Chapter Five – Lunetta
It’s Wednesday, and the sky looks like a painting today. A soft blue, brushed gently with streaks of pale white clouds, the kind that look like stretched-out cotton. The kind you want to lie beneath with your hands folded over your chest and your heart quiet, like you’re listening for angels.
I clutch my little handbag tighter as we step out of the church. It’s warm from the sun, and I can feel the rosary beads inside pressing against my fingers. They always feel better when I hold them—like they remember every prayer I’ve whispered into them. Maybe even the ones I was too afraid to say out loud.
Bea walks beside me, humming softly. Her skirt sways as she walks, and her heels make tiny clicks on the cobblestones. I try to keep my steps light, too, like nothing’s wrong. Like everything’s just as it used to be.
But it isn’t.
I still see him sometimes. The man from the cafe, the dead man.
Not always when I’m awake—but in dreams, or in the way the shadows curl around my window at night. Sometimes I think I hear his voice. Not loud… just barely there, like wind slipping through a crack in the door.
Even though Nonna says I’m healing, I know I’m not all better yet. Not on the inside.
She took me to the church hospital last week, after I saw the man at the window. The doctors there said I had something called post-traumatic stress disorder. I’d never heard of it before, but they spoke gently and explained it’s what happens when something scary doesn’t stop feeling scary, even after it’s over.
They said it could cause nightmares and shaky feelings, and that my heart might race sometimes without warning. That I might feel scared even when nothing is happening.
They gave me little white pills to take before bedtime, to help my body rest properly, and a tiny lavender-scented sachet to keep near my pillow. The nurse also gave me a breathing exercise paper—four seconds in, hold, four out. Like prayer, she said. Like the rhythm of a psalm.
The parish sends sisters to me, just to talk and pray with me. They read me verses about peace and strength and tell me I’m brave, even when I don’t feel like it.
Nonna tries very hard not to cry in front of me, but I’ve seen her wipe her cheeks in the kitchen more than once. And Bea—she comes every day, even if it’s just to make me laugh or bring me fresh crostata. Once, she painted my nails with a soft pink polish that smelled like strawberries. She even braided my hair while we watched the soup simmer. And her mother brought me a soft new shawl last weekend, saying it would keep the bad dreams out if I wrapped it around my shoulders before bed.
Everyone’s been so kind. So kind that it hurts because I don’t deserve it, not after I lied to all of them.
Because I keep pretending I’m okay now. I say I’m sleeping better. I smile when they ask if I’m fine. I say the prayers louder and walk straighter, even though my chest still feels like it’s holding a secret I can’t put down.
And every time I try to forget, I remember the way he grabbed my ankle. The way his blood felt warm through the fabric of my stockings. The way he looked at me, like he knew me.
I hug my arms to my chest now, fingers rubbing softly over my cardigan. It’s embroidered with little daisies along the hem, a gift from Bea’s mama. She said it made me look like spring.
As we reach the stone steps outside the church, the heavy wooden doors still open behind us, I hear someone call my name.
“Lunetta.”
I turn quickly.
Father Romani is walking toward us, his cassock fluttering slightly with each step. He looks exactly the same as always—tall and thin, with silver in his beard and soft lines around his eyes. He’s been away on pilgrimage these past few weeks, but now he’s back.
“Father,” I say softly, dipping my head in greeting.
He smiles gently, placing one hand over his heart. “I heard about what happened, child. I only just returned, or I would have come sooner.”
“It’s alright,” I whisper, though my voice wavers.
He looks at me closely, and I lower my gaze. I feel small under his eyes. Not because he means to make me feel that way, but because I know he would see it in me if I held his gaze too long—the fear, the guilt, the ache I’ve been hiding.
He steps closer, gently taking my hand in his. His palm is warm, his grip soft and steady.
“What you witnessed was not of this world,” he says kindly. “It was an attack from the devil, nothing more. He preys on the innocent, hoping to shake the faith of the pure-hearted.”
I nod slowly, but my stomach twists.
“You must not let him succeed,” he continues. “You are under the protection of our Holy Mother. She walks beside you, child, even when your heart trembles. You have not faltered.”
But I have.
I lied. I said he didn’t speak. I let the lie fall like a stone, and now it sits inside me, heavy and cold.
“Do you believe me?” he asks softly, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of my hand.
“Yes, Father,” I whisper, though my throat tightens.
Father Romani lifts his other hand and touches it gently to my forehead, murmuring a blessing.
“Holy Mary, shield her. Holy Spirit, guard her. May peace settle upon her mind, and courage rise within her heart.”
I close my eyes.
His fingers press softly over my brow, and I try to breathe like the nurse taught me.
Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.
When the blessing ends, he gives my hand one last squeeze and lets go.
“You are stronger than you think, Lunetta,” he says. “Your heart is a vessel of light.”
I nod again, trying to believe it.
He walks back toward the church entrance, greeting another parishioner along the way.
“You did well,” Bea says softly.
I turn to her and take her hand in mine. Her fingers are a little warmer than mine, and her skin always smells faintly like orange hand cream. I give her a tiny smile, and she squeezes gently—just once, like a secret message between friends.
We walk together down the path from the church steps, heading back toward the café. The sun is brighter now. I imagine the angels inside are smiling too.
I tell myself I’m fine.
I take one step at a time, counting them in my head like I used to when I was little. One, two, three… It makes everything feel smaller.
But just as we turn onto the narrow lane that leads toward the café, a group of boys rounds the corner from the opposite end of the street. Three of them, tall and laughing, walking with the kind of loudness that always makes me feel smaller.
Bea sees them first. I feel her grip on my hand tighten.
“Oh no,” she mutters under her breath. “Not today…”
The one in front slows down when he sees us. His smile softens, and he lifts a hand in greeting. He’s taller than the others—his hair neat, his collar pressed, the sleeves of his buttoned shirt rolled just enough to show his tanned forearms.
“Lunetta,” he says gently.
It’s Rafaele Caladori. He's Sheriff Caladori’s nephew.
I’ve known his name for years. Everyone always said he was respectful, well-brought-up, and steady. The kind of boy who helps carry groceries for old ladies and volunteers at church fundraisers. The kind of boy you could trust.
But he’s also the boy who’s been asking me to walk with him since I turned sixteen.
His friends—Alessandro Ferretti and Tomaso Greco—stand behind him, a little less polished, a little too amused, but they stay back while Rafaele steps closer.
Bea lets out a small groan and tries to keep walking, tugging at my arm like she’s ready to pull me straight past them. “Come on, let’s not do this.”
But Rafaele’s eyes stay on me.
“Please,” he says softly. “Lunetta… can I talk to you?”
His voice is so quiet. Kind. The way he says my name makes something flutter in my stomach—not like a butterfly. More like a feather brushing the inside of my chest.
Bea huffs again, annoyed. “You don’t need to talk to anyone, Lune. Let’s go.”
But I pause.
I don’t know why. Maybe because his tone isn’t teasing like before. Maybe because he didn’t grin like he usually does. He looks… worried.
“I’ll just talk for a minute,” I say quietly, touching Bea’s wrist.
She stares at me, frowning, then lets out a sigh. “Fine. But I’m not going far.”
She steps aside, her arms folding as she walks over to where the other boys are loitering by the old stone fence. I see her keeping her eyes on me.
Rafaele takes a small step forward. “I heard what happened from my uncle,” he says gently. “At the café. Everyone’s talking, but I didn’t want to listen to gossip and my uncle wouldn’t give us much detail. I wanted to see you for myself.”
“Oh,” I whisper, lowering my gaze. “I’m fine now.”
He frowns. “You don’t look fine. You look pale… tired.”
“I’m alright,” I say again, softer this time.
He reaches out—just lightly—and brushes a loose curl from my shoulder. His fingers linger a second too long near the edge of my dress. I feel his eyes travel lower, then shift back up too quickly.
I pretend I didn’t notice.
“I’ve been praying for you,” he says. “I lit a candle for your healing. Every morning, I’ve prayed Psalm 121 for you. ‘The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in…’”
My heart tightens.
“I know you’re a good girl, Lunetta. A special one. Different from the others.” He smiles again, softer now. “I’ve told my parents about you. They already approve.”
I blink. “They… do?”
He nods. “They say you’d be the perfect wife. Gentle. God-fearing. Modest. Everything a woman should be.”
My fingers curl around my rosary in my bag.
“I’ve loved you for years,” he says suddenly, his voice breaking just a little. “Not just liked. Loved. The way Jacob loved Rachel. The way Boaz cherished Ruth. You’re the woman I want beside me.”
My breath catches.
“I know you’ve never looked at me that way. Not before. But maybe now… maybe you could think about it.” His voice drops lower, more hopeful. “We could marry, if you gave me a chance. I’d take care of you. You’d never have to worry about anything. You’d be safe.”
The words press into my mind, one by one.
Wife. Marriage. Children.
Maybe… maybe he’s right.
I’m twenty now. A woman. Maybe this is the answer. Maybe this is what God wants me to do—to be a good wife, to raise faithful children, to keep a home full of light and peace. If I marry Rafaele, I wouldn’t have to lie anymore. I’d have a purpose again. And Bea wouldn’t worry. And Nonna could rest easy knowing someone strong was watching over me.
I could be good again. Whole again.
“Would you meet me this evening?” he asks gently. “We could take a walk. Just talk more. Get to know each other.”
I hesitate. “I don’t think Nonna would like that…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his fingers near mine. “You don’t have to tell her yet. Girls see their suitors in secret all the time. We just need to talk, Lunetta. That’s all. Once we’re sure… then we can tell your Nonna.”
It feels wrong. But not wrong enough.
He’s smiling again. And I… I want to stop feeling like something is broken inside me. Maybe this will help.
“Alright,” I whisper. “Just for a little while.”
His face lights up.
He reaches down and takes my hand, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. “You won’t regret this.”
He walks away with his friends, laughing again as they disappear around the bend.
Bea is by my side in a second.
“Are you serious?” she asks, clearly unimpressed.
I glance at her, trying to smile. “He was sweet.”
Bea snorts. “He’s a snake. He’s best friends with Giovanni Ferri, remember? The one who left Lucia pregnant and didn’t even claim her. That whole family had to leave town from shame.”
“That wasn’t Rafaele,” I say quietly.
“They’re the same kind of boys.”
I hold my bag tighter, looking down at my shoes. “I might marry him.”
Bea stares at me.
I nod, more to myself than her. “I think… I think it’s time.”
The softness in her face tightens, her mouth pulling into that little line she makes when she’s holding back something sharp.
“Lune, he’s a two-faced rat,” she says, a little too loud, a little too fast. “He’s a 24-year-old pretending to be a nice guy when he’s just another boy chasing skirts.”
I blink at her.
Her words feel heavy—too harsh for the morning sun, too rough against my ears.
“He’s not even in school anymore,” she adds, gesturing down the road as if Rafaele’s sins were lined up on the cobblestones. “If he was so good, so god-fearing, he’d be in the city, working like the rest of his mates, not hanging around church corners with two other losers pestering na?ve twenty-year-olds.”
My mouth parts in quiet disbelief. “That’s not fair…”
Bea crosses her arms. “It is fair. You just don’t want to hear it.”
My heart aches suddenly, like she’s struck something tender inside me. “And how would you know he’s a loser?”
Bea blinks at me, startled by the sharpness in my tone.
I take a breath and press a hand over my chest, trying to settle the heat rising there. “I don’t want a rich man,” I say softly, stubbornly. “I don’t need someone with shiny cars or big city jobs. That’s not what matters.” I look down at my shoes, the leather of them dulled from so many steps. “All we need is a roof over our heads, food to eat… and God. And the Blessed Mother watching over us.”
I feel my cheeks warm as I speak. The words tumble out clumsily, like they don’t quite fit together. But I believe them.
Bea sighs, rubbing her brow. “Lune, it’s not about riches—”
“It is to you,” I whisper.
“No. It’s about who he is. About what he really wants. You think he’s kind, but he stares at you like—like—” She stops herself, swallowing the rest of the sentence. “You deserve better.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I murmur, hugging my arms across my chest. “I just need… I need a little space.”
Her face softens again, guilt flickering in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says gently, stepping closer. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
But I step back, just slightly.
She reads it in my body before I even say the words.
“Please,” I whisper. “Just for a little while… I want to walk alone.”
She doesn’t argue. But her face crumples in that quiet way it always does when I wound her without meaning to. She nods, brushing her hair behind her ear, then turns and walks off down the street.
My throat tightens.
I don’t like seeing her walk away. I don’t like the hole she leaves behind. But I can’t stop myself from standing still, my hands clutched at my sides, my lashes heavy with tears.
I blink quickly, but it’s no use.
The wetness spills anyway.
****
The clock on the mantel ticks softly—each second pulling me closer to the time I said I wouldn’t think about.
Nonna has just retired to her room as early as I knew she would. I waited until I heard the soft thump of her bedroom door closing and the gentle rustle of her rosary beads.
My hands tremble a little as I unfasten the buttons on my nightdress and change into something else—something presentable, something simple but proper. A cream-colored blouse with delicate lace trim at the collar and a soft blue wool skirt that reaches past my knees, modest and sweet, the kind you’d wear to a quiet church lunch or a Sunday visit with neighbors. I smooth the fabric down over my hips, self-conscious of the way it clings to my body beneath the hem.
I wrap a light cardigan around my shoulders and check myself in the small mirror above the hallway table. I try to look calm. Proper. Normal. Like a girl on her way to something safe.
I slip out the back door quietly.
The cool evening breeze brushes against my skin. I walk down the little path, past the garden gate, until I reach the street corner just a bit away from the house. I sit down gently on the low pavement, folding my hands in my lap, my eyes scanning the road nervously.
The sky is beginning to dim, painted in dusky lavender and pale orange, and the street lamps are just starting to flicker to life. I tell myself this is fine. Just a little conversation. Just… getting to know someone. Like he said.
Still, my heart thumps too loudly in my chest.
Minutes pass.
Then I hear it.
A car turns into the street—an old black sedan. The music is loud, bouncing against the buildings, and the boys inside are laughing too much. Their voices carry even before the car stops.
I rise to my feet, brushing my skirt nervously, as the car pulls up near me.
I take a few steps closer.
And that’s when I hear it—Rafaele’s voice, low and smug.
“La mia scopata è qui—get out.”
My heart stutters.
One of the boys laughs and shoves the door open.
“Che stronzo, asshole,” he mutters as he steps out. The second boy snorts and whistles loudly.
“Look at those hips—God did not make her for convent walls.”
The other one laughs again. “That’s a holy handful if I’ve ever seen one.”
I don’t know where to look. My cheeks burn as they walk past me, their eyes lingering too long, too boldly. I fold my arms tighter around my chest.
They disappear around the corner, still laughing.
Rafaele leans out the open car window. His smile returns—sweet again, soft.
“Lunetta,” he says kindly, “come in, cara. It’s chilly.”
I hesitate at the edge of the pavement. “Could we… maybe talk outside instead?”
He chuckles, tapping the door panel. “But it’s cold, tesoro. Come on, I don’t bite.”
I swallow hard and step into the passenger seat, closing the door gently behind me.
The car smells strange—a mix of something sharp and sour, like old beer and peppermint. I notice a half-burnt cigarette in the ashtray, and two bottles clinking faintly in the backseat. One is open.
Rafaele notices me looking and chuckles again.
“Ah—don’t worry, that’s from my friends,” he says smoothly, waving a hand. “You know how they are. I don’t touch that stuff.”
But I catch the faint bitter tinge on his breath—it seeps into my nose, sharp and unmistakable.
I nod anyway, pretending to believe him.
He rolls the windows up, locking us in together, then turns toward me, resting his arm casually on the headrest behind my neck.
“I missed you all day,” he says softly. “You look beautiful. So soft. So good.”
I press my back deeper into the seat, trying not to blush.
“You always look like… something holy. Like a painting in a chapel. You know,” he continues, his voice lower now, almost husky, “a man could go mad thinking about you. Those lips, those curves…” His eyes drift down before returning to mine. “You don’t even know what you do to people.”
I shrink farther into the seat, trying to keep my knees pressed together, my hands folded tightly in my lap as if I can hide behind them. My blouse feels too thin now. My cardigan is too small. I’m suddenly too aware of my body, of how much space I take up beside him, of how his arm is draped so close it brushes my shoulder every time he shifts.
Rafaele’s voice turns syrupy. “You don’t have to be nervous, bella. I told you—I’ve wanted you for years.”
His hand drifts across the seat, grazing my wrist.
I pull my hand back gently, pressing it to my chest, but he just smiles like he finds it amusing.
“God made you soft,” he murmurs. “Made you perfect for a man to hold.”
Then he leans in again—closer this time—his shoulder nudging mine, his face tilting toward mine.
I try to pull away, turning my head, my breath catching in my throat. “I—I think we should talk more first—please—”
His fingers close around my neck—not hard, not choking, but firm enough that I feel the strength there. His thumb strokes beneath my jaw, and it makes my skin crawl.
“Don’t pretend it’s your first time,” he says softly, but the sweetness is gone now. His eyes darken with something else—something uglier.
“I—I’m not pretending,” I whisper, panic curling through my stomach, rising up my throat.
His face is too close, his breath tinged with alcohol. He leans in again, mouth open, and I turn my face sharply, trying to retreat against the door.
And then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three rapid, shattering bangs against the window behind him.
He flinches, eyes snapping toward the sound. “Che cazzo…”
He reaches for the button, rolls the window down in frustration.
“What the fuck do you want? I am busy here.”
Bea’s face appears.
Her face is framed in the open window, her features tight with fury, her hair mussed from running, her eyes gleaming like cold steel under the streetlight.
“Open the door,” she says, her voice lethal. “Now.”
Rafaele scoffs. “Oh, it’s you. What, you brought your claws? You think you’re scary, gattina?”
“I’ll carve my name into your face if you don’t let her out,” she says calmly. “Open it.”
He laughs mockingly and starts to roll the window back up.
In a blink, Bea lunges.
Her hand slams through the open window and grabs a fistful of his hair, twisting it so violently his head jerks sideways with a strangled yelp.
“Agh—che cazzo—let go—!”
But she doesn’t let go.
Her other hand grabs the edge of the window frame for balance, her knuckles going white with strain. And then—
She bites him. A full, monstrous bite.
Her teeth sink into the side of his nose—deep, vicious, grinding into cartilage and flesh.
He screams, a sound that doesn’t sound human—high, ragged, laced with agony. His whole body jolts, thrashing in his seat, arms flailing wildly.
“GET OFF ME, YOU CRAZY BITCH, GET OFF—!”
Bea’s jaw clamps tighter. I see blood spill from her mouth where her teeth tear deeper into his skin. She snarls through her bite, shaking her head just slightly like a dog ripping through prey.
Rafaele’s hand smashes against the dashboard, slapping for the lock. His foot slams the brake, his other hand pounding at her arm—but she doesn’t let go.
His screams turn guttural. He’s sobbing now. “LET GO, LET GO—!”
The lock finally pops.
I shove the door open and scramble out, falling onto the pavement, scraping my palms as I catch myself.
My chest heaves. I crawl away from the car, my knees catching on the hem of my skirt, breath breaking into sharp, panicked sobs. My whole body is shaking—from fear, from shame, from the terror I didn’t understand until it was too late.
Rafaele is still howling when Bea finally rips her teeth from his face with a sickening, wet sound. Blood drips from her mouth—his blood—and she spits hard onto the pavement.
He’s holding his nose, hunched over the steering wheel, weeping now. “You lunatic—my face—you bit my face—!”
She glares at him with a fury I’ve never seen before. Her lips are stained red, her chest rising fast.
“You touch her again,” she growls, “and I’ll finish the job.”
He scrambles to hit the gas, the car jerking forward with a violent jolt, tires skidding crooked down the road. His taillights vanish into the dark.
Bea stands there for a second longer, then lifts her chin and licks her own palm, wiping the blood off with disgust. “Rotten little dog,” she spits in the direction he fled.
Then she turns toward me.
Her face changes instantly.
“Lune,” she breathes.
I’m still on my knees, hands trembling, eyes glassy with tears. I try to speak, but only a choking sound comes out.
Bea rushes toward me, dropping down beside me, pulling me into her arms. I bury my face in her shoulder, sobbing, my fingers clutching the front of her coat.
“Shh,” she whispers. “You’re safe now. It’s alright. It’s over.”
My lips tremble as I gasp, “I didn’t know—I didn’t think—he was so sweet, Bea—he was so sweet—”
“It’s okay Lune, breathe,” she says fiercely, her hands smoothing down my hair.
“I thought—if I married him—if I was good—”
“Lune,” she says, holding me tighter, “it’s okay, it's okay.”