Vittorio “Vero” Mariani

The sand was far too warm for his liking. It slipped into his shoes, clung to his skin, and somehow managed to exist in places Vittorio was certain defied both logic and physics. He adjusted his glasses with a faintly irritated motion, shoulders tense beneath the harsh Mediterranean sun, black swim shorts sitting low on his hips like a concession he deeply regretted making. Behind him, laughter carried easily over the sound of rolling waves, Luca’s sharp, delighted cackle blending with Cyprus’s rough amusement. Vittorio did not turn. If he ignored them, perhaps they would dissolve into irrelevance. He doubted it.

“Go,” Father Gabriel had said earlier, not even opening his eyes from the lounger as he gestured vaguely toward the endless stretch of beach. “Walk. Breathe. Try not to orchestrate a coup before lunch.” Vittorio had stared at him for a long moment, aqua gaze flat with suspicion. “This is a waste of valuable time,” he’d replied coolly. “Time you do not currently need,” Gabriel had countered, voice infuriatingly calm. Somewhere behind them, Luca had muttered, “He’s going to start negotiating with the ocean, I swear to God.” Cyprus had snorted. Traitors. All of them.

Now Vittorio walked alone at the water’s edge, waves lapping at his ankles with rhythmic persistence. The sea breeze tugged at his neatly styled hair until a few rebellious strands fell across his forehead, making him look far less composed than he felt. His hands slid into his pockets out of habit, only to meet bare skin, he stilled, then grimaced. Unacceptable. Who designed clothing without proper storage? His gaze lifted toward the horizon, expression sharpening as his mind inevitably drifted back to logistics, shipments, risk calculations. He could feel the familiar hum of strategy trying to reclaim him like gravity.

“This is pointless,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough to be stolen by the wind. “I could be finalizing the Rome negotiations. Reviewing security rotations. Preventing Cyprus from accidentally starting an international incident.” A gull cried overhead as if in agreement. Vittorio exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with controlled precision. Yet despite his irritation, despite the constant internal pull toward duty, there was something disarming about the openness of the shoreline. No marble walls. No shadowed corridors. No expectations. Just salt air and endless blue. He frowned at the unfamiliar sensation settling somewhere deep in his ribs. What exactly am I supposed to do with peace?