CHAPTER ONE

The rain fell like whispers — soft, steady and unforgiving — soaking into the old bones of Florence. An atmosphere that usually bring comfort to Alessia now taunting her, reminding her of what she had just lost. Narrow cobblestone streets gleamed under the gray sky, slick with water and age, each stone glistening like a memory too heavy to forget. Puddles quickly forms around the feet of wrought-iron balconies and marble columns, rippling with the passing of polished black shoes and unsmiling faces. The sound of church bells can be heard ringing from somewhere beyond the Duomo, muffled out by the low-hanging clouds and the hush of umbrellas opening like secrets. Ornate buildings with decade-old façade loomed tall, their fading frescoes watching over the living like ghosts carved into stone while the city hummed with the kind of stillness that carried weight.

A slow procession of sleek cars moved through the narrow alleys near the cathedral, their engines nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain. Mourners stood in small clusters beneath awnings and arches, their expressions guarded. The scent of wet pavement, old incense and freshly cut lilies mixed with the metallic tang of grief too long to withstand filled the air.

Alessia Moretti stood at the edge of it all, just outside the old chapel’s threshold, the black heels echoing faintly on the rain-slicked marble. Behind her, the city exhaled centuries of secrets. Before her, a coffin waited — and somewhere in between, the weight of everything unspoken pressed down, as if Florence itself was holding its breath.

“We gather here today, not only to bury a man, but to acknowledge the silence he leaves behind.” The priest begins and the subtle murmurs from the mourners seize. Alessia’s body stiffens as the priest’s voice floats over the pews like mist, slipping between candlelight and marble. She can barely hear the words , not because they didn’t reach her but because they didn’t touch anything real.

“Dario Moretti was many things to many people — a father, a protector, a public servant. Some knew him through his service, others through his stillness. He moved through this city with a certain weight — like stone beneath water — rarely loud, but always present.” Alessia holds herself back from rolling her eyes. To some, maybe. But to her? He was a locked door. A man who called her his daughter but never held her hands. Who gave her everything but never himself. She had grown up in his shadow, but never his warmth — a figure built from rules and routines, not memories. It has always been hard for her to get anyone to understand how distant her father was, because while she always felt the emptiness of his absence, others saw a girl who got everything she wanted and took that as fatherly love.

“Florence remembers men like Dario. It holds their names in stones and shadow. But memory, as we know, is not always a clear mirror. It is fogged with what was never said, with what was lost in the spaces between who we are, and who we pretend to be.” Once again, Alessia holds herself back. Florence remembers all these good deeds but it didn’t remember how he would turn his back on her whenever she cried, or how he never said her mother’s name. Let’s not forget how, at the age of ten, she had to learn to stop asking questions that left his jaw tight and his eyes far away.

“Today, we do not pretend, nor do we unravel any truth. We simply lay him down, beneath the same sky that has watched over our grief for centuries, and we let the rain do what it always does: fall, and keep falling.” The priest continues.

“But we do.” She thought, jaw tightening, reminding her of her father’s expression whenever she would mention certain topics as a child. We pretend that this city is the end. That this city doesn’t know where the blood was pooled. That Giuliana DeLuca isn’t seated three rows ahead, veiled in black like a widow to a man she was never married to, head bowed, fingers stoll and ringless, but smirking beneath her silence and occasionally looking around like she’s trying to find someone.

“May peace find what he never spoke. May love find what he left behind.”

“It’s a little too late for that,” She murmurs silently. The words lands on her like soft rain on cold stone. She didn’t cry. Not because she couldn’t, but because she had done all her grieving the moment she first realized her father was two people: One she lived with and the other she would spend the rest of her life trying to unearth.

As the casket is lowered, she didn’t whisper ‘goodbye’. She didn’t reach out to touch the roses. She simply watched with one thing on her mind: “Let peace find him, I’ll take the truth.”

The sound of the piano fills the air, along with the clattering of shoes and the clanking of champaign glasses. Men and women in black attire make their way up and down the room. Alessia holds in a breath as she sights another couple approaching her to offer their condolence. They looked like they couldn’t care less about her or her late father, but that didn’t surprise her as she knew all of this was just for show; the fake tears, half-assed sympathy, and side hugs. The only thing that seemed authentic about the entire ceremony was the melodious sound of the piano. She knew that tune like the back of her hand and it held so many memories; good, bad and ugly.

“Miss. Moretti, I am so sorry for your loss. He was such a good man,” A slightly obese woman with a thick accent says as the stretches out her arms as if asking for a hug. Alessia smiles weakly as she accepts the hug. Behind the woman is a middle aged man. The tip of his nose and ears are red, no doubt from the cold outside. He stands quietly behind the woman who kept rambling about how loved her late father was and how dearly he would be missed.

“Thank you, Mrs…”

“Riccardo. Mrs, Riccardo”

“Mrs. Riccardo, can I ask how you knew my father?”

“We worked together on a case a few years back. He helped burst a drug lord that managed to infiltrate about ten private school in the city.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You look drained, how about a drink?”

“Sure.” The woman places her palm on Alessia’s shoulder and leads her towards the bar that was setup in the kitchen. The middle aged man followed behind tgem, not getting close enough for her to get a good look at his face in the poorly lit room but she was certain that he could hear them clearly.

“So, who’s the lingering man?” Something about his presence made her uncomfortable.

“Just ignore him. He’s my husband but he’s a bit awkward. He never really got along with your father.”

“Well, my father is dead now so…” If he had some beef with her father, he ought to have buried it with him. The two women downed a few shots in silence. For a brief moment, Alessia felt a pang in her chest as a memory of her father flashed though her mind, but was cut short by a weird sound from the piano.

“The pianist must have hit the wrong key,” Mrs. Riccardo murmurs.

“What?”

“You flinched when the pianist hit the wrong key. Do you know the song?”

Before she could answer someone interrupts them.

“Miss. Moretti, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Although I wish it was under better circumstances.” An all too familiar voice calls from behind her.

“Uncle,” She smiles ginuely for the first time since she arrived in Italy. Her uncle was the closest thing to a friend that she had. They had never met physically, but she could recognize that voice anywhere after all, he always sang lullabies to her over call when she was a child. He wasn’t related to her but she always called him uncle.

“Little bunny,” He smiled warmly as he pulls her in to a hug. “I’m sorry about your dad. His soul rest in peace.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure, tell me about work.”

“It’s stressful. My boss is an absolute witch and her husband is a pig…” For the first time since the night started, she was having a proper conversation with someone she was familiar with about something other than death and her dad. It was refreshing, but short lived as her uncle cuts her off.

“Has she approached you tonight?” The look in his eyes was cold and hateful and she stared over her head and into the distance. She didn’t need to look back to know who he was referring to.

“That Giuliana DeLuca,” She whispers.

“Has she?”

“No, but she has be glaring daggers at me all night.”

“Stay far away from her, Ally. She’s bad news.”