Ch. I Watch 7 I Watch 7

Chapter 7 

It was past two in the morning when the night train pulled into San Celano. 

I stepped onto the platform, dragging my small suitcase behind me. The night air met me, carrying the damp, salty scent of a small Mediterranean coastal city. 

“Serafina.” 

At the end of the platform, an old man with graying temples slowly approached, leaning on an ebony cane. 

He wore a dark gray three-piece suit, an antique silver brooch on his lapel catching a soft gleam under the station lights. 

He stopped in front of me, bowed slightly, and pressed a solemn, old-world kiss to the back of my hand. 

“Vittorio Bianchi.” His voice was low and gravelly. “Your father was my mentor and my brother. Your mother… I arranged for her safe passage out of the city during the war.” 

I stood still and nodded in acknowledgment, but my throat felt tight, as if something were caught in it. 

“Mr. Bianchi…” 

“Call me Uncle Vittorio.” He looked up, his deep gray, aging eyes rimmed with red as he carefully studied my face. “You look like him. So much like him. The eyes, the brow… and that perfectly composed demeanor. You’re the spitting image of your father.” 

He took the suitcase from my hand and passed it to a silent bodyguard in a black suit standing behind him. He then gestured for me to get into the car. 

“Come, let’s go home first. The Family has always maintained the estate where your parents lived.” 

The car slowly pulled away under the streetlights, winding through the cobblestone streets of the old city before finally stopping in front of the iron gates of an ivy-covered estate. 

An old olive tree stood in the courtyard, sheltering a set of carved stone table and chairs beneath its branches. 

Vittorio told me that when my mother was seven months pregnant with me, she used to sit there reading the ledgers. 

“You were only three months old when your parents passed.” 

He pushed open the heavy oak doors. The interior remained exactly as it had been twenty years ago. The fireplace, the rugs, the oil paintings on the walls: everything was spotless. 

“The war between the Five Families was at its peak. They sent you out of the city overnight, leaving you with a trusted old fisherman. He had strict orders that if they didn’t make it back, he was to take you to the most obscure orphanage he could find.” 

An oil painting hung on the wall. 

The man in the painting wore a dark suit, with a sharp brow and eyes that were gentle yet piercing. The woman beside him had cascading chestnut curls and an elegant smile. 

“The Family has been looking for you for over two decades,” Vittorio said, his voice dropping. 

“The old fisherman later died of illness, and the trail went cold. It wasn’t until last year, when we reopened the case, that we found a match for your blood type and birthmark in the old records of an orphanage in Porthaven.” 

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I stood before the portrait, reaching up to gently touch the cold frame with my fingertips. 

“How… did they die?” 

“It was twenty years ago on the coast.” Vittorio walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the quiet olive grove in the night. 

“For a full year, the Five Families slaughtered each other over the coastal sinuggling routes. The bodies nearly clogged the sewers. Your father was the Chief Consigliere of the Commission at the time. He went to the sit-down alone.” 

“The rivals slipped poison into his wine. He knew.” 

“Yet he still sat right in front of the five bosses, drafted the twenty-year peace treaty, line by line, before signing his name. When he finished the last letter, he threw down his pen, smiled at them, and said, ‘The rules are more important than a life.”” 

“Your mother was in the car outside, waiting for him.” Vittorio’s hand tightened on the window frame. 

“He didn’t make it out. She held the little blanket you left behind after you were sent away, and the very next morning, she swallowed the exact same poison.” 

“Don’t blame her. Their deaths were the only way to ensure your safety.” 

The room was so quiet that the ticking of the wall clock echoed clearly. 

“Serafina.” Vittorio turned around and looked at me with deep solemnity. 

“There are two paths laid out before you. First, our Family will liquidate all the assets held in trust under your father’s name and give you the full sum. You take that money, go to any corner of Europe, change your name, and live a peaceful life.” 

“Second,” he paused, “you stay. You take the high-backed mahogany chair your father left behind.” 

I didn’t hesitate. 

“I choose the second path.” 

Vittorio watched me for a few seconds, then a look of deep satisfaction spread across his face. “Good.” 

“Welcome home, daughter of the Consigliere.” 

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