Aurelia POV
Funerals are supposed to be sad.
This one isn't. Not for me.
Everyone else in St. Augustine's Church in Rome looks like they've been punched in the chest. Tear-streaked faces, shaky breaths, the sound of quiet sobbing. The air smells like incense, the kind of heavy, suffocating combination that makes people cry harder whether they mean to or not.
Me? I'm the calmest person in the room.
My dress helps with the illusion. It's a long black Valentino gown with a high neck and long sleeves, a clean, elegant silhouette that hides everything. Everything except the slit that runs up my thigh when I move. My hair is pulled into a low, sleek bun. The only jewelry I'm wearing are small diamond studs and a thin bracelet. My makeup is soft. Respectful. Perfect.
On my hands, the lace gloves sit lightly over my skin. White. Delicate. Pretty enough to distract from what these hands have done two weeks ago.
I take a quiet breath and look toward the casket.
Marcus Ajello. Thirty-four years old. Successful businessman. Laura's husband of seven months.
A monster.
I've been watching Laura all morning. She's standing near the casket in a simple black dress, her blonde hair pulled back from her face. Laura Morelli that's her maiden name, the one she'll use again now. The one she should have kept all along. Her sea green eyes are red from crying, but not destroyed. More relieved. Like she can breathe for the first time since she said "I do" to a man who spent those seven months making her life hell.
The vitiligo patches on her neck and shoulders are visible, irregular patches that Marcus used to mock. I remember him calling her "spotted" at dinner parties, watching her shrink into herself. She has curves, a natural pear shape that she was never comfortable with anyway, and Marcus made sure she knew exactly what he thought of that too.
Her family surrounds her, offering tissues and quiet words of support. None of them knew. Not really. She was too good at hiding the bruises. I was the only one she let see.
I watch as Laura's gaze lifts and finds mine across the church.
One second. Just one.
But we understand each other completely.
She knows.
Not the details. Not the exact how or when. But she knows I did it. And she isn't sorry. Not even close.
I give the slightest nod, barely there, something that could be mistaken for grief if anyone was paying attention.
Her shoulders fall. Then she turns back to accept another condolence from a stranger.
I shift my small black quilted clutch against my hip and start scanning the crowd. It's a habit now reading rooms, identifying exits, noting who's watching whom. I've learned that awareness keeps you alive.
That's when I feel it.
Not see.
Feel.
Someone is staring at me.
It's a sharp, focused awareness that slides down my spine. Not threatening. But concentrated. Too concentrated.
I don't turn immediately. Instead, I adjust the heel of my black Louboutin, smooth the skirt of my dress, and use the movement to quietly glance toward the back of the church.
And there he is.
Tall. Broad shoulders. A long black coat that fits like it was made for him, draped over a black shirt. Rings glint on his fingers when he shifts. His hair is dark, pushed back, though a few strands fall forward like they don't care about being controlled. There's a small scar on his left cheekbone, thin, precise.
His eyes are the problem.
Dark. Steady. Unblinking.
Staring directly at me.
Mikhail Rossi.
I recognized him instantly. My brother Dante's world bleeds into mine in ways I never asked for, and Mikhail was one of the names whispered in those circles. I'd seen him twice before, both times at Dante's house, both times quiet, observing, dangerous in a way no one had to explain.
He was not supposed to be at Marcus's funeral.
Yet he's leaning against a stone pillar like he owns the place, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His black coat makes him look even more out of place in a church full of grief-stricken people in conventional black suits and dresses.
He's watching me like I'm the only person present.
My heart gives one sharp, loud thud against my ribs.
Why him? Why here? Why now?
His gaze doesn't waver. Not when I meet it. Not when I hold it. And definitely not when I refuse to look away first.
His head tilts slightly, just a fraction, like he's assessing me.
Then he speaks not loud enough for anyone but me to catch it. Just a single word, shaped silently on his lips: "Interesting."
His accent is unmistakable. Italian. Sharp on the consonants, smooth on everything else.
I turn away before he can see too much. But his stare presses into me like a physical weight for the rest of the service.
When I finally try to look again, he's gone from the pillar.
Only to reappear moments later standing directly beside Laura.
He's offering condolences, voice low and controlled. Laura's brows pinch slightly like she recognizes him from somewhere but can't place it. But it's not Laura he's focused on. Not really.
His eyes keep flicking toward me.
I'm not the center of attention today. I shouldn't be. But somehow, I feel like I'm being pulled under a spotlight I didn't ask for.
Does he know?
He can't. No one knows. I was careful. Methodical. Perfect.
Laura steps back, nods politely to him. He says something else too soft for me to hear, his accent curling around the syllables. Then he turns fully, locking onto me again.
The service ends. People move toward the doors. I wait, letting them go first, keeping control of my pace. I count the heartbeats. Forty-three before I move toward the exit.
When I reach the entrance, I look around for him.
He's gone.
A breath I didn't realize I'd been holding leaves my chest.
Outside, the Roman air is cool and fresh. I take two steps toward the parking lot before Laura appears beside me, her blonde hair loose now around her shoulders.
"Thank you for coming," she whispers.
"I wouldn't be anywhere else."
Her sea green eyes shine not with sadness, but with something that looks like relief.
"I'm free," she murmurs,smiling a little.
I squeeze her hand gently. "Yes. You are, darling."
She hesitates, glancing back toward the church doors. "There was a man inside... tall, wearing a black coat. Do you know him?"
My heart races.
"Why?"
"He was staring at you the whole time. Like..." She stops. "Like he was waiting."
I smile, though it feels tight. "Probably someone from work."
She doesn't believe me. But she lets it go.
We separate. She leaves with her family. I walk toward my black Porsche parked under the shade of a large tree in the parking lot.
Sliding into the driver's seat, I close the door and finally let my shoulders drop.
My hands shake once. Just once.
Then my phone buzzes.
A message from my brother.
DANTE:
Mikhail Rossi just reached out.
Call me. Now.
I freeze, reading the words twice.
Slowly, I lift my gaze toward the windshield.
And there he is.
Standing across the street.
Leaning against a black car.
Arms crossed.
Watching me with that same focused intensity.
A slow, knowing smile curves his mouth. The small scar on his cheekbone shifts slightly when he does.
Like he already knows the answer to every question I'm afraid to ask.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
I killed Marcus Ajello two weeks ago.
Made it look clean. Natural. Perfect. An overdose of his own drugs, his own habit, just a tragic accident waiting to happen.
No one knew.
No one suspected.
But the way Mikhail Rossi is looking at me right now through the windshield of my car, standing in the Roman sunlight with his black coat and his small scar and those dark, knowing eyes
He sees something.
Maybe too much.
Or maybe everything.
