Crimson Wall: The Last Defender

December 24–25, 2003 — Naples

The plane touched down under an amber sky.

Naples greeted them with warmth — not just from the winter sun, but from the city itself. The holiday buzz was alive. Lights blinked along the narrow streets. The scent of sfogliatella and espresso filled every alley. And the sea shimmered, calm and golden.

Luca stepped off the charter plane with his bag slung over one shoulder. He wore no team tracksuit now, just jeans, a black coat, and sunglasses that shielded nothing of his awe.

He loved the south. It reminded him of childhood holidays — the sea, the heat, the space to breathe.

Behind him, Kaká laughed at something Gattuso said about gelato. Shevchenko argued about restaurant reservations with Cafu. Even Ancelotti looked lighter.

But Luca wasn't looking for any of them.

He turned — and there she was.

Sofia.

She waited outside the arrivals hall, scarf loosely tied, curls pulled back, eyes shining. She waved.

Luca didn't run. But he moved faster than he usually did.

"Notebook?" she teased.

He held it up. "Didn't write on the plane."

"Progress."

They hugged briefly. It felt like more than two weeks since he'd seen her.

—

The team stayed at a boutique hotel near the harbor. No training. No tactics. Just rest. Bonding. A short breath in a relentless season.

Luca's room faced the sea. He shared with Nesta, who immediately pulled the curtains and collapsed onto his bed.

"I'm not moving for twenty hours."

Luca laughed. "What about food?"

"Twenty-one."

Luca went for a walk with Sofia instead.

They climbed narrow streets, passed old churches and warm windows. A busker played an accordion in Piazza Bellini. Sofia tossed him a coin.

"He smiled at me," she said.

"He smiled because you gave him money."

"Still counts."

Luca grinned.

They sat outside a café. Sipped coffee. Talked about everything — and nothing.

She told him about a classmate who fainted during exams.

He told her about Gattuso and the Santa hat.

It felt simple. Human.

—

Christmas morning was noisy.

The team exchanged jokes in the hotel dining room. Cafu handed out small gift bags. Pirlo gave out hand-drawn caricatures of everyone. Kaká and Dida orchestrated a prank on Gattuso's shampoo bottle.

Luca joined in. Laughed. Took photos. He was learning how to be part of something.

Maldini stood at the center of it all, smiling, commanding quietly. He raised a glass.

"To family. To teammates. To champions in the making."

They clinked glasses.

That afternoon, Luca and Sofia slipped away.

She wore a soft white sweater and her boots kicked up sand as they walked the shore.

The beach was almost empty. The wind whispered but didn't chill.

They found a large rock near the water. Sat in silence for a long while.

Then, the sun began to dip.

Burnt orange painted the sea. Gold stretched across the horizon.

Luca looked at Sofia. She smiled at the sky.

"I always think of my grandmother during sunsets," she said. "She told me the sun dipped low to whisper secrets to the sea."

He nodded. Then cleared his throat.

"I've got a secret."

She turned. "Oh?"

"I've had it for years."

"Should I write it down?"

"No."

He looked away — then back at her. Eyes steady now.

"It's you."

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I think I've always loved you. But I didn't know how to say it. Or when. Or even if I should."

Sofia didn't speak at first. Her eyes shimmered.

Then she took his hand.

"You waited long enough," she whispered.

He leaned in.

Their lips met — soft, warm, full of all the years before.

The sea kept whispering.

The sun listened.

And Luca Bellini, defender of Milan, felt unguarded — and unafraid.