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CHAPTER ONE

Maria

There’sa buzz of death in the air—clinging to my skin like static as the storm rages outside my bedroom window.

It’s morbid as hell, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming for us—something that wraps around my throat and won’t let go.

I can’t focus. I paint to quiet the noise in my head, but tonight, the storm outside is louder than usual—and so is the silence inside me. Something crawls beneath my skin, whispering that everything is about to change.

The wind gusts into my room—and then comes the thump. A sharp, clustered snap in my chest, like something breaking in my heart.

“Oh,” I gasp, nearly spilling my wine on the easel. “Well… that was strange.”

I inhale slowly, pushing the chill out of my chest. Fear doesn’t get to live here. Not in this body. Not with the last name Faravelli.

I stare out at the dark clouds that loom ever closer to the manor. I can smell the scent of rain in the air as it wafts through the open window. I close my eyes and allow the scent to calm me. It’s not the storm I find peace in—it's the first breath of rain, the brief hush before everything breaks.

My family and I have been living in Florence ever since I was ten years old. This is the place that shaped me and created the ideas and dreams that lay in my chest. I was not born here, but it feels more like my home than New York.

I draw my glass back to my lips to take another sip. But just as the glass kisses my lips, a rippling scream shatters my eardrum, and I drop my glass onto the floor. Small little shards scatter everywhere, and another wail makes its way into my room.

What in the world is going on?

My heart pounds in my chest. I jump over the small shards and make my way to the door, running with bare feet and heart in hand.

The screams come from the foyer, echoing through the hallway like a prophecy already fulfilled. The dread cements itself onto my bones, growing heavier with each step toward the top of the stairs. I stop and stare down at the scene unfolding below.

Three people stand in the middle of the foyer.

My father’s second, Elliot, stands drenched in blood and pale as a sheet. He stares at my papa with somber eyes. My mother rests at his feet, her body collapsed on the floor. Her face is red as she screams Bloody Mary, her cries echoing into the foundation of the home.

Death. Just as I had felt.

I swallow hard as I try to release the lump that has lodged itself in my throat.

Breathe, Maria. Breathe.

“Papá…” I don’t even recognize my voice. It feels more like that of a stranger.

The two men turn their heads to where I stand at the top of the stairs. All the color has drained from my father’s face. My mother continues to wail on the floor, and Elliot looks like a broken man.

I open my mouth to ask what has happened, but deep within my soul, I know. I felt the tether snap—I believe I knew before they all did.

“Antonio is dead, cara.”

Four words. That’s all it takes to shatter my world.

“He’s gone, cara.”

I hold onto the railing to steady myself, to keep from falling over. I press my hand over my heart and will myself to breathe.

He’s… but… I just spoke to him this morning. There is no way that my twin is… No. No. No. This isn’t real. Antonio was just here. Laughing. Breathing. Living.

The world tilts beneath me. My knees hit the cold marble floor, the impact barely registering over the crushing weight in my chest. My breath comes in short, jagged gasps, my ribs caving in as if the air has been punched from my lungs.

My lips part, and like my mother, I let out the most gut-wrenching wail—one that comes from the mist-broken and bitter parts of my soul.