Chapter Three - Lunetta
It’s past midnight, but I’m still curled on the floor near the café window, wrapped in the old wool blanket Nonna keeps for chilly mornings. She sits behind me, her arms snug around my shoulders, one hand stroking my hair with the kind of tenderness only she knows. Her shawl drapes over both of us now.
Her lips press against my temple every so often, murmuring prayers half under her breath, half into my skin. I think it’s more to calm herself than me.
Bea kneels on my other side, her palm moving in slow circles across my back. She doesn’t say anything—just watches me, her face drawn and pale, eyes flicking toward the door every time someone new steps in. Her expression is full of worry, brow creased like she’s trying to absorb the shock for me.
“I told her not to stay alone,” Nonna mutters, her voice low and hoarse with distress. “Madonna santa… my poor girl… Did you drink water? Her hands are cold, Beatrice—look at her hands. Cold like marble.”
“Nonna,” Bea says gently, but her voice is thick, too.
Uniformed officers move carefully through the café now, their boots tracking over the polished wood floors that just hours ago smelled of lemon polish and biscotti. Now, the room carries something heavier—sterile gloves, plastic zip bags, dried blood, and the murmur of radios clipped to belts.
Two officers are lifting the body onto a stretcher, their movements slow and mechanical, as if trying not to disturb what’s already beyond help. The man’s face is covered now, but I still see him when I blink. That moment when he gasped his last breath and collapsed into me. His grip on my ankle. The blood pooling around him. His words—those final, frantic words.
“è tuo.”
A soft voice pulls me back.
“Miss Fiore?”
I look up slowly. A woman in uniform crouches beside me, her notepad already open, pen resting gently between her fingers. She has sharp eyes, short brown curls tucked under her cap, and a kind sort of authority about her.
Beside her stands Sheriff Caladori, arms crossed, jaw set like a man still trying to figure out how the night took such a sharp turn.
After it happened, I remember crawling to the phone, fingers slipping over the numbers as my whole body shook.
I called Nonna first.
She didn’t answer.
She was still at evening Mass—sitting in the back pew, no doubt, where she always prayed long after the others had left. I called twice. Three times. Still nothing.
So I called Bea.
I don’t even remember what I said—just that I was crying, breathless, clutching the phone like it could anchor me.
“Help me!” I’d screamed into the receiver. “Someone died here—help me—please, Bea, help me!”
She told me later that she didn’t understand half of it, but the panic in my voice had been enough. She hung up and dialed the sheriff while already running toward the door, ignoring her mother yelling.
Sheriff Caladori hadn’t taken it seriously. Not at first. He thought Bea was exaggerating. Maybe a stray dog, a hurt bird, or some prank that had gotten out of hand.
He’d shown up in his old truck, casual and tired-eyed, muttering about young girls being too dramatic.
But when he saw the blood—when he saw the body—everything changed.
His face had gone pale. His hand reached for the radio faster than I’d ever seen.
Now he stands beside the officer questioning me, shoulders rigid, his badge still clipped to the corner of his belt. He’s known me since I was a child. Gave me my First Communion rose at the altar one spring. I wonder if he even recognizes me now, curled in a blanket with tears drying on my cheeks and a stranger’s blood on my shoes.
“Lunetta,” the policewoman says again, gently. “Can you tell me what happened? Anything you remember—the moment he came in?”
I swallow hard. My fingers twist in the edge of the blanket.
“He just… walked in,” I whisper. “I thought—he looked like he was going to fall. I ran toward him. There was so much blood.”
“Did you know him?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
My lips part—just a little. I feel the words rising like steam in my chest.
Sheriff Caladori glances down at me. “Lunetta,” he says softly. “It’s alright. You can tell her.”
è tuo… Lunetta Sofia Fiore… they want to steal it… the gold… the diamonds…
Then I glance at Nonna.
She’s holding me so tightly now, her cheek pressed to the top of my head, still murmuring soft prayers against my hair. Her hands are warm, but they’re trembling too. I can feel it.
And Bea… Bea’s eyes haven’t left my face. Her brows are knit together, her lips pressed into that worried little line she always makes when she’s scared and trying not to show it.
I don’t want them to think—
I don’t want them to think I had anything to do with him. I don’t want the sheriff looking at Nonna like she’s hiding secrets. I don’t want Bea to start asking questions I don’t know how to answer.
So I lower my gaze and whisper, “No… he didn’t say anything.”
The lie slides from my lips like a stone dropped in water. The policewoman nods, scribbles it down, and I hear the scratch of her pen on the page like a crack of thunder in my chest.
Forgive me, Lord…
I stare down at my knees, jaw trembling, lashes wet.
Forgive me for lying. I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to. But I saw Nonna’s face. I saw Bea’s eyes. I just didn’t want them to worry more. Please, please forgive me.
I press my palm to my heart, right where the cross on my necklace rests beneath my dress.
You know the truth, don’t You? Even if I don’t say it. Even if I’m afraid.
The officer thanks me gently and steps back, murmuring something to the sheriff.
I stay curled beneath the blanket, small and still, knees drawn close, lips moving in a quiet prayer no one hears.
Wash me clean. Please. I didn’t want to lie. I just… I didn’t want them to look at me different. I didn’t want them to think I’m dirty.
Nonna rocks me again, her hand brushing the curls from my face, humming something soft under her breath.
Bea leans closer and tucks the blanket higher around my shoulders. “You’re okay now,” she whispers. “It’s over.”
The man’s voice still echoes in my mind. His blood still stains the floor beneath my feet.
I lower my head and press my lips to the edge of the rosary wrapped around my wrist.
Please, Lord. Just let this be over. Please let it be over.
****
The clock ticks past 2:00 am.
We came home not long ago. Nonna called Bea’s mother immediately. She explained everything, and Bea stood beside her, twisting the cord of the kitchen phone around her fingers. I heard her mama’s voice through the receiver—worried, soft, offering prayers in between questions. She told Bea to stay here for the night, to look after me.
Bea said yes without even glancing at me. She just nodded and gave my hand a squeeze.
Now, Nonna is in the kitchen, stirring something over the stove. I catch faint whiffs of it through the half-open door—chamomile, fennel, a hint of lemon balm and anise. It’s the herbal tisana she always makes when someone’s sick or can’t stop crying. She calls it tisana della nonna, her mother’s recipe passed down like a blessing.
Bea walks with me into the bathroom, her fingers curled gently around my wrist.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, amore,” she says softly, switching on the light.
I stand by the sink as she unbuttons my dress, careful with every movement. The blood has dried along the hem. The fabric feels stiff in places. My fingers feel clumsy and I don’t know where to look, so I stare at the floor tiles.
“Arms up,” she murmurs gently.
I lift them and she slides the dress off my shoulders. The fabric falls to the floor, and I’m left in my bra and slip, both of which are damp from sweat and tears.
“I’ll get rid of these,” she says quietly, gathering up the clothes and folding them. I nod, eyes still downcast.
She hesitates, then brushes my curls back from my cheek. “You okay if I step out for a minute?”
“I’m alright,” I whisper.
She watches me a second longer, then leaves, closing the door behind her.
I turn toward the mirror, and my breath catches.
I look strange. Different.
My hair is a mess—thick auburn curls clumped together, tangled and frizzy at the ends. My cheeks are blotchy from crying.
I undo my bra slowly, letting it fall from my shoulders. Then I peel off the damp slip and step into the shower.
The water is warm.
It rushes over me, soft and steady, curling steam around my face. My curls grow heavier under the weight of it, strands clinging to my skin. I cup my hands under the stream and splash water over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach.
I look down at my body—round and soft and full in places where other girls are flat.
My breasts are large, but still lifted and firm, the kind Nonna used to say were the kind women prayed for after three children. My waist narrows beneath them, curving in before it swells again at my hips—broad and heavy, with thighs that press close even when I stand straight. I’ve always been shaped like this. It never meant anything to me. It was just how I was made.
But tonight… I see it differently. Not in a bad way—just in a way that makes my cheeks burn.
The water trickles over my breasts, sliding along the curves before dripping from the tips. It feels warm, almost ticklish. My stomach rises and falls with each breath.
I press a hand to my belly. It’s soft there. I’ve always liked that part of me—round but gentle. Like the inside of fresh bread.
I tilt my head back under the stream and let the water soak my curls again. It slips down the strands, collecting at the ends. I close my eyes, letting it wash everything away—sweat, tears, blood, shame.
But the guilt stays.
Forgive me, Lord. I lied. I said he didn’t speak. But he did. You heard it. You were there.
I curl my arms around myself, fingers pressing lightly into my upper arms.
What if people find out? What if they ask again? What if someone tells them what he said?
The thought makes my heart beat faster.
What if they think I’m hiding something?
I press my forehead against the cool tile, water dripping down my cheeks like tears.
I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t want it. I just wanted to serve cream and light candles and read quietly in the café. Please, Lord. Take it away. Take the weight of it. I didn’t mean to lie. I just didn’t want Nonna to look at me like she didn’t know who I was.
I rub the soap along my arms, my neck, behind my ears, trying to scrub everything off—the fear, the memory, the wrongness.
The water keeps running.
I stay under it longer than I need to. Not because I’m dirty, but because I don’t know how to feel clean again.
Bea comes back quietly, her shoes making soft thuds against the floor tiles. Her hair is pulled back now, her cheeks slightly flushed from the cold. I’m still beneath the stream when she knocks gently on the doorframe.
“You okay, dolcezza?” she asks.
I nod a little, wrapping my arms around myself.
She grabs a towel from the shelf and comes closer, careful not to splash herself as she reaches past the curtain. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”
I step out, shivering a little from the contrast in temperature, and she wraps me snugly in the towel before patting gently at my shoulders, then helping dry my hair.
“You smell better already,” she says with a tiny smile. “Less… trauma, more clean pastry girl.” She dries the rest of my curls slowly, careful not to tug too hard at the knots. “You’ve got hair like spun cinnamon,” she murmurs. “All this fluff and shine… bet half the saints in heaven are jealous.”
I smile faintly, cheeks pink.
She leads me to my room and she helps me into my cotton nightdress, easing the sleeves over my shoulders, then pauses for a moment. “You alright if I go toss those clothes out now?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
She touches my cheek gently. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”
I hear her asking Nonna for a lighter.
When she returns after a few minutes, the scent of burning fabric still clings faintly to her coat. She waves her hand in front of her nose and jokes, “Well, that was the most dramatic laundry day I’ve ever had.” She takes my hands. “Nonna wants us.”
Nonna is already waiting at the kitchen table with three steaming cups on a silver tray. The tisana glows warm amber in the light, little flecks of fennel and lemon peel swirling gently at the top.
“Sit, sit,” she urges, pulling out chairs. “Drink this, girls. It calms the nerves and settles the heart.”
Bea takes one with a wink. “If it doesn’t settle mine…”
I force a smile and Nonna huffs softly but she’s smiling, just a little. “Drink. And then we pray.”
The warmth spreads through my chest as I sip. It tastes of home—of healing and gentleness and quiet comfort. The fennel is soft, the lemon balm brighter. A whisper of honey lingers at the end, like kindness left on the tongue.
Nonna finishes her tea first and sets her cup down with a soft clink.
“We should pray together,” she says quietly, her hands already clasping the edge of her rosary. “When the world trembles, prayer steadies it.”
We bow our heads, each of us adding soft murmured words into the space between us.
“May angels guard her sleep tonight,” Nonna whispers.
“May no harm come near this house,” Bea adds gently.
I close my eyes, cradling the warm cup against my chest.
“Please, Lord,” I whisper, “keep the darkness far from us. Wrap us in Your light.”
When the last Amen is spoken, the warmth in the room feels thicker—woven from something more than just tea and candlelight. Something sacred.
Nonna brushes her fingers over my curls before kissing my forehead.
“Go to bed, my love,” she murmurs. “Let your soul rest now.”
Bea stands and gently takes her arm. “I’ll stay with her tonight, Nonna. You should sleep.”
Nonna hesitates, but then sighs and nods, her eyes soft with gratitude. “Bless you, figlia. You’ve always been her guardian angel.”
She kisses me one more time, fingers trembling against my cheek, then she walks to her room down the hall but not without glancing back at me to make sure I'm still here.
Bea helps me to my bed and tucks the blanket up to my chin, brushing my curls off my face with slow, careful fingers.
I glance at her, my throat tight. “Bea?”
She looks at me, eyes soft. “Mm?”
“I’m scared.”
She slips under the blanket beside me and pulls me close, one arm curling protectively around my shoulder.
“Don’t be,” she whispers. “I’ll protect you.”
Her voice is warm and certain, like sunlight through stained glass. Her arms feel safe, her presence a shield. I nestle closer, pressing my cheek against her shoulder.
Her breathing slows, and so does mine.
Eventually, my eyes drift closed.
And the room fades.
I’m back in the café.
But it’s different this time.
The walls seem taller. The shadows stretch longer. The tablecloths ripple even though no wind moves them. The bell above the door keeps chiming, again and again, though no one enters.
Then I see him.
The man.
He’s on the floor again, curled where he fell, his blood staining the wood a deeper red than I remember. I stumble backward.
“Bea!” I call out, voice cracking. “Bea, please—he’s here again—he’s still here—”
But it isn’t Bea who comes.
It’s Sheriff Caladori.
He walks in slowly, eyes sharp, expression strange. He’s not holding his usual notepad. He’s holding my rosary.
“You lied,” he says calmly. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I didn’t— I swear, I didn’t know anything—”
“Where are the diamonds?”
My knees wobble. I try to step back, but the floor stretches away from me, like it’s shifting beneath my feet.
“I don’t know,” I say again, voice smaller. “Please, I don’t know anything about diamonds—”
The man on the floor begins to move.
His limbs jerk. His head lifts slowly, lips still dark with blood.
And then, horribly, he stands.
He sways beside Sheriff Caladori, chest heaving, mouth open. His eyes burn into mine.
Together, they start chanting.
“Where is the gold… where are the diamonds… Where is the gold…”
“Stop—please stop—I don’t know—I don’t know!”
But they keep repeating it, voices rising, circling me like a storm.
“Where is the gold… where are the diamonds… Where is the gold…”
I cover my ears, sobbing now, heart slamming against my ribs.
“I didn’t ask for this! I don’t want this! Please, stop, stop!”
But they don’t.
Their voices follow me deeper into the dream—louder, closer, clawing at the edges of me.
Where is the gold… where are the diamonds…
I shoot upright with a gasp, heart pounding so loud I can feel it echoing in my throat.
My nightdress clings to my skin, damp with sweat. My hands shake as I press them to my chest, trying to calm the wild rhythm inside me. The blanket slips down to my lap, and the coolness of the early morning brushes against my arms.
It’s still dark. But not the same darkness as before. The sky outside is shifting, soft and dusky, painted with the faintest blush of pink. Morning is coming. But my body doesn’t feel safe yet. I glance to my side.
Bea is still asleep beside me, curled on her side, one arm hugging her pillow. Her mouth is slightly open, her lashes resting gently against her cheeks. She looks peaceful, untouched by nightmares, as if sleep has wrapped her in a comfort I can’t seem to find.
One of her legs is sticking out from under the blanket, her foot dangling off the edge of the bed.
I reach out, intending to pull the blanket over her again—just to keep her warm. My fingers graze the fabric, and I pause.
Something shifts in the corner of my vision.
I turn toward the window.
At first, I think I’m still dreaming.
But then my breath catches all over again.
There’s a man outside the glass.
He’s standing just beyond the sill, tall and dark, his figure half-cast in shadow, half-glowed by the faint light beginning to rise behind him. His head is tilted slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the window frame, and his face—
His face is looking straight at me.
My stomach drops.
I freeze, blinking hard. My heart stutters.
No… no, that’s not real. That can’t be real.
I slap my own cheek, not hard, but enough to feel it. The sting is sharp and real. I rub my eyes, then blink again, slowly, hoping—praying—he’ll vanish like fog.
But he doesn’t.
He’s still there.
His eyes are on me.
Staring.
Watching.
I don’t know how long I sit there, frozen, my hand still hovering over the blanket. Everything feels distant—my fingers, my breath, even the weight of my own body.
Then the man moves—just a little. His head lowers by an inch, as if he’s studying me more closely.
That’s when the scream tears out of me.
High, sharp, breaking from my throat like a cracked bell.
“BEA!”
She jolts awake instantly, flailing under the blanket.
“What?! What is it—what’s wrong?!”
“There’s someone—someone outside!” I cry, pointing toward the window. “There—right there!”
Bea scrambles upright, grabbing the blanket and twisting to look.
But the man is gone.
Just a pale morning sky and our small backyard beyond the glass.
Nothing else.
No shadow.
No figure.
Bea rushes to the window and yanks the curtain aside, peering out. Her breath hitches.
“There’s no one,” she says after a moment, her voice low and careful. “Lune… I don’t see anyone.”
“But he was there,” I whisper, clutching my hands together. “I swear he was there, Bea. I wasn’t dreaming, I swear on everything—I saw him looking right at me.”
Bea turns and kneels beside me, brushing the hair from my damp forehead as I sob.
“Bea, you have to believe me, he looked at me. Bea!” I cry holding her.
“I believe you, it’s okay shhh, he is gone now,” she says standing up to hug me.
“He was there Bea. He was right there!”
“I know, I know Lune. He is gone now.”
My tears soak into her clothes as I beg her to believe me.