The Return Of The Young Marshal's

The Young Marshal's Return

CHAPTER 1: The Young Marshal's Return

The automatic doors of Sorrento International Airport slid open with a soft hiss, and Lorenzo Romano stepped into the arrival hall. At 27, he cut an imposing figure—broad shoulders, cold eyes that had seen too much death, and a face that could have been carved from marble. Ten years. Ten long years since he'd last walked on civilian soil.

"Young Marshal Romano! Sir!"

Lorenzo's jaw tightened. He'd specifically requested no fanfare. Yet there, in the middle of the airport terminal, stood Lieutenant Colonel Vittorio Dante at the head of over one hundred uniformed soldiers, their boots polished to mirror shine, standing at rigid attention.

"Lieutenant Colonel," Lorenzo said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of command despite his attempt at casualness. "I believe I made my wishes clear."

Vittorio snapped a salute so sharp it could cut glass. "Sir! With all due respect, the Supreme Command insisted! You're a legend—the Young Marshal of the Valdoro Military Zone! Commander of 200,000 troops! The Hero of Etruria!"

Murmurs rippled through the civilian crowd. Phones appeared, recording, photographing.

"A marshal? He's so young!"

"My God, look at all those soldiers..."

"Who is he?"

Lorenzo's eyes swept the gathering crowd with practiced efficiency. This was exactly what he didn't want. After a decade of bloodshed and command, he craved anonymity. Peace. A normal life.

"Stand down, Lieutenant Colonel," Lorenzo ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm a civilian now. Or I'm trying to be."

Vittorio's face fell. "But sir, the military escort is prepared. We have a convoy ready to—"

"No."

The single word hung in the air like a guillotine blade. Vittorio swallowed hard, recognizing the unmovable force that was Lorenzo Romano, even in civilian clothes.

"I... I understand, sir. Forgive the intrusion." Vittorio saluted again, then barked orders to his men. "Battalion! Dismissed!"

The soldiers dispersed with military precision, leaving Lorenzo standing alone with a single duffel bag containing everything he owned. Ten years of war, reduced to one bag.

A sleek black Maserati pulled up to the curb, and a man in an expensive suit stepped out. Giulio Ferretti—old friend, trusted confidant, and now apparently his chauffeur.

"Lorenzo!" Giulio grinned, opening the passenger door. "Welcome home, you stubborn bastard. I told them you'd refuse the escort."

Lorenzo slid into the car, relishing the smell of leather and cologne—so different from gunpowder and blood. "You know me too well, Giulio."

As they pulled away from the airport, Giulio glanced at his friend. "You look like hell, by the way. When's the last time you slept?"

"Sleep is for people without missions."

"Still dramatic, I see." Giulio merged onto the highway. "Ten years in the Valdoro wasteland would make anyone dramatic, I suppose."

Lorenzo stared out the window at the city of Marina Azzurra—modern skyscrapers piercing the sky, luxury cars filling the streets, people in designer clothes walking without fear. This was what he'd fought for. What thousands had died for.

"So," Giulio said carefully, "how does it feel to be classified as a quintuple-S rank national secret? Your face is literally forbidden from appearing in any media. The government treats you like you're a nuclear weapon."

"Feels like wearing a mask I can't take off."

"Poetic." Giulio smirked. "You've changed, Lorenzo. The boy who left wasn't so... heavy."

"War changes everyone, Giulio. Or it kills them."

They drove in silence for a moment before Giulio spoke again, his tone shifting to something more careful. "You know... that girl from ten years ago? The one who—"

Lorenzo's entire body went rigid. "Carolina."

"Yes. Carolina Pescatori." Giulio kept his eyes on the road. "She's... well, she's quite famous now. The Ferretti family took her in after—"

"I know." Lorenzo's voice was barely above a whisper. "I've been searching for her for ten years."

"Searching? Lorenzo, she's been here the whole time. She's a renowned member of our family now. A celebrity, actually. Her face is on magazine covers."

Lorenzo's hands clenched into fists. "I was on the front lines, Giulio. I didn't exactly have access to gossip magazines between firefights."

"Right. Of course." Giulio cleared his throat. "She's... she's doing well. Very well."

"Does she remember me?"

The question hung in the air like morning mist. Giulio shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't know, Lorenzo. It was ten years ago. You were both different people."

Lorenzo's expression grew distant, sad in a way that had nothing to do with war. He remembered that day so clearly—a stupid, poor boy from the slums who'd stumbled into the path of a speeding car. Carolina Pescatori, from the illustrious Pescatori family, had pulled him to safety. She'd been kind when kindness cost her nothing, gentle when she could have been cruel.

He'd never forgotten. Not through the years of brutal training, not through the endless battles, not through the promotions and medals and mountains of corpses. Carolina Pescatori had been his light in the darkness.

"I was never her equal," Lorenzo said quietly. "A street rat and a princess. But I swore I'd repay her kindness. I swore I'd come back worthy."

"And now you're the Young Marshal. Commander of the Valdoro Military Zone. The youngest marshal in Etruria's history. If that's not worthy, I don't know what is."

Lorenzo turned to look at his friend, and Giulio was struck by the profound sadness in those battle-hardened eyes.

"Worthy?" Lorenzo's laugh was bitter. "I'm a killer, Giulio. I've ended more lives than I can count. I've turned men into corpses and fields into graveyards. The Young Marshal isn't a hero—he's a weapon the government points at problems."

"You protected the nation. You're a legend."

"Legends are just stories people tell to make sense of horror." Lorenzo turned back to the window. "But it doesn't matter. I made a promise to Carolina Pescatori ten years ago, even if she doesn't remember. I'm here to keep it."

The Maserati glided through the streets of Marina Azzurra as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of blood orange and purple. Lorenzo Romano, the Young Marshal, the Hero of Etruria, the man whose face was forbidden from public view—had finally come home.