Page 8 of Storm and Sea (Storm and Sea Saga #1)

M arina took an exaggerated breath, tasting the salt in her lungs. The gulls squawked in the distance, their cries mingling with the gentle toll of bells swaying on old boats. She was home. After a long winter of stuffy corridors and grouchy professors, she was ready to stretch her arms and soak up every last drop of sunshine like a plant starved for light.

She didn’t hate Accademia di San Benedetto for its rigid rules and the enforced ‘straighten your back’ etiquette. Marina hated how far it was from home. And how, even in a bustling city, she was alone. City life had been her mother’s dream, not Marina’s. Gabriella blended effortlessly with the lively crowds and blue-blooded socialites.

Marina never did.

She never had the chance.

It was Gabriella’s dying wish for Marina to finish her education on the mainland. And even though her heart longed for the island, Marina heeded her mother’s last request. Her last words. The last sliver of acknowledgment that Gabriella had a daughter at all. Marina clung to it with all her might.

“My beautiful sunshine.”

During the winters, Marina attended school, honoring her mother’s wish. Even though living in a five-girl dormitory should have meant she was never without company, Marina was an outsider. From the moment her worn leather boots crossed the marble threshold of the dorm, her fate was sealed. She was an island girl from an unheard-of family with no social connections. She didn’t belong among the elite. Her simple clothes and shore-line accent were enough to put off any potential friends, as though her low-class status were contagious.

They didn’t know she had lived in a luxury condo in the heart of Florence, with a view of the Firenze Duomo , the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. They didn’t know she wore simple clothes by choice, while her closet was packed with the finest creations Italian designers had to offer. They didn’t know that the priceless piece of art hanging in the dean’s office had been painted in her childhood living room while she crunched on pane e Nutella and watched cartoons.

They didn’t know… anything. Because all her life, Marina wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. And by the time she could, it was too late.

On the rare occasions her roommates invited her to the city, Marina lagged behind the group, uninterested in the lavish boutiques. She’d met most of the designers featured inside and didn’t think they deserved the attention. When Marina spotted a print of one of her mother’s paintings on a touristy t-shirt, she pointed to it and spoke before thinking,

“My mom had a fever when she painted that one.”

The girl’s high heels clicked to a halt.

“Your mom ?” They burst into a fit of laughter.

“Didn’t you know? Her mom painted that,” another girl said, using air quotes.

“Oh, and I bet it’s her mom’s art in Galleria degli Uffizi .”

“Why yes, of course. Right next to the Michelangelo.”

They snickered again, heels clicking as they walked away. Marina trailed behind with her head hung low, wondering why she bothered coming at all.

Her mom really did have a fever while painting the ornate piece now cheaply printed on a t-shirt. She’d been so sick she could hardly hold the brush. Marina remembered it as if it were only a few days ago. But even if she shared those details, no one would believe her. Because there was no way Marina—with her simple clothes, fishmonger father, and quiet, unremarkable demeanor—was the daughter of the great Sofia Botticelli, the most celebrated painter of the modern era.

Of course, nobody knew that name was fake. That Sofia was Gabriella, and she liked tea over coffee. That she ate two pieces of toast every morning before work and loved to sing while braiding her auburn hair. That she had a daughter… one she’d kept secret from the world.

Marina shook away the memories of winter, centering herself in the sunshine and smell of briny air. Not for a moment was Marina Marcello going to let old hurts dampen her spirits. No sirree. Right now, Accademia di San Benedetto was far away on the mainland, and she was in Baia Vita. Her home .

She breathed in again, shaking off the cold memories.

“The sun is shining, the gulls are singing, and I’m going to have the best day?—”

“Hey, watch it!” A man holding a precarious stack of boxes hollered as she bumped into him, nearly knocking them over.

“Sorry!” she said, tripping out of his way.

He grumbled something as he stomped off.

Where was she? Oh yes.

“The sun is shining, the gulls are doing whatever it is gulls do, and I’m going to have the best day ever!”

She skipped to music only she could hear, red hair swaying in a world all her own. Because that is what Marina did. She smiled. She laughed. She brightened the room.

Her mother’s words echoed in some far-off memory.

“My happy little sunflower.”

City hall’s weathered steps sloped from decades of feet climbing up and down. The Greek Orthodox pillars were purely decorative, as the cracks and warped plaster rendered them incapable of bearing any load. At least, Marina hoped not as she quickly darted beneath them in case they decided to crumble then and there.

Mayor Gianfranchi had a single secretary managing the ever-silent phone and a librarian who wiped the dust off ancient shelves on the upper floors. City Hall also served as Sheriff Fanti’s police station for her and the island’s only two other officers.

And that was it. The entire government of the island. Marina wondered what the mayor actually did besides organizing a few festivals a year.

Marina rang the bell on the desk with a sharp ‘Ding!’ and twirled around, enjoying the mosaic windows before ringing it again.

“I’m coming!” The librarian, Signora Brambani, shuffled over, the beads from her round glasses swaying. “Oh, Marina, you made it safely, I hope? The weather didn’t slow you? ”

Of course, everyone knew she was coming. Papà likely talked of nothing else for months, and it warmed her chest. “No problems at all, Signora Brambani. I’m here because the mayor sent me letters over the winter.”

The old woman waved a dismissive hand. “Do you really think Jeremias Gianfranchi has that kind of penmanship? With his sausage hands? No girl, I wrote the letters; he signed the bottom.”

“Oh, well, the letters said that you needed help?”

“Yes, my dear. Signora Marcialese just had a baby; it wasn’t an easy delivery. She will not be able to organize the Bayallon for the kids this year. With your writing skills, I thought a bright young lady like you could lend us a hand.”

Marina stood straighter. This is how responsible adults stood, right? She had to be grown up about this. If she got too excited, they’d think she wasn’t taking it seriously. She took a steadying breath.

“Yes, yes, yes! Oh my gosh, yes!” she squeaked, clapping as she jumped. “Yes, oh, I’d love to! I already have so many ideas.”

Signora Brambani hesitated, her smile tense. “Yes, well. Thank you for your… enthusiasm. Here is the route the kids will take this year. I trust you know how this goes.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” she said too fast. “I loved the Bayallon when I was a kid. I’ll make it extra special.”

“Regular special is fine.”

“I better get to work—bye!” Marina skipped off before the old woman could change her mind.

Yeah, she blew that. But the papers were in her hands, and that’s all that mattered. She’d be the BEST event organizer the island had ever seen.

Her fondest memories of summers spent on the island were of the Bayallon. Towards the end of World War II, the residents of Baia Vita were given the chance to view the Olympics for the first time. Until then, the island had never seen a television; instead, it got news through radio broadcasts. Recognizing the island’s morale was at an all-time low, the mayor purchased five television sets. He set up the small box screens inside city hall, allowing residents to watch the Olympic events.

The arrival of the revolutionary TV, combined with the thrill of Olympic competition, brought smiles to the island for the first time since the war began. In honor of the island’s favorite sporting event, they started their own tradition.

Children sixteen and under were invited to participate in the Bayallon at the end of every fishing season. With its vibrant festival, lively music, spirited dancing, and mouthwatering food, the Bayallon was Marina’s most cherished event of the year.

And now, she would be a part of it.

Marina hurried down the city hall steps, stumbling on the last one before catching herself with a mumbled “oops” and a light giggle. She skipped toward the town square, humming a cheerful tune.

To have a good race, she needed a lot of racers, so the sooner she began advertising the event, the better.

She was inside Signore Ignasio’s craft supply store, picking up paints and cloth to make banners, when a large group of women jostled in. Marina peered over a shelf to see several older women and perhaps one of their daughters chatting and perusing the shelves.

“I simply cannot go to my appointment in these rags. What do you think of this? It would make a nice skirt,” one woman said, eyeing a plaid pink fabric.

“What are you twenty years old?” another laughed.

“In spirit!”

“That would be more appropriate on your younger daughter.”

The other woman scoffed, turning to her daughter. “What do you think, sweetie? I’m still young enough for this color, right? ”

“Sure, Mom,” but the girl wasn’t looking at the fabric. Her eyes caught sight of Marina, and the rest of the women followed her gaze.

“Little Signora Marcello!”

They scurried over as Marina tried becoming one with the wall. She knew that girl. Her name was Anna, and she despised every breath Marina took. She had espresso eyes and matching straight hair, not unlike most of the girls on the island. And Marina knew them all—it was hard to avoid each other when they had spent every summer on the same small island since she was nine. Except Marina was the only one who left every winter. Marina was the only one to inherit a substantial sum of money. And it was Marina who received a very expensive education on the mainland.

So, in the eyes of all her peers, it was Marina who didn’t belong.

She was privileged .

“So good to see you, dear. What do you have there? Making some summer clothes?”

“Oh no, I’m, uh, putting together a banner. I’m in charge of the Bayallon for the kids this year.”

“Are you now?” the woman tittered. “Well, it is only right that Mayor Gianfranchi put you in charge; such a smart girl.”

Marina smiled, trying her best to ignore the way Anna glared at her, as though she were a grouper Anna wanted to gut and toss overboard.

“I was just here to get some clothes for a new skirt; I have a doctor’s visit later this week. Tell me you’ve heard of him,” she said, likely as an excuse to talk about it.

“I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“Oh, my dear, he is—” she took a moment to catch her breath, “extraordinary.”

“And that’s putting it plainly,” another added. The women chortled. Anna rolled her eyes .

“He opened the hospital at the top of the hill. Dr. Romano is a blessing on this poor island. Set my son’s wrist in no time at all.”

“And my daughter’s new baby had the worst colic, but after seeing the doctor, she is sleeping through the night.”

“He sounds good,” Marina said, still trying not to make eye contact with Anna.

“Oh, he is good. And also good to look at,” she said, then covered her mouth with a giggle as the other women slapped her shoulder.

“Nina, you’re so bad.”

“And I seem to have developed a terrible tightness in my chest,” Nina said, forcing a cough from her mouth. “I have to get it checked.” They tittered again.

“Mom, stop. He’s closer to my age. I’m more likely to date him,” Anna said with an eyeroll.

“Oh, let these old women have some fun,” the mother said with a wave of her hand.

Her gaze fixed on Marina. “You know,” she said, eyeing Marina up and down. “You’re a young, beautiful woman. Why don’t you go speak with him?”

“I… uh….” Marina stammered, heat creeping into her cheeks.

“Yes,” the other woman agreed. “A young lady with your education would be a good match for an intellectual like Dr. Romano.”

Marina’s mouth went dry; Anna glared as if trying to infect her with scurvy.

“Mom, can we go already?” Anna complained.

“Oh, it was good to see you, dear. The Bayallon will be fantastic under your care.”

They exited the store in a gaggle of giggles and loose fabrics. Marina exhaled a shaky breath.

That’s all I need, to take the most eligible bachelor on the island off the market. I’ll be on everyone’s shit list .

Not to mention, educated though she was, a freakin doctor wasn’t going to pay any mind to a daughter of a fishmonger.

But that’s not all I am. I could have ? —

She halted.

Stop it. No more of this.

Marina left this kind of thing behind on the mainland. She shook herself and focused on the fabrics.

“I won’t let Anna or anyone else dampen my spirits. Today’s a good day - because I said so.”

She pasted on a smile and resumed perusing the paints, returning to her nonsensical humming. While paying for the supplies, she struck up a conversation with Signore Ignacio about the best painting techniques.

The conversation was as easy as breathing.

Not only was Marina well-versed in the world of paints and canvases, but she loved old people. Talking to them gave her a boost of joy, like eating a sugary piece of hard candy. She could listen to their stories all day, and that’s how checking out from a craft supplies store turned into a two-hour conversation about late renaissance era watercolor.

Marina shivered, hugging her supplies close as she exited the store, Anna’s glare leaving behind cold, hateful traces. It would have been fine if it were only the older women.

But her peers…

Marina couldn’t shake the anxiety that had festered since she was a child. At school, she was the dumb island commoner, making her an easy victim of pranks and jokes. On the island, she was the privileged girl with an education, showing off her superiority every time she signed her name.

No matter where she went, Marina was as isolated as Baia Vita itself—an island surrounded by old fishing boats.

But you know what? She rather liked the old creaky fishing boats.

The older folks, especially those who were close to her father and grandfather, were always delighted to see her. Nonno’s friends were some of her best friends, always good for a story of the old days. Because of them, she was a fierce chess player and knew Baia Vita’s history better than anyone. She was proud of her home and cherished the traditions passed down from the old-timers. The very lifeblood of Baia Vita ran through their veins, and Marina only hoped that one day she might be as connected to the island’s soul as they were.

Life hadn’t been kind to many of the old crowd, yet they always harbored nothing but kindness for her. And in return, she listened to their stories even though she could recount most of them by heart.

“Aging is a blessing not everyone gets to experience,” they’d tell her while rocking in their chairs. “You do well to take care of yourself, Signora . Surround yourself with good people.”

And Marina had. Did she get lonely for people closer to her age? Sure. But she didn’t need much. Her favorite person under the age of fifty was Atreus. Sure, Marina only had him during the summer months, and he worked long hours. But she’d steal him away before the festival; she was determined.

“Atty, I’m gonna put those steady hands of yours to work,” she said to herself, picturing Atreus’s large hand grasping the small brush. He was a far better artist than her, though he’d never admit it.

She’d ask him to help with the preparations. He’d argue and roll his eyes. She’d beg and say, “Pretty, pretty, please, with sardines on top!” He’d smirk and tell her sardines did not go on cupcakes, but ultimately, he’d agree.

Atreus was always like that—reliable. Every summer since she turned nine, he was there—her rock, her friend. She imagined that if she had a brother, it would feel a lot like him. Marina couldn’t put her finger on it, but she got the feeling that Atreus understood what it was like to be an outcast .

And outcasts stuck together.

Marina squinted as something glinted in the noon sun, forcing her to shield her eyes. Only then could she make out the shiny new hospital building atop the hill, its massive glass front gleaming against the clear sky.

Every time Marina returned to the island, she found another of her favorite shops gone, replaced by a large, soulless chain store. The only welcome addition to Baia Vita was the hospital. She was thrilled when Papà wrote to her explaining that a rich doctor was building on their island. Not that the old-time remedies and midwives weren’t great, but the people desperately needed professional medical care closer than a three-hour boat ride to the mainland.

The hospital’s angular design, with its sharp lines and pointed rooftop, gave it an imposing presence. The front wall, made entirely of glass, reflected the sky, allowing light to flood the atrium. Despite its rapid construction, the building was of the highest quality. It screamed of wealth, and its modern design contrasted wildly with Baia Vita’s terracotta tiles and rustic charm.

Marina thought it was an eyesore but a necessary one. It was the perfect place for the famous Doctor Romano to start his practice and help the island’s people. She’d never seen him before, but if the village women’s gossip was anything to go by, he must be even more impressive than Signore Cicco’s record-breaking 177-pound amberjack.

Marina huffed, turning her head away.

So sorry for you, Dr. Fancy-Pants; this girl doesn’t have a cough.

Marina rounded the corner into the square, just a few blocks from the Sleeping Whale, when a sudden commotion made her stumble. She knocked into a fruit stand, sending oranges tumbling across the cobblestones.

“What is going on?” she asked, bending to help the merchant recover her fruits .

People tossed worried glances toward the local gelato shop, yet nobody moved. Some were quickly packing up their wares, and others were locking doors. The yelling intensified, and when the sound of shattering glass cracked the air, Marina set her things on a bench and ran forward.

“Don’t, Signora !” one of the onlookers called. “It’s Vincenzo.”

“And you think that scares me? Someone has to help,” she hissed, causing the man to drop his head in shame. Marina burst through the gelato shop door, the bell clunking rather than ringing as though it’d been bent.

“You call this gelato? What am I supposed to do with this frozen cow-piss? Huh?” A dominant voice yelled above the chortling of his companions.

“ Spaciente , Signore , this is our freshest batch,” Signore Rossi said, his hand wrapped in a cloth stained with rapidly spreading red.

“Your freshest? So what, prepared last month?”

The groupies laughed again, their grunts empowering their leader’s tirade. The emblem of the family they served—a roaring lion standing on hind legs against a bright purple sash—was emblazoned on their vests.

The Vincenzo family crest.

The leader in question wasn’t the tallest or broadest of them. But he exerted an unquestionable power in the way he stood. The way he talked. All the way down to the small fortune he wore in every stitch in his suit. This man, with his gelled black hair, artistically styled scruff, and piercing blue eyes, was the heir to the Vincenzo Empire. A vicious war-profiteering family that, by the time the war ended, had lined their pockets with enough money to buy the country. They had hands in the government, the economy, and (though nobody spoke of it) the police.

Italy belonged to families like the Vincenzo’s. All with power. All with fortune. All with influence. They were a poison. And now, Baia Vita - desperate from thirst, was drinking from their cup.

Their primary tormentor came from the man who stood before her. Somewhere in his late twenties, but with the presence of someone far older, he played with them like a cat might a limping mouse.

“Please, Signore , I’ll offer a full refund,” the shopkeeper pleaded.

“Do you think I need your coins? Do you think a Vincenzo needs your pennies?”

“N-no, I meant no disrespect-”

“How can you mean no disrespect while serving me this muck?”

“W-what can I do?”

Signore Rossi was almost in tears, and Marina watched in horror as the dark-haired man stood straighter, soaking in his victim’s despair.

“What you can do is get this backwood’s dairy farm out of my square to make room for a real gelato shop.”

He raised his boot and crashed it into the glass display, sending shards of glass into every bucket of flavored cream.

“Alvise!” Marina yelled, shoes crunching on glass as she positioned herself between the two men. Signore Rossi cowered behind the counter, his face gone white as his entire stock of cream was ruined.

The leader of the troupe turned, his expression softening into one of pleased amusement. Alvise Vincenzo regarded her like one might a beloved dog they hadn’t seen in a long while.

“Marina~” He purred her name with a velvet grin. “I worried the storm would delay you.”

“And here, I’d hoped it swallowed you whole.”

Alvise laughed loudly like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in an age. “Oh, how I missed your sharp tongue. Unfortunately, my yachts don’t yield to trivial storms. ”

“Pity.”

His eyes ran up and down her again, more slowly this time. She resisted the urge to cover herself. Marina was curvier than most, with wide hips and a well-endowed chest. But she was never ashamed of it - that was until Alvise looked at her like that.

He ran a tongue over his lower lip, eyes lingering on her bosom for too long. “How I’ve missed you.”

“Get out of here, Alvise. You got your gelato; now beat it.”

“Oh, this?” He gestured to the ruined buckets of colorful cream. “It can’t be considered edible. Why don’t you return with me to my estate in the valley? Yeah? I’ll share some real gelato I’ve had delivered from the mainland.”

“I’d rather drink actual cow-piss.”

He tutted. “So un-lady-like. The women in my circles would never allow such unpretty words to come from their mouths.”

Marina let out a mirthless laugh. “Women? You mean the caged peacocks wearing nothing but diamonds?"

Alvise grinned, showing too many perfect white teeth.

“Oh, they are not caged, my dear. Women line up at my door, hoping to be chosen and added to my—” he searched for the right words, “guest list.”

“More like your collection.”

“And I only collect the most beautiful.”

He took a confident step forward, invading her space. So fast she couldn’t smack his hand away, he grabbed her chin with strong fingers.

“And you, island mutt, can’t hold a candle to even the ugliest of them. Shame these beautiful locks are wasted on a face like yours.”

Marina twisted her head, teeth clamping together as Alvise barely yanked his hand back in time.

He laughed despite nearly losing a finger. “But that’s what I like about you,” he said, straightening his suit. “You have fire. And something in me stirs when you burn. I wonder what kind of blaze you’d make with the right touch.”

“Go to hell,” Marina growled.

“Only with you, my dear. Only with you.” He leaned close enough for her to smell his cologne, which reeked of money. “My offer from last summer still stands. When you and your geriatric family are starving, my estate is always searching for a maid.”

Before she could hit him, he pulled away. Alvise jerked his head, the movement a commandment for this groupies to follow.

“Oh,” Alvise turned to the shop owner, who looked like he was trying not to pass out. “Consider this an eviction notice.” His eyes slid over Marina one final time, “ Arrivederci , my dear.”

The door slammed shut, and the broken bell clattered to the floor.