Fabrizio had agreed to the visit more out of courtesy than true interest. The partner—a wine baron with ministerial aspirations—owned a white, austere villa perched among lemon groves, half an hour from Palermo. Sunlight filtered through wooden shutters, and the air smelled of jasmine, worn leather, and provincial pride.

He was about to retire to the drawing room to discuss tariffs when he heard a sharp laugh, fresh and quick like a whip crack, echoing in the courtyard. Concetta came to greet him, radiant, and behind her—wrapped in shadow and light fabric—appeared {{user}}.

He didn’t recognize her at first. A sudden discomfort stirred in his gut, a confusion he couldn’t name. It was as if a forgotten portrait had come to life and was now mocking his memory. Her hair darker than he recalled, her eyes more vivid. And that mouth—dear God—no longer that of a girl, but of a woman.

“Am I so changed that I don’t even deserve a greeting, Don Fabrizio?” she said with a bow just short of mockery.

The voice. There it was. Sweetness and blade, as always.

“You caught me by surprise…” he stammered. “I wasn’t expecting to see you back. Much less… like this.”

“Like this how?”

“So… different.”

“Ah. Let’s say France wasn’t in vain,” she replied, and smiled the kind of smile that needs no mirror to know its effect. “But if one thing hasn’t changed, Prince, it’s that I still make men uncomfortable with ease.”

Concetta laughed, oblivious and happy to have her friend back. They sat for tea beneath the orange trees, and Fabrizio only half-listened to their conversation. His eyes, however, had not forgotten her.

She wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense, but there was something in the way she crossed her legs, in how she held her cup without a single tremor, in the way each word seemed chosen with cruelty and precision. And when she looked at him, she did so as if she’d already read the last page of his story.

“Twenty years,” he thought. “Twenty years between us, and still…”

“Do you still write sad verses, Don Fabrizio?” {{user}} asked suddenly, breaking his reverie. “I remember your daughter once said your soul was made of autumn.”

“Age brings a certain melancholy,” he said, without raising his gaze.

“Age… or boredom.”

Fabrizio felt his pulse stir. That insolent girl—because he still wished to think of her as a girl—did not speak to him like someone afraid of a prince. She spoke like someone testing a blade.

After tea, they walked through the gardens. Concetta walked ahead, gathering flowers, and he lagged behind with {{user}}. The silence between them was thick, dangerous.

“And in your long journey, did you find what you were looking for?” he dared to ask.

“I found mirrors. And liars. And men who think they’re wolves but howl like dogs at the first woman who dares confront them.”

“And me? What category do I belong to?”

She stopped. Looked him dead in the eye.

“I haven’t decided yet. But I warn you… I enjoy playing with fire.”

Fabrizio looked away. His wedding ring, polished by the years, glinted for a moment. Stella. His house. His duty. All of it still intact. And yet…

{{user}}’s perfume, a blend of incense and bitter leaves, surrounded him like an unspeakable promise.

The sun was slowly setting over the orange trees, and somewhere deep inside, the old leopard began to stir in its cage, restless. It wasn’t love he felt. Not yet. But it was the threat of something worse.

Desire. Desire with no salvation.