The night was a restless thing, swirling with the scent of salt and smoke. A low wind tugged at the olive branches outside the villa, carrying faint echoes of distant gunfire and the low, ominous growl of thunder rolling over the hills. Somewhere in the darkness, the Mediterranean sea crashed against the cliffs like a warning.
Inside, the air was heavy with dust and secrets. A single candle flickered on a battered table, casting long, jittery shadows on the cracked plaster walls. Maria Santoro stood by the window, fingers wrapped tightly around a faded photograph of her husband. Giovanni’s face smiled back at her from the yellowed paper, a kind smile, but one with eyes that held too many stories.
She traced his profile with a trembling fingertip. Two days ago, the man she had loved, the father of her child, the soul of her quiet world had been taken from her in a way that shattered everything. Not by war, not by accident, but by the deadly secrets he kept.
A historical novel.
James O. Miller. After 23 years of high school teaching history and four years teaching in Germany retirement didn’t come well especially since I hate gardening and golf. So I decided to exercise my imagination combined with my academic knowledge.
Ovi eBook Publishing 2025
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