Moonlight s Love

The soft tinkle of a bell announced the entry of a customer, but Luna Marcelli didn't glance up at first. She was reading page three of a dog-eared Wuthering Heights, lost in the stormy moors and Heathcliff's mournful voice. It was a familiar haven, one to which she'd come a great many times. In books, there were ghosts. In life, hers would kill you.

A wind slipped in behind her, rustling the weak aroma of old books and espresso. She at last met his eye and smiled.

"Welcome to Belladonna Bookshop," she said, her voice was calm but sound more friendly. "I'm happy to assist you in finding whatever you need.

The man slowly nodded and walked towards the shelves, silent as a ghost. Luna watched him for a moment, too polished for the regular foot traffic. In black with a tailored coat and shoes that outweighed the cost of her rent each month, he didn't belong in this downtrodden area of town. No one did, not really. That was the point.

Belladonna nestled between a boarded-up bakery and a graffiti-covered apartment building in the old part of town, down a crooked street. It was the sort of building that no one would notice. People walked by without slowing down. That was how Luna liked it. Obscurity protected her. Or had, anyway.

She exhaled and thrust herself back into the book. Her fingers brushed the pages as if in prayer. Her unobtrusive life, so carefully built in the last five years, was based on three commandments: no late evenings, no familiarity with the past, and never, attract attention.

Then the stranger spoke.

"He said, is it true what they say about this place?"

Luna blinked. The man stood behind the counter and his hands was resting on the lightly glass, his voice smoother than she could ever imagine. He had an accent, quiet and expensive. Old money.

"That depends," she said cautiously, setting the book aside. "What do they say?"

"That the daughter of Enzo Marcelli has a bookstore here. That she sells novels during the day and escapes from reality at night."

Blood poured out of her face.

She couldn't answer him. Her heart beating fast against her ribs, a mad rush of fear. She stood, slow, gaze locked on his.

He smiled.

"Still so composed," he said. "Just as your father said you'd be."

Luna's mouth went dry. "You knew my father?"

"Knew him," the man said again, "and owed him more than I wish to speak. But I'm not here for stories, Luna."

He said her name like a challenge.

"I'm here for the debt."

Luna took a step back instinctively. "Please i don't understand what you're talking about. My father is-"

"Dead," he said, cutting her off. "Yes. A shame, really. He was a man of honor. misguided, but loyal."

"Who are you?" she demanded, voice cracking.

The man put his hand into his overcoat. Luna flinched. But he only pulled out a sleek black card and slid it along the counter.

Dante De Luca.

She stared at the name as if it would vanish.

No. No, this was not correct.