CHAINED BY FIRE

Cece's POV

The Florence night wrapped the villa's iron gate in a chill that seeped into my bones. My gold-caramel skin prickled under a worn hoodie, my 4C afro tucked beneath, curls escaping like my fading courage. My almond light brown eyes, raw from grief, traced the stone walls, my button nose catching the faint scent of peonies from beyond. At 22, I was unmoored, my mother, Lily, stolen by an overdose a week ago, her body cold in our Birmingham apartment when I found her. Her stories of the Blackwoods, Giovanni, Adrian, a villa of warmth and power had been my refuge through her addiction. Now, clutching Rebecca's address book, my grandmother's keepsake with "Giovanni Blackwood, Florence, Italy" scrawled in faded ink, I'd crossed an ocean on $153 and a prayer, chasing a stranger's name.

My 5'5" frame, petite but curvy, felt small against the gate, my backpack heavy with my sketchbook and Lily's ghost. I'd sold her rings for the ticket, my black belt my shield from Birmingham's gangs and dealers like Marco, who'd fed her poison. Lily's tales painted Giovanni as family, Rebecca's employer, nanny to his son and grandson. But here, my chubby cheeks flushed, my full lips trembling, I was a stranger, innocent and fragile, my soft-spoken heart whispering I might be a fool.

I pressed the bell, its chime sharp, my breath shallow. Footsteps crunched, and the gate opened, revealing a man with silver hair, his eyes sharp but kind, like a grandfather from a dream. His hand hid something, a pistol, I'd later guess, but his voice was gentle. "Sì?"

My voice was a whisper, soft and trembling. "I'm Cece... Cecilia Ifediora. Rebecca's granddaughter. Lily's daughter." I held out the address book, pages worn, my hands shaking. "Lily... she passed. Overdose, a week ago. I found your name. She said you were family."

His eyes widened, grief and doubt flashing. "Lily?" he murmured, then softened, stepping aside. "Come in, cara. Sit in the living room. You need tea." His warmth was a lifeline, but his caution reminded me I was an outsider.

The villa was a dream, marble floors and peony vases, but I felt like an intruder, my sneakers scuffing the rug as I sank onto the sofa. Giovanni returned with chamomile tea, its steam easing my nerves, and sat across, his pistol gone but his eyes searching. "What's your name again, young lady?"

"Cece," I said softly, cradling the mug, my eyes downcast, fragile under his gaze.

"Why are you here?" he asked, kind but firm, cutting to my core.

Tears spilled, my voice breaking, a soft prayer. "Mom overdosed. I found her, and... I have no one. I was packing her things, found Rebecca's address book, your name. Lily talked about you, Adrian, like you were home. I came to... maybe work here, stay. I've got nowhere else." My innocence poured out, my strength buried under grief, my heart bare.

Giovanni's face softened, Rebecca's memory a bridge. "I could use help, Cece. Stay in the guest room. We'll talk tomorrow. Rest now."

I wiped my tears, a faint smile breaking through. "Thank you, Mr. Giovanni." He led me to a room, soft linens and peonies, a haven I didn't deserve. Alone, I opened my sketchbook, tracing Lily's face, my fragile heart clinging to her stories. I was strong, my black belt proved it, but innocent, too soft for this world.

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The next day, lunch was a whirlwind, the table heavy with pasta, roasted vegetables, wine. I sat quietly, my afro loose, my curves hugged by a borrowed dress, my eyes downcast. Giovanni stood, his smile warm but guarded. "Adrian, Alicia, this is Cece Ifediora. Her grandmother, Rebecca, was your nanny, Adrian, your father's. Her mother, Lily, passed recently. Cece's staying, helping at the villa."

Alicia gasped, her curls bouncing, her hand on mine. "Cece, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice kind. "Welcome. It's good to have another female here, I'm sure we'll be best of friends?" Her warmth was a balm, and I nodded, my soft-spoken gratitude barely audible. "Thank you, Alicia. I'd like that."

Adrian, glasses fogging, nodded, his curiosity sharp. I felt a gaze, intense, burning. A man across the table, 6'3", muscular, tan, full-sleeve tattoos snaking up his arms, neck and back glinting under his black shirt. His stormy gray eyes locked on me, sharp jawline shadowed by stubble, his stare smitten, hungry, like I was a secret he needed to unravel. I didn't know his name, his world, only that his gaze made my chubby cheeks flush, my fragil heart racing, unprepared for his fire.

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Later, in the garden, I sought the peonies' calm, my afro swaying, my sketchbook open. Alicia joined me, her pregnancy glowing, her story of survival stirring hope. "You're strong, Cece," she said, squeezing my hand. "This place... it's family, but heavy. Stay close."

I nodded, my soft-spoken gratitude genuine, but a shadow moved. The tattooed man approached, his large frame blocking the sun, his leather-spice scent overwhelming. He offered a glass of lemonade, his gray eyes smitten, searching my fragile soul. "Settling in?" he asked, his voice smooth, a spark in his tone I didn't understand.

I blushed, my voice a whisper. "Trying to." His gaze lingered, tattoos a map of battles, and I felt small, innocent, yet strong enough to meet his eyes. He nodded, a faint smirk playing on his lips, and walked away, leaving me breathless, my body tingling with a spark I refused to name. Alicia hid a grin, her eyes teasing, but I focused on my sketch, the man's gray eyes haunting the page.

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Matteo's POV

She was a goddamn vision, and I was in trouble. Cece Ifediora, 5'5" of gold-caramel curves, her afro a crown, those almond light brown eyes hiding a grief I wanted to erase. I'd watched her at lunch, her full lips barely speaking, her chubby cheeks flushing under my stare. I didn't know her, didn't trust her, Nonno's story about Rebecca and Lily was too convenient, but fuck, I was smitten, my blood roaring the moment she walked in. Her fragility, her innocence, it called to me, a fire I hadn't felt in years.

In the garden, I'd played it cool, offering lemonade, asking if she was settling in, but her soft whisper, "Trying to" hit me like a shot. She was strong, I saw it in her defiance, but fragile, too, a flower in a storm. My childhood, my empire, the war with my cousin, they'd hardened me, but Cece? She was a crack in my armor. I walked away, my smirk hiding the need to claim her, protect her, know her. Nonno's villa was my battlefield, but Cece was a war I didn't expect, one I'd fight to win.