New York City, 2025.
The cold bit through Emilia’s thin silk gown as she stumbled across the unfamiliar pavement. Neon lights danced above her head—too bright, too fast. Sounds blared from strange metal beasts on wheels. Horns honked. People brushed past without a second glance.
This wasn’t a dream.
She looked down at the pocket watch still clutched in her hand. The once-delicate gold casing was warm and softly glowing, the Roman numerals spinning wildly before settling on the current time. Her grandmother had called it cursed. Emilia had thought it poetic nonsense—until now.
She had time-traveled.
A cab screeched to a halt near her. “Hey! You alright, lady?” the driver shouted.
“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. Her Italian accent was thick, her voice trembling. She didn’t recognize the slang or the man’s strange attire—jeans, a baseball cap, and a glowing screen mounted on the dashboard. Everything was surreal.
She stepped back, unsure whether to run or cry.
“Do you need a hospital or something?” the man asked, this time a little more wary.
“No, thank you,” she managed. “I just… need to find someone.”
Lies, of course. She didn’t know a single soul in this world. Not in this time.
Her gown drew attention. People stared. She was barefoot, bloodstained, and shaking. She ducked into an alley, pressing her back against the cold brick wall and fighting the rising panic.
Luca. The explosion. Her father. The blood.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. No time for tears. Her father had taught her that much. She had survived a mafia household, a war between empires, and the pain of forbidden love.
She would survive this too.
Emilia stepped out into the street again, hugging her arms tightly across her chest. A soft chime rang above a glass door nearby. A small café. Warm light spilled from inside. She slipped in quietly.
The warmth hit her instantly—coffee, cinnamon, and the hum of soft jazz music. A young woman behind the counter looked up, startled.
“Um… hi?” the girl said.
Emilia’s mind raced. She glanced at a newspaper on a table: March 15, 2025. It was real.
“I… I need help,” she said honestly. “Please. Just a moment to sit.”
The girl, maybe in her twenties, hesitated. Then, noticing the desperation in Emilia’s eyes, she nodded.
“Sure. You okay? You look like you escaped a Victorian ball and ran through hell.”
“I suppose that’s not far from the truth,” Emilia said with a tired smile.
She sat near the window, trying to breathe. Her thoughts raced with questions. Was Luca alive? Had she died? Could she go back? Why this time? Why now?
The girl brought her a cup of tea and a blanket. “I’m Rose. You want to call someone?”
“I… don’t have anyone,” Emilia admitted softly.
“Well, that’s alright. You’ve got me now.” Rose smiled kindly, unaware she was speaking to a girl born forty years ago.
As Emilia sipped the tea, the bell above the door rang again. A tall man in a sleek black coat entered, dark eyes scanning the room.
Something about him struck Emilia—an air of control. Danger. Like the men back home. But colder. Sharper.
Their eyes met.
And for a split second, Emilia’s heart skipped.
Not because she recognized him.
But because, somehow, he recognized her.
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