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KLEAH

THE SCENT OF MELTING wax fills my little shop, warm and comforting like a childhood memory. I inhale deeply, letting the familiar notes of honey and cedar ground me as I work. Some people have coffee to start their day. I have this—the ritual of heating my tools, selecting the perfect wax blend, waiting for that precise moment when everything reaches the ideal temperature.

Too cold and the wax cracks. Too hot and it loses definition.

Like so many things in life, timing is everything.

It's late afternoon, and golden light spills through the windows of Sealed With Love, my little sanctuary in this quiet coastal town. Tourist season won't start for another month, which means these peaceful hours belong just to me and my craft.

I'm working on a commission for a local beekeeper's wedding invitations—an intricate honeybee seal that took weeks to perfect. The beeswax blend I've created for him carries subtle notes of lavender and sea salt, custom-made to reflect the coastal location of his apiary. Each seal will be unique, with tiny variations that make them artisanal rather than mass-produced.

That's what my clients pay for—the knowledge that no one else will ever have exactly what they have. Each seal carries my touch, my breath, my careful attention to the way wax behaves under different conditions.

Some days, I think I understand wax better than I understand people. Wax is predictable in its unpredictability. It tells you what it needs if you pay attention. It doesn't hide its nature or pretend to be something it isn't.

Unlike people who hide behind masks. Who present one face while concealing another.

I've had enough of watchers in my life. My foster father taught me early that eyes can violate as deeply as hands—a lesson I discovered when I found his hidden camera. I still check for lenses in unfamiliar bathrooms, still change with my back to the wall.

It's why I've kept men at a distance, never letting anyone close enough to truly see me, much less touch me. The few dates I've had ended quickly when they realized physical intimacy wasn't on the table.

No, I'm much better with wax than with people.

I'm so focused on pouring the perfect honeybee seal that I don't notice the door open. The little bell should have chimed, but it remains silent. My first clue that someone has entered is a shift in the air, like the atmosphere itself has suddenly grown heavier.

When I look up, my breath catches.

He stands just inside the doorway, so still he might be carved from stone rather than flesh. Tall—impossibly so—with broad shoulders beneath a tailored charcoal suit that speaks of old money and quiet power. His skin is olive-toned, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes...

His eyes are like precious onyx held to sunlight, and they're watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

I've never seen him before. I would remember a face like that.

"Can I help you?" My voice comes out steady, which seems like a miracle.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he moves further into the shop, his gaze sweeping over my displays of handcrafted seals, vintage stationery, and artisan candles. His movements are measured, deliberate—a man who calculates each step before taking it.

Unlike wax, which can be molded and shaped to my will, this man seems hewn from something far more unyielding. Marble, perhaps. Or steel.

"Khlea Martell, yes?" His voice carries the faintest trace of an accent—Mediterranean, maybe Italian. And while his words are framed like a question, we both know it's not. He knows who I am while I have no idea who he is.

I nod, setting down my tools carefully. "That's me. Are you looking for a custom piece?"

Again, that strange pause. It's like he's measuring me, weighing something I can't see.

"I'm looking for you," he says finally.

Something cold slips down my spine. Not fear, exactly. Something else. Something older and more primal—like recognition.

"I don't understand." I wipe my hands on my apron, leaving faint red smudges from the wax I'd been working with. "Do I know you?"

"No." One word, clipped and certain. "But I know you."

I should be reaching for my phone. I should be asking him to leave. Instead, I find myself fascinated by the contradiction of him—the rigid control in his posture against the heat banked in his eyes.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I ask, glancing toward the windows, half-expecting to see friends with cameras. But the street outside is empty, bathed in late afternoon shadows.

He moves closer to my workbench, and I instinctively take a step back. Not because I'm afraid, though maybe I should be. It's because he radiates an energy that's almost overwhelming up close—like standing too near an open flame.

My fingers instinctively curl around the edge of my worktable, seeking the familiar comfort of my tools, my space, my world. Here, I know precisely how much pressure to apply, exactly when to ease back. Here, I am in control.

With this stranger's eyes on me, I feel anything but.

"Your craft is beautiful," he says, picking up one of my finished seals—a compass rose design I'd completed earlier. His fingers, long and strong, handle the delicate piece with surprising gentleness. "You create permanent marks on impermanent things."

The observation is so unexpected that I blink. "That's... poetic."

"It's truth." He sets the seal down exactly where it was. "Do you believe in fate, Kleah Martell?"

"I believe I don't need to answer that question—" I strive hard to regain my footing in this bizarre conversation. "—since I still don't know who you are."

Something that might be amusement flickers across his face—there and gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.

"Gabriele Bronzetti." He offers his name like it should mean something to me. When I show no reaction, that almost-smile touches his lips again. "And I'm afraid we have serious matters to discuss."

"I'm pretty sure we don't." I move around the counter, putting solid wood between us. It's not that he's threatening me—he hasn't made a single menacing move—but something tells me I need all the barriers I can get.

"You received no letter?" he asks, his head tilting slightly. "No warning?"

"Warning about what?"

His eyes narrow, just slightly. Then he reaches inside his jacket—slowly, like he doesn't want to startle me—and removes an envelope. Red wax seals the back, unbroken.

The seal catches my eye immediately. It's not one of mine, but I recognize quality work when I see it. A custom design—something like a family crest with an intricate B at its center. The wax is high quality, deep crimson with flecks of gold, melted to precisely the right temperature for a clean impression.

"This arrived yesterday," he says, placing it on the counter between us. "It concerns you."

I stare at the envelope, then back at him. "I don't understand. Why would someone send you a letter about me? I don't even know you."

"The man who sent this knew both of us." Gabriele's voice softens almost imperceptibly. "He's no longer here to deliver his message himself."

Something about the way he says it—the careful neutrality that doesn't quite mask what sounds like respect, maybe even grief—makes me pause.

"Who?" I ask, but I'm not sure I want the answer.

"Open it," he says instead.

Against my better judgment, I reach for the envelope. The wax seal breaks with a satisfying crack, and I withdraw a single sheet of heavy paper. The handwriting is elegant, precise—not a style I recognize.

As I read, the world seems to tilt on its axis. Blood rushes in my ears. Words jump out at me: *danger...sister...Biancardi...protect...blood.*

I look up at Gabriele, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. "This is insane."

"It's the truth."

"I don't have a brother." My voice sounds distant to my own ears. "My parents died when I was twelve. I grew up with my aunt. There's no—this isn't—"

"Your father wasn't your father," Gabriele says quietly. "And the man who wrote that letter wasn't a liar."

I want to laugh, to tell him this is ridiculous. But the certainty in his face stops me. That, and the way he's looking at me—not with pity or mockery, but with a kind of solemn determination that makes my heart beat faster.

Wax, when it cools, reveals its true nature. The bubbles rise to the surface, imperfections become visible, the essence of what it is can no longer be hidden. I feel like I'm cooling now, hardening into something I don't recognize—a different shape, a different purpose than I ever imagined for myself.

"Who are you?" I ask again, but the question means something different now. "Why would you come here? Why would you care about any of this?"

"I made a promise," he says simply. "And now I'm here to keep it."

I shake my head, feeling like I'm dreaming. "What does that even mean?"

He moves then, closing the distance between us in two long strides. I should back away. I should run. But I find myself frozen as he reaches out, his hand hovering just above my cheek without touching.

"It means," he says, voice dropping to something just above a whisper, "that there are people who will kill for the blood that runs in your veins. And I'm the man who will stop them."

The air between us feels charged, electric with something I can't name. His eyes hold mine, unflinching and impossibly deep.

"You're Kleah Martell," he says. "And you're mine to protect."

The words settle over me like a seal pressed into hot wax—immediate, indelible, marking me as something different than I was moments before.

GAbrIELE

She stands before me, this woman I've come to find, and she is nothing like I expected.

The intelligence photos had shown a pretty woman with a craft business, living a quiet life in a coastal town. But they hadn't captured the grace in her hands as she worked the wax, or the quiet confidence in her movements. They certainly hadn't prepared me for the impact of her eyes—a mesmerizing shade of hazel, one that photos of her don't do justice at all.

I watch her absorb the impossible truth I've brought her, watch her world reshape itself around this new reality. She doesn't collapse, doesn't try to deny what's in front of her beyond the initial shock. Instead, she processes, adapts, meets my gaze directly despite her fear.

Impressive, for a civilian.

"I don't understand," she says, her voice steadier than most would manage under the circumstances. "Why would anyone want to hurt me?"

"Because of who you are. Who your brother was." I keep my voice neutral, factual. "And when he...disappeared, someone had to take over his business interests. But now that your identity has been leaked? It's possible some may think of you as his rightful heir."

She looks at the letter again, her delicate brows drawn together. "I make wax seals for wedding invitations. I'm not exactly crime lord material."

"Intent is irrelevant. Your blood is what matters to famiglia ." I move toward the window, checking the street again out of habit. "The fact that Viktor kept you hidden, protected your identity all these years—it suggests importance. Value. Those who knew him well understand that."

"So what happens now?" Her fingers trace the broken wax seal on the envelope, a craftsman's appreciation evident even in her distress.

"Now I do what I promised your brother I would do." I turn back to her. "I keep you safe."

"How?"

A fair question. One without simple answers.

"First, I stay close. No one makes a move while I'm with you." I glance around her shop, this peaceful haven she's created that will never be the same. "We maintain normal appearances while I assess the immediate threat level. Then we make arrangements for more permanent protection."

Her hands, so steady while working her craft, tremble slightly now. But her chin lifts, a quiet determination in her posture. "And if I refuse? If I decide this is all insanity and ask you to leave?"

"They'll still come for you." No point softening this truth. "Only difference is, you'll face them alone."

She absorbs this, her gaze dropping to her workbench where tools and wax await her return. Her world—small, contained, carefully built—shattering around her through no fault of her own.

"I need time," she says finally. "To think. To process this."

"Time is the one thing in short supply." I step closer, needing her to understand the gravity of her situation. "The fact that I received this warning means others already know about you. Every hour increases the risk."

She looks up at me, a flash of stubborn pride in her eyes. "One day. Give me one day to wrap my head around all of this before you upend my entire life."

I should refuse. Security protocols dictate immediate extraction to a controlled environment. But something in her steady gaze makes me reconsider. Breaking her spirit serves no purpose—and Viktor would expect me to protect more than just her physical body.

"Until tomorrow morning," I concede. "But I stay with you. Where you go, I go."

"Like a shadow."

"Like a shield." I correct her, holding her gaze. "Between you and whatever comes."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, perhaps, at my willingness to compromise. Or maybe at the intensity of my protection. Either way, she nods slowly.

"Fine. But I have clients scheduled all afternoon. I can't just—"

"Maintain normal operations," I agree. "I'll position myself as a business consultant. It explains my presence without raising questions."

She eyes me skeptically. "No one will believe you're interested in wax seals."

"They'll believe I'm interested in you." The words come out more suggestively than intended, and I watch color rise to her cheeks. "Professionally speaking."

The blush deepens, but she recovers quickly. "Right. Well. I should get back to work then."

She returns to her bench, but her earlier focus is gone. Her hands move less confidently, her attention repeatedly drifting to where I stand watching the street. The honeybee seal she attempts twice before setting it aside in frustration.

"I can't work with you staring at me," she says, not looking up.

"I'm not staring at you. I'm surveilling the street."

"Well, your surveillance is very... present."

I suppress a smile. Most people become meek in my presence, especially after learning what I am, what I've done. This woman—this civilian artisan with delicate hands and hazel eyes—speaks to me with unvarnished honesty instead.

Fascinating.

"I'll make myself less obtrusive," I offer, moving to a corner where I can still see both the street and her, but am less directly in her line of sight.

She mumbles a thank you and returns to her work, visibly trying to recapture her earlier concentration. I observe as she selects a different project—something simpler, with clean lines rather than the intricate honeybee design she'd abandoned.

Her movements grow more confident again as she loses herself in the familiar rhythm of her craft. Heat the wax, test the temperature, pour with precise timing, press the seal with just the right pressure. Each step performed with a reverence that speaks of true vocation rather than mere occupation.

I've known artists before—painters, sculptors, musicians. All obsessives in their way, all chasing perfection in their chosen medium. But there's something different about her work—something intimate and tactile, a direct connection between her hands and the material she shapes.

When she finishes the seal, she holds it up to the light, examining it with a critical eye. Only when she's satisfied does she place it on a cooling rack with others of its kind.

The shop bell chimes, startling her slightly. A middle-aged woman enters, smiling broadly.

"Kleah, darling! I was hoping you'd still be open. I need to add another dozen to that order for Melissa's wedding. The guest list keeps expanding, you know how these things go."

I fade further into the background, watching as Kleah transforms—her professional persona taking over, all warm smiles and focused attention. She remembers details about the client's daughter, asks thoughtful questions about the wedding preparations, offers suggestions about color variations that might complement the expanded order.

To all appearances, she's simply a shopkeeper having a normal interaction. Nothing in her demeanor betrays the fact that less than an hour ago, her entire understanding of her identity was shattered.

The customer notices me eventually, curiosity evident in her expression. Before she can ask, Kleah smoothly introduces me as a business consultant exploring expansion opportunities for her custom seal work. I offer a bland smile and a firm handshake, playing the role of corporate interest with just enough charm to be believable.

When the woman leaves, clutching her receipt and promising to return next week, Kleah's professional mask slips. She leans against the counter, exhaling slowly.

"That was harder than it should have been."

"You performed admirably." I mean it as simple fact, but she glances up in surprise, as if unused to direct praise.

"Thanks." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Two more appointments this afternoon, then we're done."

"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

She studies me for a moment, as if trying to reconcile the man who brings news of danger and death with the patient observer willing to wait through her workday.

"You're not what I expected," she says finally.

"What did you expect?"

"Someone..." She gestures vaguely. "Scarier, I guess. More obviously dangerous."

"The most dangerous people rarely look it," I tell her. "That's why they survive."

Something in my tone must reveal more than intended, because her expression shifts to one of curiosity. "How long have you been... whatever you are?"

"A lifetime." I leave it at that.

She accepts the non-answer with a small nod, turning back to her workbench to prepare for her next appointment. The rhythm of her afternoon continues—clients arriving, discussing custom orders, leaving with carefully packaged items or promises of future work.

Throughout it all, I maintain my vigilance, watching the street, scanning each person who enters for potential threats. My phone buzzes periodically with updates from my security team—surveillance patterns on her shop, background checks on her regular clients, preparations for tomorrow's extraction.

By closing time, the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows through the shop windows. Kleah moves methodically through her closing routine—banking the heating elements, securing her tools, counting the day's receipts.

"You've been standing all day," she observes as she locks the register. "You can sit, you know. I do have chairs."

"I prefer to stand."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course you do."

The casual exchange, so normal amid the abnormal circumstances, catches me off guard. There's a directness to her, an unvarnished honesty that's rare in my world of calculated words and veiled meanings.

As she reaches up to draw the blinds, the setting sun illuminates her profile—the graceful line of her neck, the gentle curve of her cheek, the way her hair catches the light like burnished copper. For a moment, she's framed in gold, a tableau of quiet beauty performing a simple, everyday task.

Something shifts in my chest—a recognition of innocence that hasn't been part of my existence for decades. This woman, with her careful hands and her shop full of beautiful, useless things, represents a world I glimpse only from its edges.

And I've come to shatter it.

She finishes closing up, gathering her bag and a light jacket. "I usually walk home. It's only a few blocks."

"We'll walk," I agree, scanning the street through the blinds one final time. "But we won't go to your apartment."

She frowns. "Why not?"

"First place they'll look. We'll go somewhere unexpected for tonight."

Worry creases her brow. "My things—"

"Can be replaced. Your life cannot."

She falls silent, the reality of her situation visibly sinking in once more. Then she squares her shoulders, that quiet resilience asserting itself again.

"Lead the way, then."

We exit through the back door, taking an indirect route through side streets and alleyways. She follows without question, matching her pace to mine, occasionally glancing over her shoulder as if expecting to see pursuit.

"Where are we going?" she asks finally.

"Hotel on the edge of town. Reservation isn't in either of our names."

She absorbs this, walking in silence for several minutes before speaking again. "You knew my brother."

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"Complicated." A complex question with no simple answer. "But famiglia mattered to him, and you are that to Biancardi."

"Even though we never met?"

I guide her around a corner, keeping to shadows. "He kept you hidden to protect you, not because he didn't care."

She considers this, trying to form a picture of a brother she never knew existed. "Did he... did he watch me? Keep tabs on me?"

"As soon as he learned of your existence, yes."

"But he never reached out. Never introduced himself."

"In our world, distance was the greatest gift he could give you." I check the street before we cross. "Anonymity kept you safe."

"Until now."

"Until now," I agree grimly.

We reach the hotel without incident—a modest establishment that won't attract attention. The room is simple but secure, with sight lines to all approaches and multiple exit routes. I've already had it swept for surveillance and stocked with necessities.

She stands in the middle of the room, looking lost amid the generic furnishings. Her world has been reduced to this—a hotel room with a stranger, the life she built left behind.

"Try to rest," I tell her, moving to check the window locks. "Tomorrow will be challenging."

"Where will you be?"

"Here." I gesture to the chair positioned to view both the door and window. "I'll keep watch."

"You need to sleep too," she points out reasonably.

"I'll manage."

She eyes me skeptically, but doesn't argue. Instead, she disappears into the bathroom, the sound of running water following shortly after. When she emerges in the hotel robe, her face scrubbed clean, she looks younger, more vulnerable.

"I keep thinking I'll wake up and this will all have been some bizarre dream," she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "That tomorrow I'll open my shop and everything will be normal again."

"It would be nice if that were true. But it's not." And the sooner she gets her head out of the clouds, the easier it would be for me to keep her alive.

"What's going to happen to me?" she asks, meeting my gaze directly. "Really. No platitudes."

"Your life is going to change. Significantly." I give her the truth she's asked for. "Your safety will require sacrifices, compromises, adaptations."

"But I'll survive."

"Yes." This, at least, I can promise. "You'll survive."

She nods slowly, absorbing this. "Because of you."

"Because that's what I promised your brother."

She studies me, her hazel eyes searchingly direct. "Is that the only reason? A promise to a dead man?"

The question catches me off guard. Is it the only reason? The debt I owe Viktor is real, certainly. But something else has taken root alongside it since I entered her shop and watched her work with such careful precision. Since I witnessed her absorb impossible truths with quiet courage.

"Get some sleep, Kleah," I say instead of answering. "Tomorrow comes early."

She accepts the deflection with a small nod, sliding beneath the covers and turning off the bedside lamp. In the darkness, her breathing gradually slows, deepens, as exhaustion overcomes fear.

I remain in the chair, watching over her sleep, contemplating the path ahead of us. The security measures needed, the contingencies to plan, the life she knew dismantled and reassembled into something unrecognizable but survivable.

She shifts in her sleep, her face catching the faint light from the window. In repose, the worry lines smooth from her brow, and I'm struck again by the innocence she carries—not naivety, but a fundamental decency that's become foreign to my world.

Viktor knew what he was asking when he extracted my promise. Knew that placing her under my protection meant dragging her into shadows she'd never chosen to enter. But he also knew there was no alternative if she was to survive once her identity was revealed.

The letter had been clear: Kleah's safety was the priority. She must be kept alive, no matter the means, no matter the cost.

I study her sleeping form, this woman I've sworn to protect with my life if necessary. This woman whose world I've shattered in the name of preserving it.

Tomorrow I'll tell her what that protection truly entails. The arrangement that will bind her to me in ways she cannot yet imagine. The sacrifice of freedom for security, of normalcy for survival.

She doesn't know it, but her world just melted.