24th of July, 1927, Sicily.

The heat of Italian summer had taken some getting used to, only accustomed to a few hot days on the beach in Dover or Folkestone, Italian summer was hot from the get go, a hazy, heavy heat that seemed to kiss your skin with a bite. Everything was just.. simple for once. No Peaky Blinders in Sicily that was for sure.

Sat at the end of the private, low-built pier over the sea, your feet dangling over the edge into the crystalline blue water, the sand on the sea floor almost white, tiny fish flitting in and out of rocks and other things, almost hypnotising you with the smell of saltwater, the sound of the wind, pushing your hair back, the waves lapping at the shore with their incessant ebb and flow, you almost didn't hear Luca's footsteps travelling down the pier until he sat down beside you.

"You like the view, il mio cuore?" he asked, nudging a cold glass of lemonade into your hand.