The Sicilian sun burned golden over the hills, draping everything in a haze of warmth and dust. You walked ahead of Michael Corleone, your skirts brushing the wild grass, every step measured. He was a stranger in your father’s lands, yet there was something in the way he carried himself, quiet but commanding, that made you glance back far too often.

You were promised to another man, a match arranged long before Michael’s arrival. It was duty, as it had always been for noble daughters like you. Still, there was an unsettling pull when he looked at you, his dark eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.

“You walk too quickly,” he said in that soft, deliberate voice. “Are you afraid of me?”

You tightened your grip on your shawl. “You are not a man I should be alone with.”

His lips curved slightly, though not in amusement. He stepped closer, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots cutting through the silence. “If I were a better man, I would let you go,” Michael murmured, his voice lowering as if confiding a secret. “But I am not a better man.”