Chapter One
Aria’s POV
The floor is cold beneath my knees.
I have been scrubbing the same stretch of marble for twenty minutes, and the water in my bucket has turned gray. The villa belongs to a wealthy family I have never met. They are in Milan for the summer. The house is empty except for the staff, and the silence makes every sound feel too loud.
I dip the cloth again. Wring it out. Press it against the stone. The motion is automatic now. Circular. Steady. Relentless. My hands know what to do even when my mind wanders to places I cannot afford to visit.
Like the stack of bills on our kitchen table.
Like my mother's medicine running out in three days.
Like my brother's school fees I still have not paid.
I scrub harder.
Footsteps echo behind me. Sharp. Impatient. I recognize the rhythm before I see her face.
Signora Ricci. The chief maid. A woman who has spent thirty years in service and never let anyone forget it.
She walks past me without stopping. But her voice cuts through the hallway like a blade.
"You scrub floors, but you have got the shape of a woman who should be scrubbing something better."
The words land like small stones.
I keep my head down. Keep scrubbing. Keep breathing.
She is always like this. Always watching me too closely. Always finding reasons to assign me extra chores. Extra shifts. Extra hours that leave my back aching and my hands cracked and bleeding. I do not know why she is so fixated on me. On my body. On my face. On the way I move through rooms like I am trying to disappear.
Maybe that is exactly what bothers her.
Invisible women are not supposed to have shapes.
I finish the hallway. I do not do the extra chores today. I am too tired. Too tired to be grateful. Too tired to care if she notices.
I gather my bucket and cloth and walk to the servants' quarters to collect my things. The sun is setting through the tall windows, painting the marble gold. It would be beautiful if I had the energy to notice.
I don't.
The bus ride home takes forty minutes.
I watch Palermo move past the window. The churches. The piazzas. The tourists taking photographs of things they will never understand. This city is beautiful. Everyone says so. But beauty does not pay bills. Beauty does not heal sickness. Beauty does not stop a man from gambling away everything his family has.
I get off at my stop and walk the rest of the way.
Our apartment is on the fourth floor of a building that was once elegant and is now just tired. The elevator has been broken for three years. The stairs creak beneath my feet. The walls are thin enough to hear the neighbors arguing about money. Everyone here argues about money.
I push open the door.
The apartment is small. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A kitchen that doubles as a living room. The furniture is old but clean. I make sure of that. Clean is the one thing I can control.
Matteo is on the couch.
He is sixteen years old and too tall for his body. His legs hang over the armrest. His schoolbooks are scattered on the floor. He is staring at the ceiling like it holds answers to questions he has not asked yet.
"Hey," I say.
He looks at me. His eyes are red.
"What happened?"
"Papa came back."
My stomach tightens.
"Where is he?"
"Left again." Matteo sits up. His voice is flat. "Said he had a lead. Said he would be back tonight."
I do not ask what kind of lead. I already know. There is only one kind of lead my father ever follows anymore. The kind that leads to a card table. The kind that leads to men who lend money and expect it back with interest. The kind that leads to the door of our apartment at two in the morning with threats written on their faces.
"He will be back," I say. "He always comes back."
Matteo does not answer.
I walk to the kitchen. There is pasta in the cabinet. Half a jar of sauce. I start cooking because it is the only thing I know how to do right now. Feed my brother. Keep him alive. Keep him safe.
"Did you eat today?" I ask.
"I am not hungry."
"Matteo."
"I said I am not hungry."
I stop stirring. I turn to look at him. He is so young. Sixteen years old and already carrying weight that should not belong to him. Our father's gambling. Our mother's sickness. The poverty that wraps around us like a second skin.
"You need to eat," I say softly. "Please."
He meets my eyes. Something in his face softens. He nods.
I make two plates. We eat in silence.
After dinner, I wash the dishes. I wipe the counters. I check the locks on the door three times. Matteo goes to his room to study. I stand in the small living room and breathe.
There is a photograph on the shelf.
My mother. Before the sickness. Her hair is dark and long. Her smile is wide. She is holding me as a baby, and she looks at the camera like she has everything she has ever wanted.
I miss her.
She is not gone. She is at the hospital. But the woman in that photograph is not the woman I visit anymore. The woman I visit is thin and tired and fading. The woman I visit holds my hand and tells me she is sorry. Sorry for being sick. Sorry for costing money. Sorry for leaving me with all of this.
I tell her it is okay.
I tell her I will fix everything.
I do not know if she believes me.
My phone rings.
I look at the screen.
Ospedale Civico di Palermo.
My heart stops.
Matteo cannot hear this. He cannot know. Not yet. Not until I know what is happening.
I walk to the front door. I slip outside. The hallway is dark and cold. I press the phone to my ear.
"Mama? What"
