3 Days/ The Double Life

Episode 11: The Man From Palermo

We lasted 11 days of normal.

11 days of market at 8:03 AM, tomatoes, new basil that was actually alive because Venerio watered it every morning at 6:14 AM sharp like it was a military operation, and a new mattress that was not a war crime.

11 days of Venerio learning how to be Venerio, not Octavian heir. He got a job. A real job. Teaching English at a language school near Ponte Vecchio for 12 euro an hour. He wore my hoodie because his white shirts were too expensive for chalk dust.

I got a job too. At Sophia's almost-bakery — she really did open it, fast, with her Papa's money — kneading dough at 5 AM. No knives. No contracts. Just flour on my hands and Venerio waiting outside with terrible coffee when I finished.

***

On day 12, the man from Palermo came.

We were on the balcony. Morning. Gold light. New basil alive. Venerio was behind me, arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder, both of us watching Florence wake up. Domestic. Stupidly domestic.

Then the buzzer buzzed. The one that never worked.

We froze.

No one buzzed. Landlord never buzzed. Tomato lady never buzzed. Sophia had a key.

Venerio's arm tightened around me instantly. Old instinct. Heir instinct.

"Don't move," he whispered.

He went down. I stayed on the balcony, peeking over. White shirt — his last white shirt — black coat over it. He looked like Octavian again, just for a second.

Downstairs, a man in his forties, Sicilian face, scar over left eyebrow. Not Octavian. Valentino.

"Mr. Octavian," the man said in Italian-accented English. "Your father sends regards. And a message. The deal with Valentino is off, because Sophia opened a bakery. But the deal with... other families is still on. They heard you are in Florence. With a ghost. They are... interested."

Venerio didn't answer.

The man continued, "They offer you Head. No marriage. Just... bring the girl. The ghost. They want to meet the girl who made Venerio Octavian walk out on his own engagement. They say she must be special. They say... they want to hire her."

.

Hire me. Not kill me. Hire.

.

My blood ran cold on the balcony.

Venerio's voice, when he answered, was the coldest I had ever heard. Even colder than in the garden when he said 3 days.

"Tell my father, and tell Valentino, and tell whoever sent you from Palermo, that Nancy Lauren is dead. She died in Sydney. Ghosts don't get hired. And if anyone comes to Via dei Bardi again, I will show them what that sword on my back really means."

The man smiled, thin. "Your father said you would say that. So he said to give you this."

He handed over an envelope. Not thick. Just a single photo.

Venerio opened it. I saw his back go rigid. Sword tattoo visible through the white shirt, like it was trying to come alive.

He walked back up, slow, each step heavy. He closed the balcony door behind him and locked it. Then he locked the kitchen window. Then the front door. Chair against it.

"Ver? What—"

He handed me the photo.

It was my sister. In her hospital bed in Melbourne. Sleeping. Taken today. The date stamp in the corner. Someone had been in her room.

And on the back, in his father's handwriting, elegant and terrifying:

“

3 days. Bring her to Sydney. Or I bring her sister to Palermo. Your choice. You taught me this game, Venerio. Don't complain when I play it better. - Father

“

The same game. 3 days. The same words he gave me in the garden.

Venerio sank onto the new mattress, head in his hands. Not heir. Just Ver. My Ver who taught English for 12 euro an hour and watered basil at 6:14 AM.

"They used our thing," he whispered. "He used our 3 days against us."

I knelt in front of him, took his hands, my hands shaking but not from fear. From rage. Old assassin rage I thought I buried with my knives.

"No," I said. "He used YOUR thing. Our thing is not 3 days. Our thing is—"

I didn't finish. I kissed him. Hard. Not soft Florence kiss. Ghost kiss. Possessive. Claiming.

"Our thing is we don't run separately anymore," I said against his lips. "We run together. Or we fight together."

He looked at me, eyes wet, bruised jaw gone but new shadows under his eyes.

"They want you to kill someone for them, Lauren. To earn your place as Octavian. That's the price now. Not marriage. Murder."

"Who?" I asked.

He turned the photo over. There was another name written under his father's, smaller:

Valentino Sr. He tried to sell Sophia. He tried to sell you. Palermo doesn't like sellers.

Valentino. Sophia's father. The man who just invested in her bakery.

The man who sent the man from Palermo.

We had 3 days.

.

Again.

***