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My share of the diamonds will be secure and I will call it a day's work.

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.”