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A few tables sit empty. Doilies line the windowsills. The walls are decorated with pressed flower frames and old photos. It’s the kind of place people come for comfort.

Behind the counter, an older woman is pouring tea into a delicate ceramic cup. She looks up as the bell chimes.

Her eyes light up at the sight of Romani. “Padre!”

Her voice is warm, affectionate. She wipes her hands quickly on her apron and comes around the counter, arms half-reaching as if to embrace him.

But then she sees us.

Bugatti stands near the door, arms folded across his chest. I remain beside the priest, coat still on, posture still.

Her smile falters.

Romani doesn’t return her warmth. His face is pale. Heavy.

He lowers his voice.

“Carmela… è giunta l’ora. The time has come. Darkness has come.”

Her expression changes slowly—from welcome, to confusion, to dread.

She looks at me. Then Bugatti.

Her hands fall to her sides.

No one speaks.

But the room is no longer warm.

****

Carmela’s droopy eyes settle on us with hate burning in them. We’re seated at her carefully polished coffee table in the now empty café.

Father Romani shifts beside me, adjusting the rosary at his chest, hands trembling slightly as he explains how the old woman in front of us is connected to the child we’ve been searching for.

“They chose her,” the priest continues, turning slightly to glance at me. “Lena Vescari and Vasco Brunetti. They came to me when the walls started closing in.”

I watch Carmela closely.

“Lena didn’t trust institutions,” Romani goes on. “She wanted a soul to protect what she couldn’t. Carmela was fifty then. She had just found her footing in the faith, and they saw strength in her.”

“And when Lena and Vasco died?” I ask.

“The child was given to her,” Romani says. “The adoption records made it official. The child belongs to her—legally and spiritually.”

I turn to Carmela, nodding slowly. “Then thank you—for keeping the child safe.”

Her arms fold across her chest. “You’re not welcome.”

“I’m not here to argue. I just want the child.”

She laughs, bitter and low.

“That child,” she says, “is safe. A child filled with the spirit of God. A soul that has no place among men like you.”

Bugatti pulls an envelope from his coat pocket—crisp, thick, heavy with cash. He places it gently on the table between us.

“We can make it worth your while.”