Episode Three
1302 Words
Chapter Three
Rosalia
I wake up to silence.
The kind of silence that isn’t serene — just hollow.
For two days, I feel as though I am haunting myself. I’ve wept, I’ve yelled, I’ve sat in dumb silence staring into space. But through it all, there’s this cold, empty sensation in my chest, as if I’m mourning a real loss of something that doesn’t even exist.
I keep waiting to wake up from this nightmare. To walk downstairs to find my father at the breakfast table, reading the pack reports and drinking his coffee, looking up at me with the knowing smirk he always wore.
I wake instead to a world without Alpha Vincezio Santoro.
Now, all eyes are on what happens next.
I know what they want. It will not be long before the pack is leaderless. Somebody will take my father’s place. Perhaps it will be Enzo — his Beta, the one who has been circling like a vulture since my father died. If that happens I can’t know what that means for me.
I know what happens when an Alpha has a daughter and no heir.
They marry her off.
I ball my hands into fists, nails digging into my palms. I don’t want to be used as a bargaining chip. I don’t want a man I don’t love tying me down, don’t want to be stuck in a life I didn’t choose.
I thought I had more time.
But time ran out.
I look to my closet, on the black dress hanging there; the one a pack maid had rushed and purchased, knowing I didn’t own anything to wear today. The funeral.
You know I already have every minute of the day planned. The service. The burial. The well-meaning condolences from people who never really knew my father. Then the assembly at the manor, where the higher-ranking wolves will sit in his study — his study — and determine my fate.
I don’t feel ready. But no one is waiting for me to get ready.
I pull the dress on, sitting down at my vanity and attempting to do something with my face to mask how tired and empty I look. It doesn’t really help.
And then I think of him, despite myself.
Angelo.
The realization jolts me, breaking the fog.
It’s been three years. I barely remember him. He left when I was too young to really know him, and when he came back, he was distant — polite but detached. He never paid attention to me, even when I wanted him to.
I was just a girl back then, harboring a hopeless crush.
I got over it. I told myself I didn’t mind that he departed.
So why do I care now?
How can the prospect of seeing him today send a flutter through my gut, something that thaws inside of me and flutters free?
I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. That if he comes at all, it will be only for the funeral. He will pay his respects, meet both with the council and leave. He’s no longer part of this pack.
Still, I take to applying a bit of color to my cheeks. Adding a hint of lipstick. I don’t know why I do it.
Perhaps so he can see I’m not the girl who was left behind.
Perhaps because I need something to grasp onto to survive today.
When I arrive, the church is nearly empty.
As soon as I walk in, the smell of burning candles and polished wood invades my nostrils, awakening old memories—baptisms, prayers, vows of loyalty to the Moon Goddess, muttered beneath cracked ceilings lined with dusty chandeliers. My father’s spirit is here, in the solemnity of custom, in the quiet piety of the place.
And then I see the coffin.
My stomach twists.
I cling to the edge of the pew, willing myself to breathe, but my stomach churns. I haven’t eaten today — I couldn’t eat. The grief is lodged too deep in my gut, strangling me.
I don’t let my mind go to what’s inside of that coffin. I do my best to remember my father the way he was — the indomitable Alpha, the man who faced down any threat without faltering. Not cold. Not lifeless.
I take a seat, absentmindedly gazing straight ahead, my thoughts elsewhere, thriving on nostalgia.
I don’t hear the footsteps behind me.
Not until a voice pierces the silence.
“Rosalia.”
I don’t need to look back to know who it is.
Angelo.
I close my eyes for a moment, grounding myself. There is more softness in his voice than in my memory, a break from the cold, indifferent man he always used to be to me. There is something else, something I cannot quite name.
I swallow the ball in my throat and look over at him.
He’s exactly the same as I remember — but also totally different.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, neatly swept back. Bright green eyes that always seemed to see too much. He’s wearing an all-black suit, tailored closely to his lean, powerful build.
But it’s not simply his appearance. It’s the way he looks at me.
Like he didn’t expect me to be this.
I rise slowly, stiff from sitting so long. Angelo doesn’t move. He looks at me closely, as though he’s trying to c***k a code.
For a split second, I wonder if he’s regretting coming.
“I thought you wouldn’t come,” I say softly, not raising my voice as I speak. “I didn’t know if you had been told by anyone. Or if you would have cared if they had.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.” His voice is steady, but there are small pauses. “How are you, Rosalia?”
I breathed out, unable to produce a small laugh, devoid of humor. “How do you think?”
Angelo says nothing. He glances at my lip, and I realize I’m biting it again — hard enough to draw blood. I released it, suppressing the anxious energy rising in me.
“I’m going to stick around for a little while after the funeral,” Angelo says after a beat. “The council wants to meet. Then I’ll return to New York.”
Something in my chest tightens.
Of course, he’s leaving.
Why would he stay?
I press my lips together and nod. “I see.”
Angelo looks me over for a moment more. Then, more softly than before, he murmurs, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I exhale shakily and look down at the polished floorboards.
“It’s your loss too.”
Before I can tell myself not to, I reach out. My fingertips graze the back of his hand — just — before he pulls away.
I freeze.
For a moment, a flicker crosses his expression. Something I don’t understand.
Then, as though becoming aware that we’re no longer alone, he straightens. I hear the doors of the church creak open, little whispered voices as people start to trickle in.
Angelo’s whole body stiffens, and his posture shifts in a second. The distance returns.
“I’ll see you after the service,” he says, his tone deliberately neutral. “The council’s going to want to talk to me, but I’ll see you first.”
I nod, though it doesn’t quite seem to matter.
He spins and walks away, his gait smooth and measured.
I watch him walk away, my heart racing for reasons I can’t fully articulate.
I shouldn’t care if he comes or goes.
But as the church fills, as we all come together to mourn, I realize something I don’t want to admit.
For the first time in days, I feel not numb.
And it’s because of him.
- Writer
