It was the summer I turned eighteen that I tried to seduce my godfather for the first time. And he pressed his gun under my chin. I wore a white slip dress so thin it might as well have been water, straddling the lap of Sicily’s most ruthless godfather, pressing his own Beretta 92F against my jaw. Cold metal. Burning palm. That cross tattoo on his hand branded my skin like it was trying to sear itself into me. “You are crossing the line, Lola.” His voice came through clenched teeth. His throat bobbed. But his eyes—those Mediterranean-deep eyes that hid whirlpools beneath still surfaces—stuck to the hollow below my collarbone. To the mole there. The one he’d seen when he bathed me ten years ago. I leaned forward. My lips grazed the gun barrel, tasting oil and leather and something darker. “Then kill me,” I whispered. My legs tightened around his waist. Through his towel, I felt him harden—felt the war in his body between protector and predator. “Or claim me. Your choice… Uncle Asher.” His pupils blew wide. Black swallowed the blue. * The ocean crashed against the cliffs outside. Same sound as that night ten years ago. I still remembered everything. The gunshots tearing through cicada songs. The blood hitting piano keys—warm, so warm it steamed. The rough hands dragging me from a pile of corpses, fitting headphones over my ears, playing something loud and ancient. “Count to one hundred,” he’d said. “Then I’ll be back.” I counted to thirty-seven. He kissed my forehead—his lips burning, his hands shaking. I counted to sixty-eight. More gunshots. I counted to one hundred. He returned covered in blood, lifted me into his arms, carried me to the car. Since then, I never celebrated another birthday. And never looked forward to summer. Except for him flying back to this seaside villa every July to spend this damn anniversary with me. Ten years. Ten summers. Then times he handed me gifts, said “Happy summer vacation, little princess,” then vanished into his study like I was something to be locked away. But this year I was eighteen. Legally adult. And physically— I looked down at my dress. The fabric clung like a second skin, nipples visible, hipbones sharp. I knew I was ready. The shower stopped. Also stopped my heart. The doorknob turned. I pushed the door open. Steam poured out, and there he was. Thirty when he saved me. Forty now. Time had carved him—fine lines at the corners of his eyes, a sharper jaw, that permanent five-o’clock shadow. But those eyes. God, those eyes. Mediterranean depths. Surface calm. Undercurrents that could drag you under and drown you underneath. His towel sat low. Water tracked from his collarbone, down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, disappearing into— “Lola.” He pinned me in place with my name. “What are you doing in my room?” “This year I prepared a special gift.” I untied my robe. Silk slid off my shoulders with a whisper. The slip dress left nothing hidden. His gaze moved over me like touch—shoulders to waist to thighs. I watched his throat work. Watched his hand tighten on the towel. “I’m eighteen,” I said, stepping closer. “Not a little girl anymore.”
Close enough to smell him. Mint soap over tobacco and leather — the scent of him that haunted my dreams. I caught his wrist, guided him toward the bed, felt the tension in his muscles. Like a leopard deciding whether to snap his prey’s neck. I fell back onto the mattress, looking up at him. “Lola, I’m your…” “I know who you are,” I said. “The godfather. My father’s best friend. The man who raised me. But remember that summer night, that summer night you saved me? It’s not just my life.” I took his hand. Pressed it to my chest — my heart hammering against his palm. “You didn’t just save my life. You stole my soul. It’s been yours ever since.” His eyes went dark. Dangerous. Then his hand moved— Not to caress me. To the pillow beneath my head. Then the gun barrel pressed under my chin. I didn’t close my eyes. I stuck out my tongue. Licked the metal. His breath hitched. His finger whitened on the trigger. That cross tattoo swam in my vision—the one I’d seen a thousand times over these ten years. The one on the hand that held the pen when I handed him the document; on the hand that supported my waist when I was taught to swim; on the hand that fed me medicine when I had a fever last summer. Now this hand trembled. “I don’t care,” I breathed, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Next summer, I’ll come again. The summer after. Every summer.” I wrapped my lips around the cold steel, staring into his eyes. “Claim me. Or kill me.” Silence crushed us. Outside, waves beat the cliffs like a heartbeat, just like they had ten years ago. Then he threw the gun. The Beretta hit the carpet with a dull thud. His towel fell. In one violent motion, he snatched the bedsheet, wrapped it around me—rough, angry, tucking the edges against my shoulders like he was trying to sew me inside. Hide me from the world. From himself. “Say that again,” his voice rasped, “and you’ll learn what happens when you provoke me.” He killed the lights. Walked out. The door slammed in the dark. I sat on the bed, sheet clutched to my chin, counting my heartbeats. One hundred seven. One hundred eight. One hundred nine— “I won’t give up, Uncle Asher!” I shouted into the darkness, laughing to tears. “Next summer. I’ll be here. Every year! Until you say yes!” Footsteps paused at the stairs’ end. One second. Two. Then faded away. Moonlight spilled through the window, landing on the nightstand. On the battered teddy bear he’d given me ten years ago. Nose chewed bald by me. Ear sewn back three times. I curled around it, buried my face in familiar fur. Couldn’t smell lavender. Couldn’t smell blood. Only smelled myself. Exactly like ten years ago.
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