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The flickering light accentuates the beads of sweat that have formed on the missionary’s brow. He swallows nervously, sensing the sinister turn in this audience's nature, and meets my gaze—jaw set in determination.
"Your Highness," he begins, his voice barely more than a whisper, "I swear on my life to guard this secret. No one else shall know of the Heart of Italy."
His pledge hangs heavy in the air, settling upon us like a shroud. In that instant, I saw the potential for betrayal in his eyes – the same treacherous glimmer that has haunted me since I ascended the throne.
My mind races with thoughts of my son. He is the reason I fight, the reason I cling so desperately to the power that now threatens to consume me. And it is for him that I must ensure this secret remains buried, locked away from the prying eyes of those who would use it against us.
"Very well."
In one swift motion, I slit the missionary's throat, my dagger slicing through his flesh with chilling precision. Blood spurts from the wound, painting a macabre picture across the chamber floor as he gurgles, eyes wide with shock.
The unspoken question in his eyes fades as I study the dying man before me. The action had been necessary, a painful but essential part of maintaining the delicate balance of power that surrounds us.
"Sometimes, sacrifice is required to protect what we hold dear," I reply, my voice cold and detached. Your death ensures the continued safety and rule of my family." As much as I hate admitting it, even to myself, fear gnaws at my insides—fear of losing control, of letting the diamonds be reunited and naming a different ruler.
My son will never know the true extent of the sacrifices made to ensure his station in this world. Nor will he ever have to bear the burden of the decisions I've been forced to make. For that, I am grateful.
I glance down at the lifeless body, sighing heavily. But there is no time for regret.
"Rest now," I murmur, more to myself than to the deceased man. "May your soul find peace in the afterlife, away from the darkness that plagues us."
I turn on my heel and stride from the chamber. Now, the other diamond is lost to the world, and my legacy can go unquestioned.
Chapter 6
Romola Toscani
Present day
I dust off my clothes again before stepping into Serafina's tent. A rainbow of colors greets me. The red, gold and purple wall drapings swirl together like a kaleidoscope come to life—a stark contrast to my white baker’s uniform. I am relieved to be in the relative coolness of the tent, as opposed to standing in front of the hot stone oven.
The scent of rosemary and eucalyptus in a bronze pitcher wafts through the air, infusing with the smoke from the single incense stick lit to ward off evil.
Every time I step into Serafina’s world, the grueling hours of kneading and rolling are forgotten, as are the worries over declining customer numbers for artisan baked goods and the increasing cost of living. The mundane fades away, leaving only the extraordinary.
"Romola, my darling angel!" Serafina exclaims, her eyes lighting up at the sight of me. She jumps to her feet and rushes towards me with outstretched arms, her colorful bangles jingling with each step.
She pulls away after holding on to me for a while, and her hands linger on my shoulders, her gaze searching. I smile back at her, grateful for her presence in my life, for this kind-hearted woman whom I’ve often referred to as my second mom.
She looks at my face as if trying to read my soul, and I avert my gaze, uncomfortable that she might see my nagging concerns there. These are my responsibilities to carry, not hers.
"Serafina, you look as radiant as ever," I reply, taking in her tattered lilac skirt that flirts around her ankles, her long-sleeved white lace blouse that she wears off-shoulder, and the wide purple belt that brings it all together. Her hair falls wild around her, contained in volume by a gold turban.
“Oh, sweetheart, I only look radiant when you’re around. Now tell me, what brings you here?” she asks, gently leading me to a chair on her tableside.
"Your company, of course," I reply, smiling warmly as she pulls out the chair for me and helps me sit, even though I don’t need the help and happen to be three decades younger than her.
“Don’t you butter me up, Missy?” she shakes her head, the gold coins on her turban jangling as she does so. You’re here to find your father, aren’t you?”
I burst out into laughter. “Oh, Serafina, that old bore?”
“Hey, I can hear you,” my father Agostino’s voice protests from the shadows of the tent, chuckling good-naturedly. His silhouette emerges hesitantly, shuffling a worn deck of cards. You’re here early. Missed your old Papà?” He tilts his head, and the question is obvious: Is everything alright?
I smile reassuringly, “There was a lull in between customers. I thought I’d drive over quickly to pick you up after your show. Hopefully, Mario won’t get into too much trouble on his own.” We grin at each other ruefully. All sorts of things have gone wrong at the bakery lately, and all on Mario’s shift.
“Romola and I were thinking of bringing Mario over for a reading, Serafina. See if you could find out where this sudden streak of bad luck was coming from.” My father shrugs. “Seems it will have to be another day. When my Tesoro calls, I hurry.” He puts one arm around my shoulders, and in the other hand, he holds up his cards to me.
“Pick one. Hopefully, it will tell us that our luck is about to change.” I draw a card at random, my fingers grazing the edges before pulling it out: The Three of Swords. I turn it around for our little group to see. Papà’s shoulders sag.
