arrived in this small town. I'd learned that it wasn't suspicion, just genuine interest. Something foreign to the world I'd fled.
"Any interesting customers yesterday?" she asked through a mouthful of pastry. "Perhaps that handsome doctor from Florence who keeps finding reasons to need fresh flowers?"
I rolled my eyes, though the corners of my mouth twitched. "Dr. Moretti only comes because his mother likes fresh hydrangeas."
"And the fact that he stares at you like you're the Madonna herself means nothing?"
Heat crawled up my neck. "You're delusional."
"And you're blind." She brushed crumbs from her dress. "Twenty-one and acting like a nun. It's unnatural."
If only she knew. If only I could tell her that men's attention didn't flatter me, it terrified me. That every male gaze felt weighted with potential recognition, with the possibility that my carefully constructed life could shatter with a single whispered name: De Luca
"I have my plants," I said instead, the familiar deflection easy on my tongue. "They're... less complicated."
"Plants don't keep you warm at night," Elena countered with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows.
I turned away to hide my expression, busying myself with the lavender. Elena meant well, but she'd grown up sheltered in this sleepy town, untouched by the darkness that had shaped me. She couldn't understand what it meant to rebuild yourself from ashes.
"Oh! I almost forgot!" Elena clapped her hands. "Are you coming to the festival this weekend? The whole town will be there."
The annual harvest festival, all wine, dancing, and locals who'd known each other since birth. My instinct was to decline, as I had for the past two years. Large crowds meant risk, even here.
"I don't know," I hedged. "The shop— "
"Can survive one Sunday without you," she finished firmly. "Hannah, you've been here three years and barely know anyone beyond buying their groceries or selling them flowers."
I sighed, knowing she was right. My isolation wasn't just about safety anymore, it had become a habit, a comfortable prison I'd built for myself.
"I'll think about it." I promised.
Elena beamed as if I'd already agreed. "Perfect! Wear that green dress I made you try on last month. It makes your eyes look like forest pools." She glanced at her watch and gasped. "Merda! I'm late. Mamma will kill me."
She kissed my cheeks quickly, then dashed off toward her family's bakery, leaving the scent of sugar and sunshine.
I watched her go, a familiar ache settling in my chest. Elena was the closest thing to a friend I'd allowed myself here. Sometimes I wondered what she would think if she knew the truth, that Hannah Rossi was a fabrication, that April De Luca still lived beneath my skin, watching and waiting for the day her past would inevitably catch up with her.
The bell above my shop door chimed as I pushed it open, the cool interior a welcome relief from the heat. Inside, buckets of fresh flowers created a riot of color against whitewashed walls. Simple. Honest. Nothing like the sterile opulence I'd grown up in.
I flipped the sign to 'Aperto' and began my morning routine, checking yesterday's arrangements, preparing fresh buckets, counting the modest cash in my register.
Little tasks that anchored me to this new reality.
My first customer arrived promptly at nine, Signora Bianchi picking up centerpieces for her daughter's engagement dinner. Then came the usual morning rush: a young man buying apology roses, tourists wanting small bouquets for their rental apartments, a local restaurant owner refreshing his table displays.
By noon, the shop was quiet again. I wiped down the counter, my mind drifting as my hands moved automatically. Three years. Sometimes I still couldn't believe I'd made it this long without being found. Without hearing my father's name spoken in fearful whispers, or worse, learning that Leonardo Russo was looking for his promised bride.
Had my father given up searching for me? Was Leonardo still waiting for the payment he'd been promised?
I shook the thoughts away. Marco De Luca never forgot a debt, and Leonardo Russo never forgave one...at least that's what I'd heard. My freedom existed only because they hadn't yet looked in the right place.
Yet .
The bell chimed again, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked up, professional smile already in place, only to find the shop empty. The door swung gently closed, but no one had entered.
Frowning, I walked around the counter, scanning the street through the window. Nothing unusual, just locals going about their business in the midday heat. As I turned back, something on the counter caught my eye.
A single black rose.
My blood froze. It hadn't been there moments ago.
With trembling fingers, I reached for it. The stem had been meticulously stripped of thorns, the bloom a perfect obsidian unfurling against the pale wooden counter. No commercial dye, this was a true black rose, rare and nearly impossible to cultivate.
A small card was tied to the stem with red thread. My heart hammered as I flipped it over.
Written in elegant script was a single line:
le rose più piccole hanno le spine più affilate
Little roses have the sharpest thorns..
My father's words.