Embers

Chapter 2: A Heart Dead as Embers

They say that right before a person dies, their whole life flashes before their eyes.

That didn’t happen to me.

What I saw was Luca lowering his lashes as he lit a cigarette. The cold emptiness in his eyes as he tapped ash into a crystal tray.

And after that—

Nothing.

Pain.

That was the first thing I felt when I woke up.

Not the sharp sting of a needle, but a deep, grinding pain crawling out from inside my bones, like someone was prying my skull apart with a blunt knife.

I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt stitched shut. I could sense light, though—an orange-red glow pressing faintly against my skin.

I could smell things too.

Mold.

Medicine.

Rust.

I was alive.

I don’t know how much time passed after that.

Days. Weeks. Maybe longer.

Time had shattered into pieces I couldn’t put back together.

Sometimes I heard water dripping somewhere nearby.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Sometimes an old radio played those worn-out Italian folk songs people only listened to in dying little towns.

Sometimes someone turned me over, changed my bandages, forced water between my lips.

The movements were rough.

But never cruel.

Once, I heard someone say, “She’s incredibly lucky. The bullet missed by two centimeters.”

Another voice laughed dryly, like rusty metal scraping together.

“That wasn’t luck. The shooter’s hand shook.”

Marco.

His hand shook?

I wanted to laugh.

But I couldn’t even move my face.

Real awareness came much later.

The day I finally opened my eyes properly, the first thing I saw was a stained ceiling and a naked lightbulb dangling from a wire overhead, swaying slightly.

The room smelled damp and cold.

I was lying on a narrow bed beneath a blanket covered in pills and loose threads. Beside me sat a metal chair and a steel tray piled with medicine bottles and bloody bandages.

Rain tapped softly against the small fogged-up window.

I lay there without moving, staring at the water stain on the ceiling.

It looked like a map.

Crooked.

Yellow around the edges.

I tried to think.

Luca.

The wedding.

White roses.

The gun.

I waited for tears.

None came.

My eyes felt painfully dry, but not a single tear fell. It was as if every drop of moisture inside me had already been drained away, leaving behind nothing but an empty shell.

I should have screamed.

I should have broken down.

I should have cried and asked him why.

But I did none of those things.

Instead, my mind felt terrifyingly calm, as though someone had poured ice water straight into my veins.

Every detail replayed clearly.

The smile Luca wore while handing me those papers.

The shape of his lips as he exhaled cigarette smoke.

The flat, emotionless tone of his voice when he said:

“Send her on her way.”

Again.

And again.

And again.

Like flipping through photographs from someone else’s life.

Then another thought hit me.

My mother.

Ovarian cancer.

Pain twisted violently through my stomach.

I curled onto my side so suddenly the bed frame creaked beneath me. My forehead pressed against my knees.

It hurt.

Not physically.

It was deeper than that.

The kind of pain that comes from realizing you may never truly know another person. That the people closest to you can die while carrying secrets you never even imagined.

A sound finally escaped my throat.

Not crying.

Just a low, broken gasp.

“You’re awake.”

I froze.

The door opened, and an old man walked inside.

He looked to be in his sixties, hunched over with graying hair and deep wrinkles carved into his face. His filthy white coat hung loosely from his thin frame, and his glasses were so thick they distorted his eyes.

“Who are you?” I croaked.

“My name’s not important,” he replied as he set a tray beside my bed. Thin soup. A piece of hard bread.

“Eat. You’ve been unconscious for seventeen days. Your stomach can’t handle anything heavier.”

Seventeen days.

Slowly, I pushed myself upright. Pain hammered against my temples with every movement.

My fingers tightened around the blanket.

Even my nails had lost their color.

“Why am I alive?”

The old man dragged the metal chair closer and sat down.

“The bullet entered here.” He tapped the side of his temple. “And exited just behind your head. Missed your brain by sheer centimeters. Only shattered bone.”

He studied me carefully over his thick lenses.

“The gun was fired at point-blank range. Realistically, it shouldn’t have missed.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Either the shooter was incompetent... or he didn’t want you dead.”

Marco didn’t want me dead?

The thought lingered for only a second before I crushed it.

It didn’t matter.

Luca gave the order.

Luca nodded.

That was all that mattered.

“What about my family?” I asked quietly. “The Fernandezes...”

The old man lowered his eyes to his weathered hands.

“You’d be better off not asking questions like that.”

I didn’t ask again.

My body already knew the answer before my mind accepted it.

My father.

My uncle.

My cousins.

All dead.

Just like me.

Killed in carefully staged accidents and home invasions.

Clean.

Efficient.

No survivors left behind.

I picked up the bowl and drank the soup slowly.

It tasted like nothing.

The days after that passed in silence.

The old man’s name was Enzo.

Years ago, he had worked as an underground doctor for a small-time gang. Now he lived hidden away in this forgotten place, quietly waiting to die.

He never asked me questions.

Never offered comfort.

The only thing he demanded was that once I regained enough strength, I help clean the clinic.

So I recovered.

Slowly.

At first, I could barely stand without gripping the wall.

Then I could walk ten minutes.

Then thirty.

The stitches eventually came out, leaving behind a round scar where hair would never grow again.

Enzo shaved the rest of my hair off, claiming it made changing the bandages easier.

The first time I looked into the mirror afterward, I barely recognized myself.

Sharp cheekbones.

Sunken eyes.

Cracked lips.

No hair.

No expression.

This wasn’t Avi Fernandez.

Avi had chestnut curls.

Pearl-white nails.

Eyes that crinkled whenever she smiled.

The woman staring back at me looked cold enough to freeze blood.

Maybe that was for the best.

Avi Fernandez died outside that study door the night Luca betrayed her.

As for the thing still breathing now—

I didn’t know who she was either.

One evening, Enzo sat repairing his ancient radio while I watched rain sliding down the window.

“You want revenge,” he said suddenly.

I stayed silent.

“I found that book under your pillow. Basics of Firearms. Mine, by the way.”

“I was only reading it.”

“Hmph.”

He tightened a screw with an old screwdriver.

“Do you understand who Luca Rossi is? If you go after him now, you’ll be dead before you even get close enough to see his face.”

Rain poured harder outside, splashing against the roof.

“I’m not in a hurry,” I said quietly.

Even I was surprised by how calm I sounded.

“He should climb higher first. Higher and higher.”

I looked out at the rain.

“That way, when he falls, it’ll hurt enough.”

Enzo stopped moving.

For the first time, he looked at me carefully.

Something flickered across his face.

Approval.

Or maybe pity.

“You’ll need help,” he finally said. “I know someone. Vito Salvatore.”

The name landed heavily inside me, sending ripples through the numb emptiness in my chest.

“An old friend of your father’s,” Enzo continued. “At your family’s funeral, he swore he’d make Luca pay for this.”

He gave a dry laugh.

“Problem is, Luca’s been crushing him for years. Vito has resources, but not enough manpower. What he needs is someone desperate enough to risk everything.”

“You mean me.”

“That’s your decision.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

After the rain stopped, moonlight spilled through the window, pale and cold against my shaved head.

I sat on the edge of the bed holding Enzo’s old revolver.

He claimed he carried it for protection when he was younger.

The sights were crooked.

But it still fired.

I raised the gun and aimed at the wall.

My hand trembled violently.

I lowered it.

Raised it again.

Over and over.

By dawn, my hand had finally stopped shaking.

Three days later, I removed my bandages and pulled on a secondhand hat Enzo bought for me.

He handed me a fake ID.

The name printed on it read:

Isabella Moretti.

“Isabella,” I whispered.

“Focus on surviving first,” Enzo muttered, patting my shoulder. “You can figure out the rest later.”

I nodded.

As I stepped outside, dawn was just beginning to break over the horizon.

The air smelled of wet earth and wild grass.

I never looked back.

I had nothing with me except that cheap hat, a few hundred euros, and a revolver with crooked sights.

But it was enough.

Avi Fernandez was dead.

Her heart stopped beating the night Luca betrayed her.

Her tears dried up beside that study door.

The woman walking down that muddy road now was Isabella.

And Luca Rossi knew nothing.

He thought it was over.

He thought the Fernández family had been erased completely.

He was wrong.

I stepped through a puddle and caught sight of my reflection trembling in the muddy water.

On the horizon, the first streaks of dawn looked the color of fresh blood.

Some things have to die before they can be reborn.

And some hatred only disappears after it burns itself into ash.

I kept walking toward the highway leading into town, my footsteps steady.

Behind me, Enzo’s old radio crackled softly through the open window, playing that same tired Italian folk song on repeat.

Chi ha avuto, ha avuto. Chi ha dato, ha dato.

What’s gone is gone.

What’s lost is lost.

As for the rest—

We’ll see.