Ch. I Watch 12 I Watch 12

Chapter 12 

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a plush velvet bed back at the San Celano estate. 

Outside the window was the familiar olive grove, the morning light creeping inch by inch up the walls. 

Vittorio sat in the old leather chair by the bed. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink all night, the bags under his eyes were a bruised, sickly gray. 

“You’re awake?” His voice held a rare tremor. “You stubborn girl… You’re just as reckless with your life as your father was.” 

I opened my mouth, but my throat burned fiercely. I couldn’t make a sound. 

“Don’t speak.” He leaned forward and tucked the blanket around me. “The bullet grazed your collarbone. The doctor said you were lucky. It was a miracle.” 

He paused. 

“The treaty got through. The next morning, the Commission unanimously voted to approve it. The northern smuggling routes are secure for the next ten years.” 

He pulled a narrow, dark green velvet box from his suit’s inner pocket and slowly opened it. 

Resting inside the box was a solid gold lapel pin. 

The pin was exquisitely thin, topped with a tiny iris encircled by golden threads. It was the Vitale family crest, and the ultimate symbol of the Chief Consigliere of the San Celano Commission. 

In the Family’s century of history, only five people had ever earned the right to wear it. 

Vittorio took the pin, leaned in, and fastened it to the lapel of my silk robe. 

“From this day forward,” his voice was soft but exceptionally firm, “you are the Chief Consigliere of the San Celano Commission, Serafina Vitale,” 

“Serafina, you have earned the respect of this Family.” 

The Mediterranean sun was brilliant, filtering through the intricate lace curtains into the bedroom, chasing away every last trace of the biting cold. 

I found out later that on the day of the ambush, Julian, whose territory was closer to Blacksand, had gone mad and led his own men in a desperate attempt to reach me. 

But the Commission’s forces intercepted him, detaining and expelling him on the spot. 

“Because he didn’t know the rules,” Vittorio commented with disdain. “A Capo from Porthaven has no right to interfere in the high-level affairs of the Family.” 

On the day I fully recovered, I received a manila envelope mailed from Porthaven. 

Inside were the divorce papers, finally signed by Julian, and a sticky note pressed at the very bottom. 

On it were three words, pressed so hard into the paper they almost tore through: I’m so sorry. 

I picked up the note, tossed it casually into the crystal ashtray beside me, struck a match, and set it on fire. 

The piece of paper curled inch by inch, blackening until it turned to ash. 

1/2 

The past was nothing more than a pinch of ash, scattered to the wind. 

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