Dominic Valente had spent a lifetime commanding fear and respect in equal measure. His name had once held the weight of an empire, but now, it was nothing more than a whisper lost to the wind. The world knew him as The Hawk, but that man no longer existed. He had buried him along with the empire he had left behind.
Now, he was Antonio Leoni, an unremarkable businessman who had chosen the quiet solitude of a small village in the south of France over the chaos he had once ruled. For the first time in his life, Dominic was truly alone.
A Life in Hiding
Dominic arrived in Saint-Pierre-sur-Mer portraying himself as a wealthy yet introverted investor who had gained his wealth in renewable energy and sought a serene place to call home. His documentation was flawless, his background carefully constructed, and the villagers had no cause to doubt him. To them, he was simply Antonio Leoni, a newcomer aiming for a new beginning.
He bought a simple but charming stone house on the village's outskirts, nestled among olive trees and fields of lavender. The location offered enough seclusion for privacy while still being close enough to the village to avoid arousing suspicion. His mornings were spent strolling along the narrow streets, nodding to shopkeepers, and acclimating himself to a world that felt vastly different from the one he had departed.
For someone who had spent years making choices with life-or-death stakes, the tranquility of Saint-Pierre-sur-Mer was disorienting. There were no deals to negotiate, no betrayals to foresee, no adversaries lurking nearby. He didn't have to glance back every second anymore.
However, peace did not equate to belonging.
The locals were courteous yet reserved. They regarded him with the same cautious curiosity reserved for any outsider. He became the enigma amongst them, the man who seemed to appear out of nowhere with no discernible past. Despite his skillful portrayal of Antonio Leoni, he felt the burden of their silent observations.
Yet one individual, in particular, observed him more intently than the rest.
Her name was Isabella Antenno.
An Unexpected Encounter
The first time Dominic laid eyes on Isabella was during a community event in the village square. Although he hadn't intended to participate, avoiding social engagement altogether would have raised more eyebrows. It was a warm summer evening, filled with the aromas of roasted herbs and the joyful laughter of children reverberating off the stone facades. The villagers had gathered for a festival honoring local art and culture, a long-standing tradition.
Positioned at the edge of the crowd, Dominic watched. He excelled at observing without being observed, listening without being detected. A lifetime spent reading people allowed him to grasp their intentions before they understood his.
And then he noticed her.
Isabella was near an easel, brush in hand, her brow knitted in concentration as she painted. The scene she depicted—a portrayal of the village square aglow with lanterns—was straightforward, but the way she moved, thoughtfully marking the canvas with deliberate strokes, captivated Dominic.
She possessed a natural beauty; her dark hair cascaded in loose curls around her face, her olive skin radiated warmth from the sun, and her eyes sparkled with an enigmatic quality he couldn't fully comprehend. Yet it wasn't solely her physical appeal that fascinated him. There was an underlying intensity, a depth that echoed something he had lost.
Isabella must have sensed his gaze because she looked up, their eyes locking across the square.For a brief moment, they simply regarded one another.
Dominic anticipated her to look away, to dismiss him as just another passerby. Instead, she scrutinized him with a curious intensity, as if trying to understand his presence there.
Finally, she spoke.
"You don't belong here."
The statement was straightforward, lacking any veneer of politeness or affectation.
Dominic arched an eyebrow, a slight grin tugging at his lips. He hadn't expected such candor.
"No," he conceded, sipping his wine slowly. "I suppose I don't."
Isabella tilted her head. "Yet you're here."
Dominic shrugged. "Everyone seeks a fresh start."
She considered this for a moment, then nodded toward his glass. "You're drinking local wine. Either you're trying a bit too hard to fit in, or you genuinely enjoy it."
Dominic laughed lightly, setting his glass down. "I've realized that some things deserve to be appreciated for what they are."
Isabella studied him for another moment before returning her focus to her painting. "Well, let's hope you don't ruin it."
Dominic couldn't tell if she was referring to the wine, the village, or possibly herself.
After that evening, Dominic found himself crossing paths with Isabella more frequently. It wasn't deliberate—at least that's what he convinced himself. The village was small, making accidental encounters inevitable. She operated out of a quaint art studio near the main square, selling her artwork to tourists and collectors. While she was well-liked, she seemed to maintain her distance much like he did.
Their exchanges remained brief but charged with an unspoken tension.
"You don't say much," she remarked one afternoon when they ran into each other at a café.
"I speak when there's something worth saying," Dominic replied.
Isabella smirked. "That sounds like something someone with secrets would say."
Dominic met her gaze without flinching. "Everyone holds secrets."
She examined him, as if trying to peel back the layers he had painstakingly built. But she refrained from probing further. Instead, she simply nodded and took a sip of her coffee.
It was a peculiar dynamic—cautious yet intriguing.
Dominic had devoted his life to understanding people, but Isabella was not easily decipherable. She didn't act fearful of him, nor did she seem particularly keen on winning him over. She merely observed, as if assessing whether he was worth knowing.
That, more than anything else, made him eager to discover more about her.
A Moment of Vulnerability
One evening, he strolled past her studio and noticed the door ajar. The sky had darkened, the village lay quiet, and yet she was still inside, surrounded by half-finished canvases and the distinct scent of drying paint.
Without fully comprehending why, he stepped through the threshold.
Upon seeing him, she looked up, surprised but not displeased.
"You work late," he said.
She gestured to the incomplete painting before her. "Some creations require time."
Dominic approached, examining the canvas. It was yet another depiction of the village, but this time, something set it apart. The sky above bore subtle shades of darkness, hinting at something unseen lurking just beyond the picture frame.
"It's beautiful," he remarked, his voice softer than he had intended.
Isabella glanced at him before returning her focus to the artwork. "Beauty is complex."
Dominic nodded, comprehending more than she could fathom.
For a fleeting moment, silence enveloped them; it was a comfortable silence shared between two individuals who recognized loneliness without needing to fill the void with words.
Eventually, Isabella turned to him, her expression unreadable.
"Whatever you're escaping from, Antonio," she said quietly, "I hope you find what you seek."
Dominic met her gaze but held his tongue.
The truth was, he wasn't entirely sure of what he was searching for anymore.
Yet for the first time in years, he sensed that perhaps—just perhaps—he had found the space to begin unraveling it.
The days in Saint-Pierre-sur-Mer merged into a unique experience that Dominic Valente had never known before. There were no meetings held in dim rooms, no quiet phone calls filled with concealed threats, and no pressing messages demanding his immediate response. For the first time in many years, his time genuinely belonged to him. He had never allowed himself to contemplate the simplicity of village life until now.
Mornings unfolded slowly and serenely—a leisurely stroll to the local bakery for fresh bread, sipping coffee in the small café by the square, exchanging brief nods with shopkeepers who still regarded him with cautious politeness. In the afternoons, he would often wander through the vineyards, allowing the warm sun to kiss his skin, observing farmers tending their crops with a patience and diligence he had never appreciated in his former life.
It should have felt like paradise.
Yet, Dominic had never learned to exist without conflict.
The stillness of Saint-Pierre-sur-Mer was both stifling and liberating. His whole life had revolved around anticipating the next move, controlling the pieces on the chessboard, ensuring that he remained the predator rather than the prey. Here, there was no game to engage in, no strategy to follow. Just the endless, serene rhythm of life—a rhythm he doubted he could ever truly join.
Most evenings, he would relax on his terrace, a glass of wine in hand, gazing at the rolling hills that stretched endlessly across the horizon. The silence felt alien to him. In Vienna, nights buzzed with the city's energy, the distant rumble of cars, and the low whispers of men scheming in the shadows. But here, only the wind rustled through the olive trees, the occasional chirp of crickets, and the distant chimes from the village church marking the passing hours filled the air.
There was something disturbing about it.
As if he were waiting for something to unfold.
The War Inside His Mind
Dominic had always taken pride in his control—over his feelings, his choices, and the empire he had painstakingly constructed. But in the tranquil solitude of the village, he began to see that some battles could not be won through strategy alone.
His mind was far from calm.
The past clung to him tightly.
It started subtly—unsought memories flashing before him, snippets from his old life interrupting the peace he desperately sought.
One evening, as he sat outside a café, sipping his espresso, he noticed a man approaching. His build, the sharp cut of his suit, the confident gait—it struck Dominic as eerily reminiscent of the men he once commanded. For a brief moment, his body reacted before his mind caught up—his muscles tightened, and his hand instinctively reached toward the hidden knife he no longer carried.
The man walked past without a single glance.
Dominic let out a slow breath, relaxing his fists.
This wasn't Palermo. There were no enemies here. No threats. No reason to stay alert.
Yet, he couldn't shake the urge to remain vigilant.
It occurred more frequently than he wished to admit. A car backfiring sent his heart racing before he reminded himself it wasn't gunfire. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision sparked adrenaline coursing through his veins, only for him to realize it was merely a child chasing after a ball.
It was draining.
No matter how far he had come, his past lingered within him, lying in wait.
The Headaches Begin
The first headache struck one morning as he strolled through the marketplace, surrounded by the soft chatter of vendors and villagers negotiating over fresh goods.
It began as a dull ache at the base of his skull, a pressure he initially brushed aside, attributing it to the day's heat. Yet within moments, the pain escalated, becoming sharp and relentless, throbbing behind his eyes as if something were clawing its way out of his head.
The noise surrounding him grew unbearable—voices reverberating and overlapping into a cacophony. His vision blurred for an instant, and a strange, dizzying sensation enveloped him, making the ground feel as though it had tilted slightly.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, taking a deep breath to regain focus.
It's nothing, he assured himself. Just stress.
He had endured worse. He had survived gunshot wounds, brutal fights, and near-death experiences. A headache was insignificant.
By the time he got home, the pain had lessened, but an unsettling thought remained.
What if it wasn't just nothing?
A Battle He Couldn't Control
In the following weeks, the headaches grew more frequent.
They struck without warning, ambushing him in the midst of the day, leaving him disoriented and gasping for breath. Sometimes they lasted only a few minutes, while other times they extended into long hours, forcing him to retreat into the solitude of his home until the pain receded.
He reassured himself it was simply an adjustment—the strain of leaving behind everything familiar, of trying to adapt to a world that didn't feel like his own. His body was reacting to the sudden tranquility, to the lack of the constant pressure that had once kept him sharp, alert, and alive.
Yet deep down, Dominic knew his body better than that.
This was more than mere stress.
Something was amiss.
Isabella Notices the Cracks
One evening, while sitting by the waterfront watching the gentle waves lap against the shore, Isabella Antenno appeared beside him.
She didn't say anything at first, just stood quietly, gazing at the horizon. Then, after a moment, she sat down beside him, absentmindedly tracing patterns in the sand with her fingers.
"You don't belong here," she said, her voice soft yet resolute.
Dominic smirked slightly. "We've talked about this."
Isabella turned to face him, her dark eyes intense with genuine concern. "No, I don't mean that. I mean... you're battling something."
Dominic's smirk faded.
"You aren't sleeping," she continued. "You vanish for hours. And I've noticed you flinch at things others wouldn't even acknowledge."
He stiffened slightly but held his tongue.
"And now," Isabella added, "you're rubbing your temple whenever I see you. Like you're trying to will away whatever's going on inside your head."
Dominic let out a slow breath, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.
Isabella wasn't the type to pry out of mere curiosity. If she had noticed, it meant she truly cared—something Dominic was not accustomed to at all.
"It's nothing," he murmured.
She sighed. "You keep saying that. I don't think you believe it."
Dominic opened his eyes and faced her. "What do you want me to say?"
"That you're not as invincible as you believe."
The words hit harder than he anticipated.
For so long, he had been untouchable—mentally, physically, strategically. Weakness had never been an option. But now, sitting there in the dwindling light, burdened by the weight of his past and a persistent pain in his head that refused to be ignored, Dominic had to confront the one truth he had spent his life evading.
He wasn't invincible.
And for the first time, he was uncertain what that meant.
That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the headache returned with vengeance. It was the worst one yet.
It transcended mere pain—it became a storm raging within his head, a force that felt as if it were ripping something apart from the inside. He clenched his teeth, gripping the edge of the mattress, willing himself to breathe through it.
He had endured everything the world had thrown at him, but this... this felt different.
This felt like something he couldn't combat.
And that terrified him.
Because if Dominic Valente was no longer in control of himself, then who was he?