Forbidden Knots (Shadow Duet #1)

1. ONE

ONE

Storm

I t's been twenty-three minutes and three seconds since I arrived at my grandmother's house in the small Italian town of La Maddalena . The houses here are so close together that you can hear neighbors breathing through the walls, and the balconies are so tiny that they can barely accommodate two people.

The facades of the houses are painted in various colors, and the one I'll be spending the whole summer in is pink.

Inside, the small kitchen with its light blue counters and beige stone tiles was filled with the smell of sardines and rosemary as Grandma prepared lunch. The living room featured two brown sofas adorned with lace at the top, accompanied by soft blankets, and the closets had see-through glass doors displaying porcelain dishes decorated with drawings of lemons and blue flowers. In the middle of it all stood an old TV that seemed to belong to another era, still broadcasting in black and white.

As I entered, Grandma rushed towards me with outstretched arms. She wore a blue denim jumpsuit with a red apron dotted with white spots. Her dark brown hair, streaked with gray, was tied in a bun, and golden ring earrings barely clung to her ears. She smelled of fish and lemon as she enveloped me in a tight hug, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

" Bambina , how are you?" she exclaimed, pulling me away momentarily before pulling me in for another hug that left me breathless.

"Look at you, is there any meat on those bones?" she asked in her thick Italian accent with a chuckle, to which I responded with a wry smile.

"I can see that," I replied with a smile, my eyes crinkling at the corners as I chuckled softly. "Mom warned me you might say that."

She pulled me aside, leading me into the kitchen, and whispered as though afraid of being overheard, "How is it at home?" Her voice was barely audible, her eyes wide with concern, and her hand on my shoulder conveyed genuine worry.

Taking the nearest chair, I sat down and placed my suitcase on the floor. Holding her hand in mine, I confided, "Mom lost it when she found out about Dad, and ever since she ended up in the hospital, she hasn't been the same," my voice cracked, "they sent me here like an old rug just because they didn't want me to witness their separation."

" Bambina ," her eyes welled up with tears as she pulled me close, "your mother hasn't always been at her best, but she's always wanted the best for you."

"It's just difficult sometimes," I sighed heavily, "but that's life."

" Bambina, L'amore è un viaggio non una destinazione ," she said, placing her palm against my cheek, and I leaned into it.

It had been so long since I felt someone's touch, someone who cared. Mom always pushed me away, and Dad was never there. Grandma's touch made my heart race, my cheek flush, and a tear gather in my eye.

I longed for someone to love me .

"What does it mean? What you said?" I asked, wiping away my tears.

"It's something I told your mom when she left for Chicago, that love is a journey, not a destination," she explained. "When she was sixteen, she ran away because she was in love, and she regretted it so much that she ended up hospitalized for the next six months, and she did it again."

She sighed deeply, her breath escaping in a heavy exhale. "She made a lot of foolish choices for love, but you were never one of those foolish choices, and she sent you here because she didn't want you to see how much she's struggling, just as she didn't want me to see back then."

" Bambina , sometimes people need to suffer alone, and sometimes we have to let them," Grandma said gently, her hands wiping away the tears streaming down my cheeks. As I stood up, she placed her palm on my back, guiding me to the bedroom.

The bedroom was small, with just one bed and a closet. The dark oak wooden bed frame was snug against the snow-white wall, and the view from the window overlooked the solitary house at the end of the street and the bay beyond.

It lacked a balcony, which some might have disliked, but for me, it was perfect. I craved silence and solitude, and this room, though compact like a matchbox, offered just that.

"It's small, but it's your mom's old room. I hoped you would like it," Grandma said.

"I love it," I replied through tears as I let my suitcase drop near the bed.

Approaching me, Grandma kissed my forehead and whispered, "Don't cry, bambina . Everything will be okay."

I nodded and turned away, hearing the door close as I sank onto the crisp white sheets of the bed.

Life had been testing me lately, and my dark thoughts were just the beginning of the storm that life had prepared for me. I knew I had to navigate through that storm and my flight wouldn't be smooth, but I had to land on solid ground.

For me.

Glancing down, I opened my suitcase, intending to change into something more suitable for summer. The rising temperature had already caused sweat drops on my face. I peeled off my purple hoodie and denim shorts, leaving them in a heap in the corner near the closet. Not even considering if anyone could see me through the window, I walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

The water cascaded over my skin, sending shivers down my spine and causing my hair to curl from the humidity.

Each stroke of shampoo felt harsh against my skin as the water remained cold, but I persevered, knowing that a refreshing wake-up shower was needed. After I finished, I took the neatly folded green towel Grandma had left on the washer and draped it around my body before returning to the bedroom.

As I approached the window, my gaze fell upon the white house across from us. Its stone facade was flanked by balconies adorned with two large pots of Oleander flowers .

I had always marveled at how such a beautiful flower could be so poisonous, yet it thrived throughout the town. Despite knowing its dangers, I still found myself drawn to it, perhaps even considering it my favorite flower , though I had nothing else to hold dear.

Growing up, I had everything a child could want. My parents bought me whatever I desired, but they were so absorbed in their own lives that they often forgot about me. Despite having so much, there was nothing I cherished enough to call my favorite.

Except for the Oleander flower.

I kept it close to my heart, perhaps because of the childhood accident when my mom took me to the beach for the first time here in La Maddalena , and I got accidentally poisoned by it. Luckily, there were no major consequences, but I vividly remember her stern warning that it was forbidden. Forbidden to touch, to hold, even to look at.

Maybe that's why I developed such a fondness for that flower; it was the one thing that was off-limits to me.

Lost in thoughts of the forbidden bloom, I noticed my neighbor. His back was turned towards me, oblivious to my presence. His broad back tapered down to a slender waist, clad in snug black jeans that accentuated his firm ass. Even without seeing his face, a shiver ran down my spine, and I found myself biting my lip involuntarily.

As he turned to the side, I caught a glimpse of his muscles and defined chest as he pulled a black shirt over his head, and then stepped out onto the balcony. My heart raced as he glanced in my direction, prompting me to quickly hide behind the wall, clad in nothing but a towel.

I peeked cautiously, my heart pounding in my chest. He smiled, sending my pulse into overdrive. I let out a sigh before daring to steal another glance, this time at his face.

He stood on the balcony, gazing out at the bay while smoking a cigarette. His dark brown hair, slightly curly at the top, was styled with a few strands falling across his forehead. A well-defined jawline framed by a beard, no more than a few days old, added to his rugged charm.

As he flicked the cigarette off the balcony and retreated inside, I noticed a woman embracing him before they disappeared into the bedroom.

With relief, I retreated from view and settled back onto the bed. Ensuring he hadn't seen me, I retrieved my Birkenstocks from my suitcase, preparing myself for a day at the beach.

I decided to wear my white dress, lovingly crafted by Grandma long ago, its lace detailing still intact.

Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, my skin pale and eager for some sun-kissed warmth, I braided my hair into a loose, single braid.

Stepping out of the bedroom, I found Grandma holding a glass of red wine and an old photo album, tears streaming down her face.

"She used to be so happy," she sniffed, her hand trembling as she caressed a photograph of my mom in her childhood.

Wordlessly, I sat beside her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Though I couldn't find the right words to console her, she seemed to understand that my presence was enough. Leaning her head against my shoulder, she wept, her tears leaving damp trails on my skin. But I didn't mind. I just wanted her to know that even though Mom hadn't always been happy, there had been moments of joy for her.

For all of us.