Chapter 2

The hours crawled by like torture.

I sat curled in the corner, watching moonlight filter through the tiny cellar window, casting pale silver stripes across the moldy stone walls. My chains clinked softly whenever I shifted, a constant reminder of my captivity.

'Think, Seraphina. Remember what really happened.'

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to dig deeper into my fractured memories. But every time I tried to grasp those missing five years, pain sliced through my skull like broken glass.

"Come on..." I whispered, pressing my palms against my temples. "What the hell happened to me?"

Fragments began flickering behind my eyelids—disjointed, violent, terrifying:

Blood spraying across white marble...

A man's face twisted in rage, his mouth moving in silent screams...

My own voice, raw from screaming...

The acrid smell of gunpowder mixing with incense...

And through it all, two faces kept overlapping in my mind's eye. Alessandro's gentle smile, his warm brown eyes full of love... but then another face would surge forward. Darker. Angrier. More dangerous.

"No... no, that's wrong..." I clutched my head as the pain intensified. "Alessandro is gentle. He loves me. But this other man... this furious man... who is he?"

'Why do I remember being dragged somewhere? Why do I see blood at my wedding? Alessandro would never hurt me...'

But the memories felt so real. The fear, the pain, the betrayal—it all felt more real than any of my beautiful wedding recollections.

A soft creak from the staircase made me freeze.

Footsteps.

A figure emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs. Not Matteo.

It was a woman, maybe twenty-five, with long dark hair and melancholy eyes that seemed too old for her face. She was beautiful in that classic Sicilian way—olive skin, full lips, expressive eyes—but something haunted lurked behind her careful expression.

She glanced around nervously before approaching, carrying a small basket and moving with the practiced stealth of someone accustomed to danger.

"Shh," she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. "Don't make a sound. I'm Isabella—Matteo's cousin."

I tensed, pressing myself further against the wall. "Why should I trust you?"

Isabella knelt just outside my chain's reach, setting down her basket. Inside were hot soup in a thermos, clean clothes, and medical supplies.

"Because..." She avoided my gaze, her voice barely audible. "Some truths are more cruel than death. But now isn't the time for those."

"What the fuck does that mean?" My voice cracked with desperation. "Just tell me—where is Alessandro? Is he still alive?"

Isabella's expression grew complex, something like pity flickering across her features.

"Alessandro Romano..." She paused, weighing her words carefully. "Are you absolutely certain you remember him correctly?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. "What kind of sick game is this? Of course I remember Alessandro! He's my husband!"

"The mind can play terrible tricks when it's trying to protect us," Isabella said softly, pushing the thermos toward me. "Especially after trauma."

I stared at her, confusion and anger warring in my chest. "You're all insane. Alessandro and I were just married. I remember everything—the church, the flowers, his smile..."

Isabella started to respond, then stopped herself. She reached into her jacket, hesitating.

"I shouldn't show you this," she murmured. "But seeing you like this... God forgive me."

She pulled out a faded photograph, yellowed with age. Even in the dim candlelight, I could make out two children—a girl about eight years old with my green eyes and dark curls, and a boy. They were standing in what looked like a garden, olive trees visible in the background.

But the boy's face had been violently scratched out with a pen, heavy black marks obscuring his features. Only the outline remained, and something about that silhouette made my blood run cold.

"This was fifteen years ago," Isabella's voice trembled. "Do you remember this boy?"

I took the photo with shaking hands, studying it intently. The little girl was definitely me—I recognized the birthmark on my wrist, the way I stood with one foot slightly turned inward.

But the boy...

The moment I focused on his scratched-out face, agony exploded through my skull.

"Ah!" I doubled over, clutching my head as images flooded my mind:

A child's laughter turning to screams...

Someone chasing me through olive groves...

Hiding behind ancient stone walls, sobbing...

A boy's voice calling my name, but the tone... the tone was wrong. Not loving. Possessive. Frightening.

"This... this boy..." I gasped, pain making my vision blur. "His eyes... why do I feel afraid?"

Isabella quickly snatched the photo back, tucking it into her jacket.

"Forget I was here," she said urgently, standing to leave. "Matteo will tell you everything. But please remember—sometimes forgetting is a form of protection."

"Wait!" I reached out desperately, but my chains held me back. "Tell me what happened! Who was that boy?"

But Isabella was already climbing the stairs, her footsteps fading into silence.

I sat alone in the candlelight, staring at the spot where she'd disappeared.

'A protection? Protection from what?'

More memory fragments began surfacing, uninvited and unwelcome:

Running barefoot through the olive grove, branches tearing at my dress...

Hiding in the shadows of ancient stone buildings, heart hammering...

A boy's voice echoing through the twilight: "Sera! Sera, where are you?"

Only family called me Sera. Only people who truly knew me.

But why did that voice make me want to run and hide?

"That boy..." I whispered to myself. "He was calling 'Sera'... only family would call me that..."

'But if Alessandro is my beloved, why do I feel afraid when I think of him? If Matteo is my enemy, why would Lucia call me mama?'

A heavy thud from somewhere above made me freeze.

Footsteps. Real ones this time. Slow, deliberate, heading toward the cellar door.

My heart hammered against my ribs as the sound grew closer. Each step seemed to echo with inevitability, like death walking down the stairs.

The door lock rattled in the silence, unnaturally loud.