Chapter 3 – Serafina
Divisione Ombra Headquarters, Rome
The moment the elevator doors slide open, I know something’s wrong.
The hall pulses with urgency—boots slapping tile, doors thrown open, a copier shrieking as someone bumps it mid-argument. Men and women in dark suits move like a silent storm through the floor, voices clipped, eyes sharp, hands full of seized files and equipment.
But it’s the insignia on their sleeves that stops me cold.
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
In Italy.
My stomach turns.
I cut through the chaos, heart already rising into my throat. My pace quickens past the bullpen, where agents I’ve worked with for years stand frozen, backs pressed against their desks, watching strangers dismantle everything.
Tony stands near the mission board—expression taut, arms crossed too tightly. A man in a grey blazer speaks at him, not to him, holding a black file labeled with red clearance stripes. Tony isn’t answering. Just staring. A slow burn behind his eyes.
I push through the crowd and step up beside him. “What the hell is going on?”
He doesn’t answer at first. His jaw shifts, throat working around something bitter. The grey-suit walks off, barking orders.
Tony sighs and drags a hand down his face. “The FBI is taking over the Melbourne operation.”
My body stiffens. “What?”
“They’re closing our end. Effective immediately. Control is shifting to their jurisdiction. Command reroute. Full transition by the end of the week.”
My pulse thuds in my ears. “Tony, that’s Isla’s case.”
“I know.”
“She died on that case.”
His silence says more than words.
My mouth goes dry. I turn, watching as two agents lift our field briefings from the ops wall and start sliding them into a black case.
“Get your hands off that,” I bark.
They glance at me, disinterested, and continue.
I step forward, but Tony catches my arm—not hard, but firm. His voice is low. “Let it go, Serafina.”
I whip toward him. “You told me we would follow it to the end.”
He shakes his head once, slowly. “We won’t.”
I shake him off and follow him into his office.
The blinds are half-drawn, light cutting uneven lines across the dark desk. A stack of unsigned requisitions rests beside his old mug, the coffee inside cold and abandoned. He doesn’t sit.
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the top drawer and lights one with hands that shake slightly.
The flare of the match glows against the tight lines at his brow.
“Does this mean Isla gets no justice?” I ask, voice tighter than it should be.
He takes a long drag before answering. “It means the case is above us now.”
I wait.
He exhales slowly, eyes closing.
Then he reaches into the drawer again and holds out a cigarette to me.
I stare at it. “You know I quit,” I murmur. “For Bianca.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then don’t light it.”
He leaves it between us.
I don’t take it.
Instead, I press both palms to the edge of the desk and breathe hard through my nose. “She died for this.”
Tony says nothing.
“She died,” I repeat, my voice trembling now, “and we get pushed out like this was a clerical error. That’s it? Just step aside and rest?”
He finally speaks, quiet but firm. “Yes.”
His eyes meet mine. The decision is already made in his face. It’s in the slump of his shoulders, the tired set of his mouth.
“Take care of your daughter, Serafina. Rest. You’ve earned it.”
The finality in his voice slams through me like a door locking shut.
I stand for a moment, then walk out without another word.
****
The house is too quiet.
For the first time in months, I’m home before sundown. The light filters through the sheer kitchen curtains in thick, golden waves, dust drifting lazily in the warmth. Bianca’s drawings are still taped to the fridge—dragons and princesses and one lopsided sketch of me that says Super Mama.
She’s still at school. It’s early. I should be grateful for the quiet.
Instead, I feel hollow.
I open the fridge, grab eggs and milk, and then take vanilla from the cabinet. Bianca’s favorite dessert—budino al cioccolato. I arrange the ingredients on the counter and move with a steady rhythm. Whisking. Heating. Pouring into the ramekins like muscle memory.
The chocolate aroma fills the room. It smells like weekends. Like tiny spoons and giggles and chocolate-stained cheeks.
I picture her eyes lighting up when she sees it.
My phone rings.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and reach for it.
It’s my mother.
I answer. “Mama?”
Her voice hits me like a slap.
“She’s gone.” Her breath is ragged, panicked. “*Serafina, I can’t find her. Bianca—she’s not at school—they can’t find her—I don’t know where she is—”
My hand goes numb.
The phone slips through my fingers.
Hits the tile.
Clatters.
And the world goes silent.
****
Tony gets out of the car door before I do.
I barely feel my boots hit the ground before I’m moving clumsily, eyes darting across the pale concrete of the entryway.
My mother stands near the gates, her hands trembling around a damp handkerchief, face blotched with tears.
A staff member speaks to her gently, hand at her elbow.
I don’t stop to speak.
The schoolyard is wide and green, ringed with short trees and a sagging perimeter fence.
Red and yellow plastic toys lie forgotten in the grass.
A row of teachers in navy uniforms forms a kind of human chain near the play structure, their faces pale and tight.
One of them speaks into a radio. Another scans the hedges behind the sandbox.
Tony catches up beside me.
“She wasn’t signed out,” one teacher says quickly, running up to us. “No one saw her leave. We’ve called local patrol already—”
I push past her, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Bianca!” I call. My voice cracks.
Nothing.
I jog across the grass, heading toward the back field, breath growing shorter with every step. The wind tugs at my coat, flinging my hair into my face. I shove it back, scan left, right—then I see it.
There, by the outer fence. Her backpack.
It lies on its side, as if it were dropped mid-step. The pink strap is twisted beneath the weight of the bag, one pocket hanging open.
I stumble to it, fall to my knees. My fingers fumble for the zipper, yanking it wide. Her lunchbox is gone. The water bottle is cracked, the cap still half-screwed on.
Tony drops down beside me. “Serafina—”
“She was here. She was right here.” My hands are trembling too much to close the bag.
“We’ll find her.”
“No. No, no, no—” I shake my head. I can’t see straight. I can’t breathe. “She was just supposed to be in class. How—how does a seven-year-old just disappear?”
Tony doesn’t speak. His face has gone still—tight across the jaw, eyes scanning the field behind me, fingers twitching at his sides like they want to act, to break something.
“She’s gone,” I whisper, hugging the bag to my chest. “She’s gone, and I wasn’t there—”
Then my phone buzzes.
I yank it from my coat pocket with shaking hands. The screen flashes Mama.
I answer with barely a voice. “Mama?”
Her voice bursts through the speaker, gasping, hysterical.
“She’s back! Serafina—Bianca’s here. She just walked up the steps. She’s with me. Oh my God—she’s here.”
The phone nearly slips again.
Tony’s already reading my expression.
“She’s back,” I whisper.
He exhales hard, then pulls me to my feet.
We run.
Through the gate, past the startled teachers. Around the parking lot where two patrol cars now sit idling, doors ajar. The wind smells like fresh cut grass and the inside of a too-hot car.
Then I see them.
Near the entrance.
Bianca stands between two teachers and my mother. My mother is crouched beside her, crying openly, fingers tangled in Bianca’s curls like she can’t believe they’re real.
I break into a run.
“Mama!” Bianca cries when she sees me.
I drop to my knees and sweep her into my arms so fast she gasps. Her small arms go around my neck in an instant, breath warm on my skin.
I sob into her shoulder.
I press my hands over her back, her arms, her ribs—checking, gently but urgently. Her jacket is still zipped. Her socks are grass-stained. There’s a small scrape on her elbow, but no blood. She giggles softly, confused by my hands.
“Mama…why are you crying?”
Tony crouches beside us. His voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “Where did you go, sweetheart?”
She smiles up at him, dimples showing. “Mama’s friend took me.”
I stiffen.
Tony looks at me, then back at her. “Which friend, piccolina?”
She tilts her head. “He was really nice. He told me to give this to Mama.”
She digs into the pocket of her coat. I’m still kneeling, frozen, as she pulls out a sealed envelope and hands it to me with a proud grin.
Tony straightens. I meet his eyes.
The paper is thick, ivory-white, with clean edges. No name. No logo.
I tear it open, heart suddenly slamming hard enough to make me light-headed.
Two sentences, scrawled in thick ink:
STAY OFF THE BELLAROSA CASE. WE ARE WATCHING
My pulse roars in my ears. I blink, but the words don’t change.
Bianca beams at me like she’s just delivered a treasure.
“Good job, baby,” I say softly, smoothing her hair back. My voice barely holds. “We’ll talk when we get home. Right now, I want you to go with Nonna, okay?”
She pouts. “Why’s everyone sad?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Just go with Nonna for now, okay?”
She nods and kisses my cheek.
Then she skips back to my mother, who clutches her close, whispering prayers into her hair. Together, they walk toward the car.
Tony signals one of the patrolmen. “I want a plain clothes vehicle on them. Full shadow detail. Do not lose them.”
The officer nods and moves to obey.
I watch them pull away.
Then I turn to Tony and hand him the paper. He reads it and sighs.
“I want to go undercover. I want to take them down.”
He exhales hard. “Don’t be hasty. This doesn’t mean anything.”
I step closer. “Don’t bullshit me! They must have linked me to Isla. What’s to stop them from hurting Bianca?”
I hold his gaze, steady as I can. “First they took Isla, now Bianca? I can’t sit still. They know my child! I have to end this.”
He nods slowly, eyes dark. “I’ll have them relocated under secure civilian protection. New addresses, new names. They’ll be watched, twenty-four hours.”
I breathe in. “That’s not enough. I need to know why Isla died and why they have their eyes on me. I can’t do that sitting here in Rome.”
Tony stares at me wearily, then he sighs and says. “Fine, let’s see what we can do.”
I follow him to the car, fists clenched.
Not my daughter! Not her!