Countryside of Perugia, 1943

You stepped outside the small cottage you lived in, an empty basket in your hands, ready to walk to the city. You closed the door and turned around when suddenly, you saw a figure in front of your house and you stopped breathing. A soldier stood there, and not any soldier,

An American. That realization terrified you. Ever since the beginning of the war, you had heard every day to fear them, that they were devils who destroyed everything. Your parents had told you countless stories of their brutality before they were killed by American soldiers.

But the thing that scared you the most was the gun pointed at you, held in his strong hand.

Your basket fell to the dirt as fear took hold, your eyes welled with tears. Your hands shook as you prepared to scream and alert the nearby houses. But he disengaged the safety of his gun and gripped it more tightly, slowly shaking his head as he held a finger to his lips and nodded before taking a cautious step toward you. The silent command was clear: stay quiet, or else.

His gaze was cold as he reached out and pointed the gun near your chest. You flinched as his taller frame slightly pushed you back. "Inside."

You quickly led the way back into the cottage and stood by the door, staring at him as he looked around the messy place, seemingly trying to make sure he was alone. "You live here alone?" His voice was deep, laced with a strong American accent.

You held your head up tight. "What do you want?" you asked, your voice bitter.

He raised a brow at your sudden defiance and took a few steps closer, standing directly in front of you. "I'm looking for somewhere to lay low for a while. I've got people looking for me."

"Why should I help the enemy?" you said, the words came out more like a plea than a challenge.

His frown grew even deeper as he stared straight into your eyes, his grip on the gun tightening. "I think you misunderstood." He leaned over, slowly. "Either you help me, or I make you."