Page 29

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?”