The other couriers. So, of course he is afraid—we all are.

Not that Arturo should tell me what to do, his employer, how to run our estate, but in truth I lean on him so much now that Papa is gone.

And Mamma is resigned to despair.

And perhaps he is right. With the Nazis now taking harbor in Lucca, berthing at local residences, it is only a matter of time before they will decide that the estate of Mattucci is their next headquarters, the house big enough to house a squad of jackboots, the summer kitchen a place of meeting.

And with Tory gone most nights, it would only bring upon us more questions.

Danger.

Thus, I feared to find a corpse when I returned the next morning with a bowl of hot polenta, fresh grape juice and crusty bread.

Instead, our traveler is gone.

I stand in the cool breath of the grotto, the dark walls casting shadow upon the wooden casks of our last batch of Chianti before Papa’s execution, my heart a fist in my chest.

He has gone. Escaped back into the night from whence he appeared, and perhaps I should agree that we are the better for it.

But my chest is empty, and I don’t know why.

More than anything, I long for the peace that has been stolen from me. I long for life, and freedom.

I long for hope.

Perhaps I thought this stranger would bring it.

Behind is the pallet on the floor, a blanket, a sheet, grimy with blood and the debris of rough living. And, with it, a deep-seated hope that we might be freed from the danger hidden beyond, in the darkest corner of the grotto.

“Signora?”

The voice is deep, and vibrates inside me, perhaps to my soul, so unexpected, so deeply longed for that the realization rattles me.

What? Do I believe this man is my savior?

I turn, and am as equally nonplussed to find him shirtless, his skin glistening with water, as if he has bathed in the pond behind the estate.

He might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Dark curly hair, almost woolen on his head. Bright golden-brown eyes. And with a form that betrays hard work, sculpted arms, fine pectoral muscles, a lean, washboard stomach. Clad in his camo pants, he has narrow hips, lean legs and stands over six feet, although that might be in my mind, for his stature suddenly envelopes me.

I am a dreamer, and this man has dropped into my world, wounded, yes but a lifeline.

Perhaps the one I have prayed for.

I am also terribly aware of my own attire—a cotton dress dusted in flour, my hair tied up in a faded floral, albeit clean, scarf, and I’m thinner than I would like. My feet, in sandals, are dirty from the dust from the fields. “Signore.”