Page 45 of Storm and Sea

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.