Chapter One – Lunetta
The cobblestones are warm beneath our feet, holding the last of the morning sun. I walk with my hands folded gently in front of me, my rosary wrapped loosely around my wrist, the beads clicking softly.
Bea walks beside me, swinging her handbag in easy little circles. Her heels tap lightly on the stone, her skirt swaying with each step—pretty and bright, just like her. Every now and then, she bumps her shoulder into mine, playful and light, as if to make sure I’m still close.
We’ve just come from morning Mass—a quiet little service, the kind most people don’t bother with during the week. But I like it that way. The church feels softer when it’s quiet, like it’s breathing. The pews creek gently, the candles burn slower, and the prayers feel like they float higher when there aren’t so many voices all at once.
Bea doesn’t usually come on weekdays, but she said she would today. I think maybe her Nonna asked her to, but I didn’t say anything. I was just glad to have her sitting beside me in the pew, even if she fidgeted a little and forgot the second verse of the communion hymn.
I don’t mind. I like it.
Our arms brush as we walk. Hers warm, mine tucked closer to my chest. She smells faintly of orange blossom and lipstick. I still smell of incense.
“Mass was shorter than usual today,” she says lightly, looking up at the sky. “Reverend Father must have skipped one of his long-winded parables.”
I smile softly. “Maybe he sensed we were all distracted by the heat.”
“Mm, maybe. Or maybe even the Holy Spirit gets bored sometimes.”
I laugh—a light, soft sound—and she grins, pleased to have pulled it from me.
We round the corner toward Via San Lorenzo, heading back toward the café. The city feels quite still, as if reluctant to wake. Sunlight filters through the trees, casting delicate shadows over the stone walls and worn storefronts.
Then Bea glances at me sideways, a little too casual.
“Did you hear about Lucia?”
I turn my head toward her. “Lucia D’Amato?”
She nods, eyes forward. “She’s pregnant.”
I blink. “What?”
“Two months along.”
My feet falter slightly, and she slows beside me to match my pace.
“Lucia?” I repeat, still unsure I’ve heard correctly.
Bea nods again, then leans a little closer like she’s slipping me a secret. “Giovanni Ferri.”
I stop walking altogether.
“Giovanni? But… Signora Imelda’s son?”
Bea’s lips twist into a knowing half-smile. “The very one.”
I shake my head slowly, trying to understand. “But… Lucia and Giovanni?”
“I know,” Bea says, as if she’d expected my disbelief.
I picture Signora Imelda immediately—petite and soft-spoken, with silver curls tucked into a delicate scarf and hands that always smelled of lavender and flour. She never missed a Sunday Mass, always left a prayer card tucked into the pews. I can’t imagine her as a grandmother yet.
I walk again, slower now, the news still settling in my chest. “They must’ve been in love,” I say gently. “Maybe it happened quickly. Maybe he fell for her laugh, or her wit. She’s always been charming in that quiet way, hasn’t she?”
Bea hums beside me. “Charming, sure.”
“Maybe he saw something beautiful in her,” I continue softly, imagining it in my mind. “Something others missed. Maybe he couldn’t help himself. Maybe he knew she was the one, right from the start. They’ll get married, of course, and then… It'll be a lovely life. A small house, a garden. He’ll bring her fresh bread from his mother’s kitchen, and she’ll teach their children the rosary.”
Bea makes a sound that’s somewhere between amusement and affection.
I glance at her. “What?”
“Tesoro, you really do live in a painting.”
I laugh again, cheeks warming. “I just… I like to think the best of people.”
“Mm.” Her tone shifts slightly, a little heavier. “Giovanni wants nothing to do with her.”
I stop again.
Bea sighs, tugging gently on my sleeve to keep us moving. “His family’s forcing the wedding. Reverend Father nearly burst a vein when he found out.”
“But… that’s awful.”
“It’s real,” Bea says simply. “And that’s what happens when girls aren’t careful. You give a man your body, and if he’s the wrong one, all you’re left with is a prayer and a belly full of consequence.”
Her words hit hard, and I fall quiet for a moment, watching the way sunlight dances along the stone path ahead of us.
“I still believe it should mean something,” I say quietly.
Bea looks at me again, her expression softening.
“I think… love should be gentle,” I continue, my voice careful. “It should be quiet and slow. Something that builds—not something that burns and disappears. Not something that leaves a girl abandoned with a child and a name she can’t even say without her heart breaking.”
Bea’s smile returns, but this time it’s softer. Fonder. The way one smiles at a delicate flower blooming in the wrong season.
I know she doesn’t agree with me. But she never says so outright.
Instead, she slips her arm through mine, and we fall into step again, the hem of her dress brushing lightly against my leg.
“You know what I think?” she says after a beat.
“What?”
“I think one day, you’re going to love someone so fiercely, it’ll shake you.”
I smile faintly. “I think if I ever do, it’ll be the kind of love that makes me better.”
Bea leans in, her shoulder pressing gently into mine. “Just don’t let him ruin that softness in you, cara mia. The world needs girls like you, even if it doesn’t deserve them.”
I smile, cheeks warming, but I don’t say anything. I am not quite sure what she means.
As we cross the narrow street, the café comes into view, its little wooden sign swaying in the breeze, the painted letters faded slightly with time. A lace curtain flutters in the open window, and the scent of warm sugar and roasted coffee drifts into the air before we even reach the door.
Bea steps ahead and pushes it open, the bell above the door chiming gently as we walk inside.
The familiar warmth wraps around me at once.
The café smells like honeyed pastries, fresh espresso, and a hint of almond. Shelves of poetry books and old novels line the walls, and a little radio hums a soft Italian tune in the corner.
Behind the counter, Nonna stands with a dishcloth in hand, wiping flour from the pastry display glass. Her silver-streaked curls are pinned into a tidy bun, and her floral apron is tied snugly over her dress. There’s a smudge of sugar dust on her cheek, and she hasn’t noticed it yet.
The moment she sees us, her face lights up.
“There you are, my girls,” she says, setting the cloth aside and opening her arms.
Bea walks straight into the embrace before me, grinning as she kisses Nonna’s cheek. I follow with a quieter hug, wrapping my arms gently around her middle and pressing my face against the soft fabric of her apron.
“You didn’t come to Mass,” I say softly as I pull back.
Nonna chuckles, brushing her hand over my hair. “Ah, tesoro, these old bones needed one more hour of rest. I’ll go this evening, you know I will.”
I nod, because she always does—always in the last pew, with her well-worn missal and her handkerchief tucked in her sleeve.
She was the one who taught me how to fold my hands properly during prayer. The one who taught me to kneel without leaning on the pew and to bow my head when I said “Amen.”
She’s always been my beginning.
I don’t remember my parents. Not really. Nonna says I was just a newborn when the flu swept through Melbourne. Took them both within days of each other.
Bea sets her bag down behind the counter and stretches her arms with a soft groan. “If you tell me we’re making lemon biscotti today, I might cry from happiness.”
“Now why would an old woman make a young child cry?” Nonna teases, already turning back toward the counter.
We fall into the gentle rhythm of the café. I tie on my apron and begin arranging the pastry trays while Bea wipes down the tables, humming along to the music. Nonna moves between us, preparing the espresso machine.
“Lunetta,” she calls, nodding toward the front window, “bring cream to Signor Paolo, please.”
I lift the small silver tray and carry it to the round table by the window, where an older gentleman in a tweed coat is already unfolding his newspaper.
“Good morning, Signor Paolo,” I say with a small smile, setting the tray gently in front of him.
He glances up and beams. “Ah, my angel. You always bring the cream like it’s holy water.”
I feel my face warm as I laugh softly. “Nonna says everything tastes better with a little sweetness.”
“She’s right. Always has been.”
I shake a little cinnamon into his cappuccino, just the way he likes it. “Would you like an extra biscuit today?”
“You spoil me.”
As I return to the counter, the bell rings again, and a young mother steps in with her little boy clinging shyly to her skirt. He peeks up at me with wide eyes.
“Hello there,” I say softly, kneeling down just a little. I hold out a biscotto, wrapped neatly in a napkin. “This is for being very brave this morning.”
His small hands reach out to take it. “Grazie,” he whispers, eyes still round.
I smile. “You’re welcome.”
His mother thanks me and makes her order.
Bea leans over from the counter, smirking. “I told you—nun material.”
“I’m not,” I laugh, shaking my head as I stand again.
“Hmm,” she says, tapping her chin dramatically. “You say that now.”
“Everything deserves a little grace,” I say, brushing the crumbs from my apron.
The hours pass in a gentle rhythm—light chatter, soft music, the quiet clink of porcelain and silver spoons. Sunlight shifts across the floor, and the scent of warm bread fills every corner of the room.
When the clock nears two, Bea glances at it and sighs. “I should go. Mama’s waiting for me—she needs help with the hem on that wedding dress.”
“You’ve worked hard today,” Nonna says, wiping her hands on her apron. She opens the drawer and pulls out a few folded bills.
“Nonna—no,” Bea protests, raising her hands.
“Take it,” she insists, slipping the money into Bea’s hand with a firm nod. “And bring your mama some treats.”
She tucks a few almond cookies and a slice of lemon cake into a small paper bag, tying it with string before pressing it into Bea’s arms.
“You’ll make me fat,” Bea grins.
“You’ll grow sweeter,” Nonna replies, kissing her cheek.
Bea turns to me and pulls me into a hug after taking off her apron. “See you tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t let her eat all the biscotti,” she whispers to Nonna before she walks away.
The bell jingles again as the door swings shut behind her.
The café quiets once more. No customers for now. Just the soft hum of the radio.
I take off my apron and wander to the little window seat near the bookshelf. Curling my legs beneath me, I settle into the cushion and open my Bible. The pages are soft and familiar, my fingertips brushing the corner where I tucked a pressed flower last week.
I read slowly, tracing each word with my eyes, letting them rest in my heart.
A few minutes later, I feel the soft press of fingers on my chin.
I glance up.
Nonna stands over me, smiling so fondly that it makes my chest flutter.
“You’re blessed, piccola mia,” she says gently, brushing a loose curl from my face. “So very blessed.”
I smile, cheeks warm, heart full.
“I don’t feel blessed now,” I say softly, leaning into Nonna’s touch. “I just feel happy.”
She smiles, her eyes warm. “Happiness is a blessing, piccola mia.”
I nod, hugging my Bible to my chest. The scent of sugar and old paper clings to the pages. Everything feels peaceful—soft, simple, good.
The golden light in the café is starting to fade as evening stretches across the street outside. The shadows climb slowly across the floor, the lace curtains fluttering faintly with the breeze from the open window.
Nonna glances at the clock and unties her apron, wiping her hands on a folded cloth.
“I should go before it gets too dark. Mass will be starting soon.”
I straighten in my seat. “I can lock up. You always say I’m old enough now.”
She pauses, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the counter. “I don’t like leaving you alone at night. Not even for a little while.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, standing up and smoothing my dress. “I’ve locked up before.”
Nonna hesitates, watching me for a moment. Her eyes scan the café as if trying to see something I’ve missed. Then, slowly, she sighs.
“Keep the door bolted after you close, capito? Don’t answer for anyone.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
She walks over and kisses my cheek. “Go straight home okay?”
I nod, watching as she gathers her shawl and steps out into the dusky street. The little bell over the door chimes behind her, and then she’s gone—her silhouette fading between the last bits of sunlight and shadow.
The café feels quieter without her.
I begin moving slowly through the space, wiping down the tables one by one. The chairs creak as I lift and flip them upside down onto the tabletops. I hum a little under my breath—nothing in particular, just the tune that had been playing on the radio earlier.
I’m halfway through straightening the napkin holders when the bell above the door rings again.
I glance toward the entrance without thinking, a smile already forming. “I’m so sorry, sir, we’re—”
My voice stops mid-sentence.
My smile vanishes.
A man stumbles into the doorway, shoulders lurching forward like he’s about to fall. One arm clutches the frame, fingers slipping against the glass.
The first thing I see is the blood.
So much of it.
It’s soaked into his shirt, dark and heavy, blooming across his chest like an open wound. His jacket hangs from one shoulder, half-shredded and stiff with dried crimson. His left side is worse—his ribs visible through a gash in the fabric, skin torn and glistening. Bone juts out just beneath the flesh. There’s something wet and glimmering beneath it, something I wish I hadn’t seen.
His face is pale—gray, almost—and one eye is swollen shut. There’s a trail of blood down his temple, crusted into his stubble, and his lips are cracked and trembling.
For a heartbeat, I just stare.
Then I move, rushing toward him on instinct, heart pounding.
“Oh—oh my God—you’re hurt! Please, come in, per favore—let me help you—”
He lifts his head slightly. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. He sways forward again.
“Figlia di Dio… my eyes don’t deceive me” he mutters, breath rasping. “Lunetta Sofia Fiore.”
My feet stop mid-step.
I blink at him.
“What…?”
How did he know my name?
“Lunetta,” he says again, stronger this time, though his voice is breaking. “Listen—senti… The gold… the diamonds… è tutto tuo—they belong to you.”
I take a step back.
My fingers press to my chest. “I—…”
“It’s blood money,” he whispers, staggering into the room. “It’s all blood money. But it’s yours. è tuo, capisci? It’s yours.”
I see it now—the trail behind him. A smear of red where his boots dragged against the floor. The way his ribs shift unnaturally beneath the torn skin. His breathing is labored—wet and shallow, like something is rattling inside him.
I want to help him—I do—but something about his eyes makes my knees feel weak. The way they stare at me like he’s looking through me.
He takes another lurching step—and collapses.
I scream. The sound tears from my throat without thinking.
I rush toward him, dropping to my knees beside him, hands fluttering near his shoulders.
“Please, stay with me—don’t move—don’t—oh God—Nonna—Nonna isn’t here—”
His mouth opens again, his teeth stained red.
His eyes flick toward mine, wide and wild. “è tuo,” he gasps. “Don’t let them take it.”
His hand lashes out suddenly, grabbing my ankle.
I scream again—a piercing cry that echoes through the empty café.
I try to jerk away, but his grip tightens. He’s shaking—his entire body trembling with effort, blood pooling under him, soaking into the floorboards.
“Can’t you hear?!” he cries, voice cracking into a shout. “It’s yours! è tuo! Loro vogliono rubarlo—they want to steal it! But it’s yours!”
“Stop—please—let go—!” I cry, heart racing, fingers slipping on the floor as I try to pull back.
His grip finally loosens, hand falling away from my leg.
His eyes roll upward, mouth opening again—but this time it’s just blood.
A thick, dark stream spurts from his lips.
His body seizes—legs jerking, arms twitching—then falls still with a final, wet gasp.
The sound of his last breath echoes in my ears, heavy and broken.
I stay frozen on the floor, breath coming in quick bursts, chest heaving, my ankle still tingling where his hand had gripped me.
He body goes limp and I let out another scream.