THE FUNERAL
The rain hadn’t stopped for hours. It fell like a curse, soaking the marble graves, the hem of her long black coat, and the edge of her patience.
Sarafina Lucetti stood beneath the towering cypress trees of Santa Croce Cemetery, arms crossed, lips drawn tight, expression unreadable. A cigarette trembled slightly between her fingers—unlit. She wasn’t a smoker, not really. But sometimes, holding fire made her feel less hollow.
Across from her, men in tailored suits and funeral-black coats whispered in pairs. Their faces were familiar: old allies of her late father, enemies dressed as mourners, and a few strangers pretending to care. None of them mattered.
Only the man near the casket did.
Dante Moretti hadn’t moved once since the priest began his final rites. Not a twitch. Not a blink. Not even when thunder growled low through the Roman sky. The collar of his coat was turned up. His hands were folded behind his back, boots planted like stone.
He was watching the grave — or perhaps, watching her.
Sarafina looked away first.
“Lucetti blood runs cold,” someone once said. “But the Morettis? They’re colder.”
She could feel it now — that ice, threading the air between them. Years ago, when their fathers had struck an agreement to end a bloody turf war, Sarafina had seen him briefly: a boy with a gun too big for his hands and eyes that had already seen too much.
He wasn’t a boy now. And the war was far from over.
The coffin dropped. Soil began to fall. Her spine tensed with each dull thud.
Papa had warned her about this day. Not in words — he hadn’t been the poetic type — but in his silences, in the way he stared at the sea at night like it held all the things he couldn’t say.
“If I die, it won’t be cancer that kills me. It’ll be a knife that whispers first.”
The autopsy claimed heart failure.
Sarafina didn’t believe in convenient deaths.
By the time the service ended, most of the crowd had thinned. She remained behind, fingers trailing along the Lucetti name carved into stone. Her jaw clenched.
“You’re late,” came a voice from behind.
Deep. Low. Smooth as Italian silk dipped in steel.
Sarafina turned slowly. “I didn’t know you were expecting me.”
Sarafina folded her arms, every muscle in her body tensing beneath the wet fabric. “So this is it? You wait until my father’s body is barely cold, then throw old debts at me like I’m one of your men?”
Dante didn’t blink. “You’re not one of my men, Sarafina. That’s exactly why I came myself.”
She hated the way he said her name. Like it was familiar. Like he had the right.
“You came to collect,” she said bitterly.
“No,” he said, eyes darkening. “I came to warn you.”
That stopped her.
Dante took a step closer, enough for her to catch the faintest scent of smoke and rain-drenched leather. “Your father kept something from me. From everyone. And now, someone thinks you have it.”
Sarafina blinked once. “Have what?”
He didn’t answer. Just reached into his coat and pulled out a slim envelope, the paper damp at the edges.
“This was left in your father’s safe. Locked, untraceable. My men cracked it this morning.”
She didn’t take the envelope. “So you stole from a dead man.”
“Not stolen,” he said. “Retrieved. For your safety.”
Sarafina almost laughed. “You think I need protection?”
“I think you need the truth.” His voice dropped low again. “And you’re about to find out you’ve been living in the shadow of something far bigger than you imagined.”
Her fingers brushed the envelope. Cold. Slightly torn.
“You open it,” she said.
Dante hesitated, then slid a finger under the seal and unfolded the paper inside. His eyes scanned the contents quickly — too quickly. Whatever was there, he already knew it.
Still, he handed it to her without a word.
Sarafina’s gaze dropped to the page.
Her heart stopped.
It wasn’t a letter. It was a list. A symbol burned faintly into the corner. Names—half of them crossed out. And at the bottom, in careful script, two final words:
“Project Silence.”
The wind picked up, howling through the cemetery trees like a warning.
“What the hell is this?” she whispered.
Dante's voice was quiet now, deadly calm. “This is the real reason your father died.”
Sarafina stared at the paper, rain soaking through her gloves, the ink beginning to run.
“I don’t want any part of this,” she said.
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I always have a choice.”
Dante stepped back, finally giving her space. “Not anymore. The moment your father died, you became a target.”
She looked up at him sharply. “By who?”
He didn’t say. He just turned and walked away.
Sarafina stood alone by the grave, the list still in her hands, her heart pounding harder than the rain.
In the name of silence, everything had begun.
