The Price of Quiet

Peace had a sound.

Vera discovered this on a night when the Bellanti estate was so still it felt unreal.

No distant engines.

No whispered warnings through earpieces.

No footsteps pacing marble floors at odd hours.

Just wind in the olive trees and the steady rhythm of her own breathing.

She sat on the balcony wrapped in a shawl, a glass of untouched wine cooling beside her. The sky above Italy was ink-black and scattered with stars, the kind of quiet beauty she once ...