Chapter 5 – Serafina #2
The airport terminal looms up ahead, gray and impersonal beneath a hazy afternoon sun. Taxis inch forward. Porters in navy vests weave between luggage carts. Somewhere, above the clouds, a plane is taking off with a sound like thunder cracking bone.
The driver eases to a stop at the departure drop.
I open the door, stepping out into the heavy heat. The wheels of my carry-on bump softly over the curb.
Tony gets out behind me.
He stops just beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder. His expression softens—but only a little.
“Watch your back in there,” he says.
I nod.
He steps back.
I straighten, grip the handle of my suitcase tighter, and walk toward the terminal doors.
My pulse is steady now. Controlled.
At the entrance, a woman behind the ticket desk scans my passport and smiles politely.
“Enjoy Melbourne,” she says.
I smile back, just enough to pass. “I will.”
****
Melbourne, Australia
The arrivals gate at Tullamarine is loud and fluorescent—metallic voices on intercoms, heels clacking against tile, the distant roll of suitcase wheels like static.
I pass through immigration with my head down and a faint smile on my lips.
Elia Rosetti. Domestic worker. No criminal record. A backstory so clean it almost squeaks.
Outside, the wind hits warmer than Rome. The sky is dark now—deep navy stretching into the tram wires and tower lights. It’s past 9 p.m., but the streets haven’t slowed. Neon signs buzz. The highway murmurs like an old machine still running long past its prime.
I step to the curb, dragging my suitcase behind me. One of the wheels sticks every few feet.
A cab pulls up, sudden and clean—cream-colored, slightly rusted around the edges. The driver leans across the passenger seat and squints out at me through the open window.
“You Elia?”
I pause. Then nod. “Yes.”
“Get in then, love. I don’t bite.”
He hops out, grinning beneath his ballcap, and pops the trunk with a kick. He takes my suitcase with a grunt, then opens the door like a chauffeur in a B-movie.
I slide in. The seat is sticky from the heat.
He climbs back in, slams the door, and peels out like we’re late for something.
“A man called Marcus booked me,” he says, glancing at me through the rearview. “Said you needed a friendly face. I told him I’m the friendliest on this side of the Yarra.”
It’s Tony. I smile faintly. “Good to know.”
“Not that the Yarra’s got much charm left, eh? But never mind that—this your first time in Melbourne?”
I nod again, watching the blur of graffiti-tagged bridges and blinking intersections.
“Ahh, you'll love it. Bit rough in spots, but she’s got heart. And food. God, the food. Are you a dumpling person? You look like a dumpling person.”
My lips twitch. “I like food.”
“Good answer. You got style, too. Fancy threads.”
I glance down. My dark trousers and crisp blouse—the kind of outfit that blends well in Rome but sticks out here like a sore thumb. He’s not wrong.
We drive for nearly thirty minutes, deeper into the city, past wide roads that narrow into backstreets and fading shopfronts with steel shutters pulled halfway down. He hums to himself at the lights.
Finally, he pulls up beside a crumbling motel with flickering signage that reads Hollingwood Lodge. Half the “L” is missing.
“Here we are. Cozy little slice of Melbourne nightlife.”
On the footpath, a group of young men stumbles past, one shirtless and laughing, a beer bottle in each hand. Two women in short skirts smoke by the entrance, arguing over who left the lighter in someone’s car.
“Not exactly castle material,” the driver mutters, pulling my suitcase out of the trunk, “but hey, Marcus paid me double my rate, so you won’t hear me complain.”
He gives a mock salute, then climbs back into his cab and speeds off with a honk.
I stand still for a beat, staring up at the crooked balcony railings and stained concrete facade.
This is it.
I square my shoulders, exhale, and drag my suitcase up the two shallow steps into the front office. The overhead light buzzes loudly. The lobby smells like cheap disinfectant and cigarette ash.
A girl barely in her twenties slouches behind the register, her eyeliner smudged, hair in a half-hearted bun. A bottle of Coke is sweating beside her elbow. She doesn’t look up right away, flipping lazily through a reservation ledger.
“I have a booking,” I say.
She yawns, then glances up. “Name?”
“Elia Rosetti.”
Her eyes scan the page, finger dragging across several crooked lines. “Yeah. Room six. Upstairs. Follow me.”
She walks ahead without another word, grabbing a loose key ring from a hook as she goes. Her bare feet slap softly against the wooden stairs, which groan with every step. I follow, dragging the suitcase behind me, feeling the uneven boards shift beneath my feet.
She stops at the end of the hallway and unlocks the door.
“There you go,” she mutters, tossing the key on the bedside table.
Then she turns and spots a man walking out of another room, shirtless, reeking of beer. She grins and jumps on him without warning, her arms looping around his neck. They stumble back into his room, giggling, and the door slams shut behind them.
I blink.
Then I step inside and close the door quietly.
The room is dim, lit only by a single yellowed lamp. The bedspread is faded floral. The walls are a pale shade of beige, chipped at the corners. A small desk sits under the window, and on the bed, a large brown envelope rests neatly against the pillows.
I set the suitcase down, lock the door, and pick up the envelope.
Inside: a crisp folder with my alias documents. Domestic worker clearance. Employment references. A matching photo ID with my face and a new birth date. There’s a folded sheet with my fabricated backstory—early years in Naples, trained in housework, no family ties.
A burner phone falls out last. It’s cheap. No contacts.
I check the desk drawer. Inside are two pairs of washed, shapeless uniforms. Off-white. Cotton. Practical. I run a thumb across the hem and sigh.
The phone buzzes.
One new message.
Tony: Interview is tomorrow at 10 a.m. local time. You’ll do fine. Be careful. And good luck.
I set the phone on the nightstand and sit down on the edge of the bed.
The springs creak beneath me.
Outside, someone shouts. Laughter. Then silence again.
I close my eyes.
Isla’s face drifts in behind my lids—smiling in the precinct locker room, shaking her head at something I said, tying her hair back before a stakeout. The grit of her. The loyalty.
“I’ll make it right,” I whisper.
And I will.
I open my eyes and lie back fully, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
Tomorrow, it begins.