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Prologue
chiara
13 Years Ago, Aged 6
The air bites at my cheeks, sharp and cold, as I stare ahead.
I can’t believe it.
Mr. Buttons is pressed tightly to my chest. His fur doesn’t feel soft like it usually does—it’s wet now, damp with tears that won’t stop rolling down my face.
The sky thunders above, like it can feel all of our emotions too, ready to pour down on us with rain on the day of my Mama’s funeral.
Everythingfeels wrong.
All around me, people are dressed in black, their faces pale and grim. Barely anybody speaks. The women cry softly, their gloved hands holding tissues to their wet eyes that are now big and shiny as tears fall from them.
The men don’t cry.
They never do, not like how the women always cry.
Instead, they stand around us, protecting us, their expressions stony and unreadable. Their bodies are tense as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and their mouths set in hard lines.
Made men.
Soldiers.
Protectors.
When Papa walked by them earlier, they nodded at him in respect, but nobody spoke.
For some reason, that made the knot in my stomach tighten a little bit more.
I look away from the people to glance over at Papa, watching him as he stands at the edge of the grave.
Papa is trembling.
Dario, my older brother, stands behind me. His grip is tight on my shoulder, and it’s hurting me a little, but I don’t tell him to stop. He looks over my head at the wooden box—the one which Mama is in—as he clears his throat behind me. It’s obvious that he’s trying not to cry, but I wish he would. He hasn’t said anything ever since we got here.
The priest begins to speak as he blesses Mama’s soul. I really can’t listen to everything that he says, because the only thing I can hear are the sniffles of the crying women.
Suddenly, Papa steps forward, his fists clenched at his sides.
“No!” Papa booms, marching even closer to the priest. “This is not right!”
All around us, the people freeze.
Even the priest stops speaking, his mouth half-open as he stares at Papa with wide, terrified eyes.
“She was mine!” Papa roars as he storms forward, his chest heaving. “Serena wasmine,and now she is gone! You all really expect me to stand here? To watch my wife be buried into the ground?!”
Two men—two soldiers whose names I can’t remember—move closer to Papa, their faces tight.
“Francesco.” One says, his voice steady but firm. “Now is not the time.”
The other man turns to look over at me, and as he meets my eyes, I look away from him.
My entire body trembles.