Chapter 5: Instagram Friends and Incoming Bruises
Aria:
"Before my mom died, we lived in this tiny apartment in Palermo. The bad part. The kind of place where the stairs smell like piss and you can hear your neighbors screaming through the walls." I swallowed hard.
"We did whatever work we could find. Cleaning houses. Washing laundry. My mother would take sewing jobs, and I'd help her. Sometimes we'd pick through the market after closing, looking for bruised fruit the vendors threw out."
My voice cracked.
"She got sick when I was twelve. Pneumonia, I think. We couldn't afford a doctor. She just... got worse and worse until one morning she didn't wake up."
Silence stretched out, heavy and aching.
"I'm sorry," Caterina whispered.
"Me too."
More silence. Then:
"My nanny died too. Two years ago. She was the only person who..." Her voice broke. "Except for Vito. He's the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm disgusting. But he's my brother—he has to. You're... you're the first person without blood who doesn't..."
She couldn't finish.
"You're not disgusting," I said firmly. "Whatever happened to you—whatever people say—it doesn't make you disgusting. It makes them disgusting for talking about it."
A long pause. Then, so quietly I almost missed it:
"The perfume. Can I... can I have it? I want to smell it closer."
I felt something shift in my chest—something warm and painful at the same time.
"Of course." I stood up slowly and crouched down by the door, sliding the small vial through the gap at the bottom. "It's yours."
I heard her pick it up. The sound of the cap unscrewing. A long, shaky inhale.
"It really does smell like hope," she whispered.
Then I heard something—a soft scraping sound. The lock is turning.
"I'm going to stand up now," I said gently. "And take a few steps back. You can open the door as much or as little as you want. Okay?"
No answer. But the lock clicked fully open.
I stood slowly and backed up until my shoulders hit the opposite wall, giving her space.
The door cracked open—just an inch at first. I could see a sliver of pale face, one dark eye peering out.
"Hi," I said softly.
The door opened a little wider. Caterina stood in the gap, one hand clutching the doorframe, the other holding my perfume vial against her chest. Her dark hair hung in tangled curtains around her face, and her eyes were huge and empty and achingly sad.
She looked at me for a long moment, tears streaming down her face.
"You're not scared of me," she whispered. "Everyone else is scared."
"I'm not scared of you," I said. "I promise."
Something cracked open behind that emptiness. She took one step forward, then another, and then suddenly she was crossing the space between us and wrapping her arms around me, sobbing into my shoulder.
I held her while she shook apart, my own tears sliding down my cheeks.
"I don't want to die," she whispered against my neck. "But I don't know how to live like this."
"I know," I said, my voice breaking. "I know."
Eventually, Caterina pulled back and wiped her eyes.
"Come in," she said softly, standing on shaky legs. "Please."
The room was expensive and suffocating. Heavy curtains blocked out the city lights, and the air was stale. But there, on a small table by the window, was a collection of glass bottles and vials, dusty and forgotten.
"Your nanny's perfumes?" I asked gently.
Caterina nodded, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "I haven't touched them since she died."
"May I?"
She nodded.
I picked up one of the bottles carefully, uncapping it and breathing in. Jasmine and sandalwood, warm and comforting.
"This is beautiful," I said. "She had real talent."
"She used to say that every scent tells a story. That if you close your eyes and really breathe it in, you can remember things you thought you'd forgotten."
"Do you want to try making something together?" I asked. "Nothing complicated. Just... something that feels like you."
She hesitated, then nodded.
We sat down at the table. Her hands shook at first, but as we worked, they steadied. She told me about her nanny, about the garden they used to tend together.
I told her about the market in Palermo, about how my mother and I would steal flowers from the church garden at night, about the time we made perfume from orange peels and got kicked out of our building because the landlord said it smelled too strong.
She laughed at that—a small, surprised sound, like she'd forgotten how.
"You really did that? Stole from a church?"
"My mother said God wouldn't mind. The flowers were just going to rot anyway." I smiled. "She was probably full of shit, but it made me feel better about it."
Caterina smiled too, tentative but real.
We lost ourselves in the work, bottles and vials surrounding us as we talked quietly. I didn't realize how much time had passed until I noticed the digital clock on her nightstand had slipped past eleven.
Shit. How long have I been here?
"I have to go," I said, scrambling to my feet. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize how late—"
"Wait!" Caterina grabbed my hand. "Your phone—can I have your number? Or Instagram, or—"
"Yes, of course!" I fumbled with my phone, pulling up Instagram with shaking fingers. We followed each other quickly, and I saw her smile widen when my profile loaded.
"I haven't added anyone new in..." She trailed off, then shook her head. "Thank you."
She disappeared into her closet and emerged with a garment bag. "Your dress is ruined. Change before you go—the bathroom's there."
I changed quickly, transferring the envelope from my bag to the inner pocket of Caterina's dress before folding my ruined one into the garment bag.
When I emerged, Caterina was standing by the door.
"You'll come back?" she asked, her voice small and hopeful.
"I promise," I said. "I'll text you tomorrow, okay?"
She nodded, still smiling.
Matteo was waiting by the elevator.
"Everything alright, Miss Rossi?"
"I'm late," I said breathlessly. "I need to get home—my father—"
"I'll drive fast."
In the car, I tried to calm my racing heart.
"Miss Caterina opened the door for you," Matteo said quietly. "That's... that's the first time in years."
Years. She's been locked in that room for years.
"Does the Don visit her often?"
"Only Sundays now. He's usually at his other residence during the week—business keeps him occupied. But he calls to check on her every night."
Only Sundays. So if I come other days, I won't have to see him.
Relief flooded through me, warm and dizzying.
I can do this. Help Caterina, collect the money, and avoid the man who killed me. Maybe this won't be a complete disaster after all.
"Here we are, Miss Rossi." Matteo pulled up in front of the Rossi estate, the windows dark except for a single light in the foyer.
Oh God. That light means he's waiting up.
I slipped through the front door as quietly as I could—
The lights flared on, blinding.
My father stood in the center of the foyer in his bathrobe, his face twisted with rage.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"I—there was a situation after the competition—"
The slap came out of nowhere, snapping my head to the side. My cheek exploded with pain, hot and sharp, and I tasted copper.
