shortly after the epilog

JOSEPHINE

I sat alone at a small table in the corner of the café, my hands wrapped around a steaming cup of hot cocoa. The warmth from the mug was a fragile comfort against the sharp, biting chill of the Winter air that lingered in my bones. The hum of the café swirled around me—clinking cups, the murmur of voices blending with the soft jazz playing in the background—but all of it felt distant, muffled, like I was trapped inside my own head. The therapy session still weighed on me, heavy and draining, but there was a strange lightness too, a fleeting sense of release. For once, the familiar storm inside me had calmed, and I wasn't drowning in the rubble of my past. The steam rising from the cocoa twisted in the air, the scent a bittersweet reminder that I was still here, still trying to find my way. The waiter placed a slice of chocolate cake in front of me, but I barely noticed it. My mind was miles away, caught somewhere between the life I'd left behind and the uncertain future that loomed ahead. Only months ago, I was clinging to survival, unsure who to trust. Now, I had a place with the Marinis—I had a family.

Suddenly, the door chimed, and I felt it before I saw him. A man entered, his dark coat trailing slightly behind him as he scanned the room. His gaze swept over the space, cold and calculating, and when his eyes met mine, everything inside me froze. The air around us shifted, thickened, charged with an unspoken weight. He wasn't here for small talk. His voice was deep, direct, and carried an edge that made the room seem even quieter. "Josephine Parker?"

I swallowed hard, instinctively tightening my grip on the warm cup. "Yes?"

"I am Detective Brown. We need to talk," he said, cutting to the point without hesitation. "It's about your former foster father, Peter Miller."

The mention of his name struck me like a slap in the face. Peter. The man who had shaped so much of who I was—forced me into a person I barely recognized. I hadn't heard his name in ages. I had always called him my foster father, but hearing it now felt like a wound reopening. I slowly set my cup down, my hands trembling as the noise of the café seemed to fade into a hollow silence. The only sound I could hear was the frantic beating of my heart.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, the words rushing out before I could stop them, too defensive, too sharp. Detective Brown didn't flinch. His eyes, cold and calculating, never left me as though he was dissecting every word, every twitch of my expression.

"I think you do," he said quietly, his tone unwavering. "I'm investigating the disappearance of Peter Miller. And I believe Domenico Marini is involved." The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Domenico. The person who had always been there for me, no matter how broken I was. The one who had shown me kindness when I thought there was none left. But now, his name was being dragged into this, and I wouldn't—couldn't—let that happen.

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. My thoughts tumbled in every direction. He had protected me, shielded me from the very darkness I had lived through. He had given me a home when I had none, made me feel safe, something I had never felt before.

"Still, I don't know what you're talking about," I said again, my voice steadier this time, though I could hear the hesitation beneath the words. Detective Brown's gaze hardened. He was assessing me, trying to decide if I was lying or if I truly believed the words I was saying.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice low, each syllable precise. "Peter Miller didn't just vanish. Someone made him disappear."

Maybe he found his way to God, I thought bitterly. The words burned in my throat, but I forced them down. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can help you," I said, pushing the words past my lips as calmly as I could manage, though my chest was tight with anxiety. The detective studied me for a moment, a flicker of doubt crossing his expression, but he didn't press. Instead, he leaned in, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

"You live with him, don't you?" he asked softly, as though he already knew the answer. "They took you in. They gave you a home. But there's no need to protect them. They're bad people. If you know anything about Peter's disappearance, now's the time to speak up."

I wanted to scream, to tell him that I would never betray Domenico. That they were the only people who had ever truly cared for me. But I couldn't. I couldn't show him how far I'd go to protect him. If I said anything that suggested Domenico's involvement, it would shatter everything. I shook my head slowly, my voice calm despite the storm inside me. "I don't know where Peter is," I said, the words tasting like ash. "I don't know anything about his disappearance, but I shall pray for him." That he will never been found.

For a moment, the detective's gaze softened, the briefest flicker of something—frustration, disbelief—passing through his eyes. But he didn't push further. He didn't need to. "Think about it, Josephine," he said quietly, almost as a final warning. "If you know something—anything—it could help. For justice. For everyone involved."

Justice? Where was the justice when Peter had torn my life apart? When he'd left me broken, alone, to pick up the pieces? There was no justice for people like us. I wanted to tell him I'd never betray Domenico, that no matter what he believed, I wouldn't turn my back on my family. But I stayed silent, my heart a heavy knot in my chest. I couldn't risk it. Not now. Not when everything could unravel.

The detective's gaze lingered on me, probing, searching. I could feel his scrutiny, his attempt to break me with a single look. But I refused to let him. After what felt like an eternity, he sighed, the weight of the moment settling in. "I wish we could have prevented this," he said coldly, his tone disapproving. "But I have to take you to the police station if you don't cooperate."

"No, you can't," I said, my voice firm. "I'm a minor, so I'm under no obligation to speak without a lawyer or guardian present. And as it seems, I'm not a suspect, so you can't just take me there."

His eyes flicked to the door, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. "So, you belong to them now, don't you? The Marinis. I'm not mistaken about that?"

The words cut through me like a knife. I didn't flinch, though. I stood a little straighter, my shoulders squared. A wave of quiet pride surged through me. Despite his disapproving stare, I stood my ground. "Yes," I said firmly, my voice calm and defiant. "I belong to them."

I saw the shift in his expression—the flash of frustration, the disappointment. But I wasn't about to let him make me feel small, not when I was sure of my choice. The detective gave me one last look, then turned away. "Mr. Brown?" I called him once more. "My name is Marini, not Parker. The adoption was finalized last Monday."He nodded grimly and walked out of the café, his footsteps fading into the noise of the city.

I sat there for a long moment after he left, staring at the empty chair where he had been. My heart still pounded, but not from fear. The café felt eerily quiet now. The usual hum of conversation and clinking mugs seemed distant, as if I were in a world of my own. I felt cold, but it wasn't from the weather. It was the weight of what I had just done—the lie I had just told. And the secret I was now carrying. I shook my head, trying to push the thoughts away. I needed to tell Domenico and Vito—needed to get to them before anyone else did. I stood quickly, almost knocking over my cocoa. The waiter didn't seem to notice, and honestly, I didn't care. I grabbed my coat and rushed out of the café, the door chiming behind me as I stepped into the biting cold.

The Marinis' office wasn't far. It was one of those places you didn't want to get caught in unless you were invited. But I had to warn them. The building stood surrounded by others, but it had a different aura—something almost ominous. Maybe it was just my imagination. Once inside, a guard stepped forward without a word and called for the elevator, as though he recognized me. I barely had time to think about it as I stepped inside. When I reached their office, the door was slightly ajar. I could hear their voices—Vito's deep, commanding tone, and Domenico's quieter but equally determined one. I hesitated for just a second, then knocked and pushed the door open. My heart pounded in my chest.

Both of them looked up as I entered. Domenico, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. Vitos's gaze softened the moment he saw me, but they were both alert—as if they knew something was wrong before I even spoke.

"What's going on, Tiny?" Domenico asked, his voice steady, though I could see the concern flicker in his eyes. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm despite the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind, while closing the door behind me.

"A Detective Brown came to see me," I said quietly, stepping closer to them. Vito's expression didn't change, but I saw Domenico tense, his gaze flicking between me and his brother.

"Detective Brown?" Vito repeated, his voice low, careful. "What did he want?"

"He said my former foster father has gone missing." I hesitated, trying to find the right words. Vito's eyes narrowed, and I could see the wheels turning in his mind. He didn't answer immediately, but his silence spoke volumes. Domenico, however, stiffened. He stood up from where he had been leaning, his eyes locked on mine. "I don't want to know everything. I just have one question."

Domenico tilted his head slightly. "Go on."

"Will he ever be able to hurt other children?" The clock behind us ticked so quietly that the room seemed to hold its breath. Tik, tok, tik... Domenico shook his head. I inhaled deeply.

"Good."



The first chapter of Mourning in Italy will be published on Sunday at 00:00 CET :-)