Page 94 of Temptation and Tyranny

My heart skipped a beat. “Not silly at all.”

The breeze off the Aegean carried the scent of salt and wild flowers as Allegra and I sat on our villa’s terrace in Santorini, enjoying our last night here. She was sketching in her notebook, something she’d taken up during our weeks of healing here. The Mediterranean climate seemed to help with my leg injury. Most days I could get by without the cane now, though I kept it close—a reminder of both how far I’d come and how quickly things could change. Allegra had continued her magic, working through exercises with me faithfully every morning, watching the sunrise over the Aegean as I worked to keep my mobility.

“What are you up to?” I asked, setting down two glasses of wine.

She looked up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just some ideas. Being here, seeing how the locals use traditional healing methods alongside modern medicine...it’s got me thinking.”

I settled beside her, glancing at her detailed drawings. “About?”

“A different kind of physical therapy practice. Something that combines traditional rehabilitation with holistic wellness approaches.”

Her eyes sparkled as she explained, gesturing to her sketches. “Imagine a place where patients could heal not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too. Therapeutic gardens, meditation spaces, traditional therapeutic techniques passed down through generations...”

“Like a wellness center?”

“Exactly.” She bit her lip, suddenly self-conscious. “I know it sounds idealistic—”

“It sounds perfect,” I interrupted, an idea beginning to form in my mind. “The kind of place that could really help people heal.”

Allegra smiled, leaning into me. “It’s just a dream right now. But someday, maybe...”

I pressed a kiss to her temple, already making mental notes.

Someday would come sooner than she thought.

Two days later, we were on Steele’s jet, flying to Florence. Allegra dozed against my shoulder as the Mediterranean coastline gave way to the Italian peninsula. My phone buzzed with a message from Colton:Everything’s ready. Keys are waiting at the hotel in Montepulciano. Good luck, brother.

We spent our first few days exploring Florence, wandering through the Uffizi, eating gelato by the Arno, getting lost in the narrow streets. Allegra came alive in a different way here—not the peaceful healing we’d found in Greece, but something deeper, more connectedto her roots.

On our fourth morning, I suggested a drive through the countryside. Allegra agreed eagerly, her face lighting up at the prospect of showing me her beloved Tuscany. She didn’t question when I took the road toward Montepulciano, assuming I was following her casual suggestions for a wine-tasting tour.

The landscape unfolded before us like a living masterpiece—rolling hills striped with vineyards and olive groves, cypress trees standing like exclamation points against the vibrant blue sky. Weathered towns crowned distant hills, their stone walls glowing golden in the morning sun.

Allegra pointed out landmarks as we drove, her voice growing more animated with each familiar sight. But as we turned onto a cypress-lined drive I knew she must have walked countless times as a child, she fell silent.

“Cooper,” she said slowly, recognition dawning on her face. “This is...”

“The road to your grandparents’ vineyard,” I finished softly. “I know.”

She turned to me, her eyes wide with confusion and something like hope. “But why? I told you it was sold years ago.”

“It was,” I agreed, bringing the car to a stop in front of the old villa. It looked exactly like her descriptions—the weathered blue shutters, the climbing roses around the door, the ancient stone walls warmed by centuries of Tuscan sun. “Until this morning.”

Allegra’s hand flew to her mouth, tears already gathering in her eyes. “Cooper...what did you do?”

Instead of answering, I got out of the car and walked around to open her door. Taking her trembling hand, I led her toward the house. The gravel crunched beneath our feet, and the scent of sun-warmed herbs and ripening grapes filled the air.

Allegra moved as if in a dream, her fingers trailing over familiar stones, her mind taking in every detail.

I pulled an ancient iron key from my pocket—the original, the real estate agent had assured Colton—and pressed it into her shaking hand.

“Cooper,” she whispered, tears now flowing freely. “Please tell me you didn’t...”

“Open the door,” I urged gently.

With trembling fingers, Allegra inserted the key into the lock. It turned with a satisfying click, and the door swung open. The interior was exactly as she’d described—terracotta floors worn smooth by generations of footsteps, exposed wooden beams overhead, walls the color of harvested wheat.

She moved through the rooms like someone in a dream, touching door frames, window ledges, walls—as if confirming it was all real. In each room, memories spilled from her lips in broken whispers.

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