Alessandra's POV

The sun was dropping like a slow, golden sigh, spilling its last light across the ocean behind the Tesoriero Mansion.

I stood on my balcony, staring at the waves like they owed me money. They kept rising, crashing, and retreating — dramatic, noisy, and somehow still better behaved than half my family.

The sound of them hitting the shore — loud but strangely gentle — reached all the way to my room, calming the chaos running inside my head.

“Perfect,” I whispered to myself.

Just me… the ocean… and nature therapy for the girl who’s about to break family peace… again.

unofficially...

I’m just a tired 17-year-old girl standing on a balcony, watching the sea, and wondering how her life turned into a cross-cultural lemon soda.

Born in Sicily, raised in chaos, fluent in sarcasm, and apparently the next big gossip topic at every family gathering.

Lucky me.

“Miss Alessandra?”

I blinked, turning toward Teresa, one of our helpers.

“Sì?” I answered, because once you live in Sicily long enough, Italian becomes your emotional support language.

“Maestro vi sta chiamando in salone.

(Your grandfather is calling you in the hall.)”

Of course he is.

A Tesoriero gathering is considered “normal”… but not for me. For me, it’s like entering a battlefield where the generals judge your existence.

I opened my mouth to answer her — but my phone rang first.

PA ❤️ flashed on the screen.

Great.

The universe really said, “Nope, you’re not escaping this conversation today.”

I quickly signed to Teresa with my hand — a tiny wave + “go” gesture.

She nodded and left.

“Hello, Pa,” I said softly, trying to sound normal.

“Tumne apne grandparents ko bata diya ki tum India aa rahi ho?”

His voice, as usual, straight to the point. No warming up, no hi, nothing. Classic Tesoriero-Joshi parenting.

“I told them… but they denied.”

I sighed, the memory of Nonno’s expression hitting me like a truck. The way his whole demeanour changed when I mentioned my father calling me back to India…

Yeah. I'd rather wrestle a shark.

“Mmmm. Theek hai, unhe dobara inform kar do. Aur agar iss baar bhi unhone kuch kaha na, call kar dena—usi waqt.”

I nodded automatically like he could see me.

Stupid. He wasn’t even on video call.

“Yes, Pa,” I breathed out.

“Accha, bye.”

The call ended before I could even respond.

Typical.

I stared at my screen, mentally preparing myself for the disaster that was waiting downstairs.

This was going to be a mess — a huge, royal, dramatic mess.

And I knew exactly who would be crushed between all of them.

Me.

God, help your child, please.

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The moment I stepped out of my room, the noise from the hall hit me — laughter, clinking glasses, people talking way too loudly about things nobody actually cares about.

Royal gatherings were basically a social jungle.

I slowly started descending the marble staircase, —basically tip-toeing like a thief in my own house. . If I could just reach the corner, maybe Nonno wouldn’t—

Nope.

His eyes snapped up immediately, sharp and warning, like he had a sixth sense for me specifically.

Great. Caught.

I straightened my back and walked down like a good little heir who definitely wasn’t trying to escape.

I froze halfway down the stairs like a criminal caught mid-escape.

“Bellaaaaa! Finally decided to join the living?”

Riccardo's mocking voice floated up before I even touched the last step.

I swear, that boy was born to irritate me.

I shot him a look.

He grinned even wider.

Clown.

I walked into the hall, keeping my head down, dodging relatives like landmines. We eventually reached the dinner table — long, fancy, and way too dramatic for a family meal.

I slid into my seat at the dinner table, hoping everyone would mind their own business.

They didn’t.

On the giant screen at the front, some prince from—honestly I don’t know, and who even cares? —was attempting some cultural performance. Sword? Stick? Ribbon? I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, he looked like he was fighting invisible demons.

And then he slipped.

BRO.

Everyone turned.

The way he fell—nah, it was over for me.

A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.

A full-on snort.

The entire table went silent.

Nonno slowly turned his head toward me with the “behave” stare he had perfected over 70 years of existence.

I tried to hold it in. Really.

But the memory of that prince’s dramatic fall replayed in my brain like a meme.

“Sorry…” I whispered, eyes on my plate, shoulders shaking.

Dinner dragged on until I finally gathered the courage to speak.

“Nonno… Pa called today.”

His fork froze mid-air.

“He wants me to come back to India.”

A beat of silence.

Then his voice, cold and final:

“No.”

Expected reaction from him.

“Basta. Lasciala parlari.

(Enough. Let her finish.)”

Her voice was soft — the kind that didn’t need to shout, because respect already followed it.

And yet, after a small pause, she added quietly:

“Scusami… nun vuliva interrompiri.

(M’ sorry… I didn’t mean to interrupt.)”

She looked at Nonno, then at me.

“Ma… a so’ matri mi chiamò stamattina.

Idda voli a figghia so’ cu idda.

(But… her mother called me this morning. She wants her daughter back.)”

That gentle tone carried guilt, love, and a little fear —

like she knew the moment her words ended, the storm in the room would start again.

My chest tightened as I met Nonno’s eyes.

“I want to go,” I said softly but firmly. “Back to Pa. Back to Mamma.”

Nonno’s expression hardened instantly.

“This family—”

“I know,” I cut in gently. “But they’re my family too.”

Silence settled over the table like fog. Heavy. Sticky. Uncomfortable.

Then the mosquito in human form had to open his mouth only to let out shit.

Riccardo scoffed. “Why would anyone want to go to India? It’s—”

“Finish that sentence,” I warned him quietly, “and you’ll eat soup with broken teeth.”

He shut up. Good choice.

And that was it.

The decision was made.

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My room was finally quiet.

Suitcase open.

Clothes neatly folded.

Me humming a soft tune while packing like this was a vacation and not a whole family rebellion.

For the first time tonight, I actually felt… peaceful.

Until the door opened without knocking.

I turned my head, already annoyed.

“E picchì si ccà?”

(And why are you here?)

My cousin, Riccardo. leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place.

“Vogghiu stari un pocu cu tia…”

(I want to spend a little time with you…)

I blinked.

Weird. Suspicious. Unnatural.

Before I could ask what was wrong with him, he continued dramatically

“Chi sacciu… e se l’aeroplanu cadì?”

(Who knows… what if the plane crashes?)

I stopped packing.

“Ma si scemu?”

(Are you stupid?)

He shrugged, walking inside and sitting on my bed like this was a therapy session I did NOT sign up for.

“Parru seriamenti… potresti muriri.”

(I’m serious… you could die.)

“What is wrong with you?” I muttered, throwing a shirt into the suitcase harder than necessary.

He stayed silent for a moment, then added

“Stai partennu… e magari… mi mancherai un pocu.”

(You’re leaving… and maybe… I’ll miss you a little.)

I froze.

That was…

Weird.

Way too sincere.

Uncomfortable.

“‘Nzumma.” he corrected quickly.

(I mean… kind of.)

I rolled my eyes and sat on the chair.

He looked around the room like he was memorizing it, then sighed dramatically.

“Ancora nun mi cunfunnu… ma è stranu senza di tia.”

(Don’t get me wrong… but it’ll be strange without you.)

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

The silence between us grew so awkward it could’ve formed its own country.

I cleared my throat.

“Allura… puoi ghiri ora?”

(So… can you leave now?)

He stood up slowly, nodding like he was leaving a funeral.

“…Get out, Riccardo.”

“Fine,” he huffed, “but if you die, I want your sneaker collection.”

“OUT.”

He rushed out before I threw something at him.

As soon as the door shut, I let out a long sigh.

Peaceful packing: ruined.

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The study room smelled like old books, cigars, and the kind of secrets that never die.

A single lamp glowed on Nonno’s desk, throwing shadows across the carved wooden shelves.

Her cousin stepped inside when Nonno said, “Entra.”

(Come in.)

The door shut behind him with a soft thunk.

“Nonnu… mi chiamasti?”

(Grandfather… you called me?)

Nonno didn’t look up at first. He adjusted his glasses, closed a file, and finally lifted his eyes — sharp, calculating.

“Alessandra parte dumani.”

(Alessandra leaves tomorrow.)

Her cousin nodded quietly. “Sì.”

(Yes.)

Nonno leaned back in the leather chair.

“Ascolta… chistu è ’mpurtanti.”

(Listen… this is important.)

“Quannu arriva in India… vogghiu ca qualchedunu di i toi uomini la segue.”

(When she reaches India… I want your men to follow her.)

Her cousin froze for a second.

“My men? In India?”

“Sì.” Nonno’s voice went cold. “Tu hai omi fidati. Manda du’ o tri... muti, svegli, ca sannu comu sparisci tra a genti.”

(Yes. You have loyal men. Send two or three… silent, sharp, who know how to disappear among people.)

“So devono proteggerla?”

(Should they protect her?)

“No.” His tone dropped. “Devono osservarla. Capiri cu parra, cu la cerca, cu prova avvicinàrisi.”

(No. They must observe her. Understand who she talks to, who looks for her, who tries to get close.)

Her cousin inhaled deeply.

“E si succedi quarchi cosa?”

(And if something happens?)

Nonno leaned forward, voice low and serious:

“Prima mi chiami. Subitu. Nun fai nenti senza dirimi.”

(You call me first. Immediately. You do nothing without telling me.)

Then his gaze hardened, a warning wrapped in calm:

“E si sbagli… si mandi l’omu sbagliatu… o si nun mi dai rapporti precisi…”

(And if you mess up… if you send the wrong man… or if you don’t give me precise reports…)

He tapped his desk once.

A soft sound, but heavy as hell.

“Si ti scappa puru un dettagghiu… unu sulu… giuro ca a prossima visita ca fazzu, nun è pi manciari pasta cu tia.”

( even one detail slips past you… just one… I swear my next visit won’t be to eat pasta with you.)

Her cousin stiffened.

“Capitu, Nonnu. Manderò i megghiu.”

(Understood, Grandfather. I’ll send the best.)

“Bonu.”

(Good.)

Nonno waved him toward the door.

“Vai ora. Hai assai chiamati da fari.”

(Go now. You have many calls to make.)

Her cousin slipped out, already pulling his phone from his pocket, already switching into operational mode.

Nonno remained alone in the quiet study, staring at Alessandra’s childhood photo on the shelf.

“Figghia mia… speru ca u munnu è cchiù gentili di mia.”

(My child… I hope the world is kinder than I am.)

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The night air was warm, salty, and annoyingly peaceful for someone whose life just flipped like a coin.

I leaned against the balcony railing, the ocean stretching out like a giant black sheet sprinkled with moonlight. The waves were doing their usual shhh… shhh… like they were trying to calm me.

Nice try.

All I could hear was their voices.

Nonno’s deep, controlled tone.

My cousin’s tense replies.

I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

I was literally on my way to steal a scoop of pistachio gelato from the freezer — minding my own sweet-toothed business — when their voices leaked out of the study room.

And like an idiot, I stopped.

Curiosity kills cats… and apparently Sicilian daughters too.

“Quannu arriva in India… vogghiu ca qualchedunu di i toi uomini la segue.”

(When she reaches India… I want your men to follow her.)

My heart had dropped right into my stomach.

Follow me?

In India?

Seriously?

I gripped the railing tighter now, remembering the shock, the sting, the absolute “WTF” moment.

I closed my eyes.

Nonno’s voice replayed again, colder this time:

“Devono osservarla… capire cu prova avvicinarisi.”

(They must observe her… understand who tries to get close.)

So that’s it.

I wasn’t going to Mumbai as “Alessandra Tesoriero.”

I was going as the girl with shadows.

Behind me.

Around me.

Watching me.

I let out a small, humorless laugh.

“And I didn’t even leave Sicily yet,” I muttered.

My cousin’s face flashed in my memory — the way he had gone stiff, tense, scared to breathe wrong. He didn’t even want this job.

And me?

I didn’t want this protection.

This leash.

This invisible chain.

The wind blew, lifting my hair, brushing against my neck like a warning.

Or maybe a reminder.

In Sicily, I was Alessandra Tesoriero — granddaughter of a man who moved Italy like chess pieces.

I sighed and leaned further over the balcony, staring at the waves crashing hard against the rocks.

“I just wanted ice cream,” I whispered. “Not… surveillance.”

The ocean didn’t answer, but honestly?

It felt like it was laughing at me.

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Hey GUYSSSS...

So Chapter 1 is officially DONE (yaaay me 😌✨).

Just letting y’all know — I’ll be updating regularly for the next 18 days, because this story has taken over my brain like a full-time job 💀❤️

Alsoooo… there are gonna be 40+ characters in this book (yes, I’m insane),

so I’ll drop a full character list super soon so nobody gets lost in the chaos 😭💫

If you enjoyed the chapter even a little bit, pls don’t forget to:

✧ Like ★彡

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Your love literally keeps this story alive and my motivation hydrated 😭💞

Stay tuned, stay dramatic, stay chaotic.

— Author out. ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎♡