Chapter 1 – Serafina
The bells toll once—and the cobblestones beneath my heels seem to flinch with the sound.
We move in silence.
Rows of black uniforms line the chapel stairs, gloved hands pressed to crisp trouser seams, polished medals glinting like guilt in the sun. A sharp gust of wind lifts the corners of my coat, but I don’t move to fix it. The cold doesn’t touch me.
Ahead of us, the pallbearers slow their pace. Six of them. All handpicked from Divisione Ombra—the covert branch of the Italian Internal Security Bureau. Our shadow unit. The same one that sent Isla to Australia.
The same one that sent her to die, seven months ago. Only her body was retrieved, charred beyond recognition.
The flag draped over her coffin is heavy with rainfall and years of service. Its tricolor edges hang stiff as iron.
No one speaks. Behind me, I hear the faint breath of someone trying not to sob. Another breath catches. Muffled. Stifled. A hand tightens around mine—I barely register it.
Luca.
He’s barely standing. Pale, hollow-eyed, skin waxy under the pressure of mourning. His jaw trembles as he stares straight ahead. Not at me. Not at the crowd. Only at Isla.
His fiancée.
The chapel doors creak open, and we step inside.
The light shifts, stained glass bleeding gold and crimson across the pews. The organ groans beneath someone’s touch—quiet, aching notes that don’t even try to fill the space. They simply exist, like us. Drowning under protocol.
We walk behind the coffin as it’s placed on the bier. Candles flicker against the stone columns, wax dripping down like quiet time. At the altar’s base, Isla’s photo rests inside a steel frame. Uniform pressed. Lips soft with a smile she never used around strangers.
She always saved that one for me.
The priest murmurs in Latin. The scent of frankincense curls through the air. And then I hear my name.
It’s time.
I step forward. My boots echo down the aisle— sounds that remind me I’m alive and she’s not. A microphone waits at the pulpit. I don’t touch it.
My fingers are ice.
I meet no one’s eyes.
“I met Agent Isla Conti nine years ago in Torino,” I begin, voice even but low. “She was faster than me. The kind of person who could break into your house and leave it cleaner than she found it.”
A soft sound ripples through the back—someone choking on a breath, or maybe trying not to laugh. That’s fine. Isla would’ve wanted both.
I glance at the coffin, then back to the sea of faces.
“I will burn them one name at a time. One city at a time. I don’t care how many masks they wear. I don’t care how far I have to go.”
Silence settles again.
“I will not stop.”
I step back, nod once to the officer near the aisle, and return to the front row. The tension in my neck finally breaks as I sit. My breath escapes like smoke through my lips.
Luca hasn't moved.
His eyes remain fixed on Isla’s coffin, lips parted like he’s caught in the moment before a scream.
Outside, the cemetery waits. Sunlight pierces the gaps between dark clouds.
They lower her into the earth as the anthem plays—slow, haunting, full of finality. I stand beside Luca, my limbs too stiff, my hands too cold, my chest empty. The priest scatters soil onto the wood.
My throat closes as the first shovel of dirt lands with a hollow thud.
She’s gone.
There’s no hiding from it now.
I don’t cry.
I just watch—numb and silent—as the grave swallows my best friend.
****
Conti Family Residence, Appia Antica
The rain starts again just as we pull into the long gravel drive. The kind that coats the world in silence instead of washing it clean.
The Conti home stands half-shadowed under cypress trees. It’s old stone, sun-warmed once, but now cold and quiet with grief. Every shutter is drawn, every light glows with low amber. Mourners trail inside slowly—some in pairs, others alone—coats damp, shoulders bowed. No one speaks above a whisper.
Inside, the rooms are dim and tightly packed.
There’s a table near the fireplace with trays of finger foods no one touches.
Cups of coffee and untouched wine rest like props in people’s hands.
A photograph of Isla sits on the mantle—this one is candid.
She's laughing, turned halfway from the camera, her hair caught in the wind.
It’s the only real thing in the room.
I stand near the corner, half-wrapped in the coat I still haven’t taken off, nodding occasionally as someone touches my shoulder, offers a hushed condolence, or whispers a memory of her like it might undo the last forty-eight hours.
They move on. I stay where I am.
That’s when I see him.
Tony Bellucci standing in the hallway near the back door.
Not in uniform, but in a dark wool suit, his collar askew, tie loose like it was pulled halfway off in the car.
He’s holding a half-empty glass of whiskey, untouched.
He looks every bit his age—early sixties, his salt-and-pepper hair cut close to his scalp, a permanent weariness etched into the deep lines of his face.
His build is lean, ex-military, the kind of man who never forgot discipline even after decades behind a desk. His dark blue eyes catch mine,
Tony, a senior intelligence officer, a man who clawed his way up the ranks through wars no one will ever write about. Isla and I reported to him directly.
“Serafina,” he says softly, stopping just in front of me.
I straighten. “Sir.”
He doesn’t correct me. His eyes are sunken, ringed with fatigue. He looks older than yesterday. A lot older.
“I shouldn’t have sent her,” he says, voice low, like he doesn’t want to wake the ghosts in the walls. “I should’ve known it wasn’t clean. The moment the Bureau redirected the ops channel to private handling—I should’ve pulled her.”
I hear him, but his voice blurs into the background. Because all I can see is Isla’s smile the day I begged her to take the assignment.
I had wanted time with Bianca. Just a few more months to be the kind of mother who helped with homework, who braided her daughter’s hair before school. Isla agreed without hesitation, because that was who she was—reckless with her own life, generous with everyone else’s. My best friend. My sister.
Six months. Six months of silence, where I told myself she was undercover. But then…the call. The Melbourne police. A body in the bushes, burnt until it was unrecognizable. They only knew it was her because of the DNA.
My Isla turned to ash.
The trafficking ring had sniffed her out, torn her cover apart, and killed her. And I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t there.
I picture the way Bianca’s drawings for “Auntie Isla” had piled up on the kitchen counter, bright colors and stick figures meant to make her smile when she returned. I picture myself folding them away in a drawer after the funeral, choking on my own sobs.
He stares past me for a moment. “We’ll get the bastards who did it.”
I breathe out once. “Then let me help.”
His gaze snaps back to mine. “No.”
I lift my chin. “Sir, I’m Italian. I was born into half the dialects they’re using.”
“I’m Italian too,” he interrupts, sharp but quiet. “And I’m telling you: no.”
He doesn’t blink.
“I’m not sending you out there,” he says. “I already buried one cop this week. I won’t do two.”
He swallows whatever else he wants to say. His hand brushes my arm once, a hollow gesture—more human than professional. Then he walks away.
I don’t stop him.
****
Later, the house begins to empty.
People say their goodbyes in murmurs, coats pulled tight as they slip into the storm. The coffee has gone cold in untouched cups. The fire has burned low. Only the sound of drizzle and door hinges remains.
I stay behind.
Luca stands at the dining table, shirt wrinkled, collarbone sharp beneath his white dress shirt.
His sleeves are rolled past the elbow, and he’s organizing something—boxes, framed photos, folded linen from the guests.
His eyes are glazed but focused, like movement is the only thing anchoring him to now.
“I can help,” I offer softly.
He doesn’t respond at first. Then he nods. One slow motion. I take a tray of empty glasses to the kitchen, come back to find him kneeling by the low cabinet where Isla used to keep her music and books.
He stands up, holding a small wooden box.
“She wanted you to have this,” he says.
My breath catches. “What is it?”
He doesn’t answer—just holds it out.
The box is smooth, mahogany, heavier than it looks. There’s a red ribbon looped around the clasp, delicate and weathered. I hold it to my chest, and for a moment, I don’t know if I can breathe.
“Luca...” I whisper. “What are you going to do now?”
He stares at the hearth for a long moment before answering. “I’m going home.”
I blink. “To Florence?”
He shakes his head. “No. Not Florence. Stateside. New Hampshire. My mother’s still there.”
I nod slowly, throat thick.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For everything.”
He exhales, and then he pulls me into a hug—unexpected, tight. His shoulders shake once, then again. Mine do too.
We don’t speak.
We just hold on.
When he pulls back, his face is wet. So is mine.
“Take care of yourself, Serafina,” he says. “And...whatever’s in that box? It mattered to her.”
I nod once, not trusting myself to speak.
He brushes a hand over his face, wipes it on his sleeve, and turns away toward the hall.
I’m alone in the room.
Box clutched to my chest. Fire burned down. Rain is steady on the windows. Her laugh still faint in the back of my mind.
And just like that—she’s gone all over again.
****
By the time I pull into the driveway, the streetlights have turned the sidewalk gold. The engine ticks as it cools, rhythmic and hollow, like an anxious breath trying to settle.
I kill the lights and sit there for a moment. Rain beads across the windshield in soft, trembling lines. I lean forward, resting my head on the steering wheel. My palms are cold. My chest feels like it’s holding something sharp and shifting.
I force myself out of the car.
My boots crunch against wet stone as I walk to the porch. I’m clutching the wooden box in one hand, holding it tight to my ribs like it might float away if I don’t.
At the bottom step, I stop.
I inhale and drag my sleeve across both eyes. The fabric comes away damp. My cheeks burn from it. I blink until my vision sharpens. My mouth twitches.
Smile, Serafina.
You’ve done it a thousand times before.
The door swings open before I reach it.
“Mama!”
A small blur launches into my legs, arms flung around my waist like a lifeline. I stagger slightly, letting out a half-laugh as her little frame buries into me.
“Bianca,” I breathe, setting the box down to scoop her up. She clings to my neck, warm and wiggling.
“Me and Nonna made cookies!” she beams, brown eyes wide with pride. Her curls bounce against my cheek as she leans back. “A whole tray! Mama, they’re chocolate chip!”
“Cookies, huh?” I smile, voice soft but steady.
She blinks, studying me.
“Mama...are you okay? Your eyes look weird.”
I groan lightly, kissing her temple. “That’s because Mama missed you.”
She giggles, wrapping her arms tighter around my neck. “I missed you, too.”
I walk into the house with her still clinging to me. The hallway smells like sugar and warm butter, with hints of lemon and almond from the polish Nonna uses on the wooden banister. The lights are soft, casting gentle shadows across the photos on the wall.
My mother is in the kitchen, wiping down the counter. She’s still in her apron, hair pinned up, reading glasses perched low on her nose.
“You’re back,” she says without turning. “She’s been wired since dinner.”
Bianca wriggles in my arms. “Mama, you have to taste the cookies! Now.”
I glance at my mother. She lifts a brow, and I shrug with a smile. “I’ve been threatened. I have no choice.”
I set Bianca down, and she sprints to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair dramatically.
My mother places a cookie on a plate and slides it to me. “You’re lucky she saved you one.”
I pick it up, still warm, and take a bite. The chocolate melts instantly.
“Oh. Yummy,” I say around the mouthful, over-exaggerated.
Bianca squeals in delight and claps. “Told you!”
She’s vibrating with joy, bouncing on her toes, proud and sugar-stained. I kiss the top of her head and scoop her back into my arms. “Bedtime, chef.”
“Nooo,” she groans, arms flopping dramatically.
“Yep.”
Upstairs, the hallway is quiet and dim. Her room glows with soft lamplight and pastel shadows. I lay her down gently on the bed and pull the blanket over her. She’s still smiling, eyes sleepy now, lashes fluttering.
Her tiny hand reaches for mine.
“Mama…don’t be sad, okay?” she whispers, voice slurred by sleep. “I love you.”
My throat tightens. I press a kiss to her forehead.
“I love you more,” I whisper.
Her breathing evens out slowly, her fingers still curled around mine.
I wait until she’s fully asleep before slipping out.
****
Downstairs, the house is quiet again.
The kitchen is spotless. My mother stands by the sink, wiping her hands on a towel that doesn’t need wiping. She turns when I enter, and she sees it before I speak.
My face cracks. I try to hold it—God, I try—but the tears start without warning, hot and sudden, blurring the lights, the tiles, her.
She moves toward me and folds me into a hug.
I collapse into her chest, the wooden box still pressed between us. My shoulders shake. I can’t stop them. She doesn’t say anything—just strokes my back, fingers gentle, rhythmic.
“Thank you,” I murmur hoarsely.
She chuckles softly into my hair. “Oh, don’t thank me. You pay well for this.”
Despite myself, I laugh—wet and broken.
She presses a kiss to my temple. Then she reaches behind her and hands me a small plate.
“Here,” she says. “Take a few cookies upstairs. You’ve earned them.”
I kiss her cheek and head up to my room.
I hold the box in my hand, cookies forgotten on the dresser.
The room is dark except for the lamp on my bedside table. I sit down slowly. My fingers tremble as I undo the ribbon.
The lid creaks open.
On top, carefully folded, is a piece of paper. Beneath it—our old friendship bracelets. Frayed. Faded. Made of black cord and silver beads. We crafted them the week we got our first undercover assignment—just two girls who thought they’d be invincible.
I lift the note with shaking hands.
The handwriting is rushed, excited.
I’m having a baby!
The breath leaves my lungs in one sharp pull. My hand covers my mouth. The page trembles in my grip.
She was pregnant when she left.
She never told me.
Tears spill over before I can stop them. They fall onto the edge of the note, then onto the box, soaking into the fabric-lined base. I try to hold it in—clench my jaw, breathe through my nose, blink it back.
But my body won’t obey.
It breaks.
It breaks all at once.
I curl forward, hands around the box, forehead against my knees, and let the grief take me under.