Page 15 of Broken Honor

Even Riccardo, who’s trying hard not to show it. Even Omero, who never says much at all.

I reach for my wine again, taking a slow sip.

Outside, the sky has turned completely dark.

I raise my glass again, “To brotherhood.”

They raise their glasses. “To brotherhood.”

Chapter Three - Lunetta

It’s past midnight, but I’m still curled on the floor near the café window, wrapped in the old wool blanket Nonna keeps for chilly mornings. She sits behind me, her arms snug around my shoulders, one hand stroking my hair with the kind of tenderness only she knows. Her shawl drapes over both of us now.

Her lips press against my temple every so often, murmuring prayers half under her breath, half into my skin. I think it’s more to calm herself than me.

Bea kneels on my other side, her palm moving in slow circles across my back. She doesn’t say anything—just watches me, her face drawn and pale, eyes flicking toward the door every time someone new steps in. Her expression is full of worry, brow creased like she’s trying to absorb the shock for me.

“I told her not to stay alone,” Nonna mutters, her voice low and hoarse with distress. “Madonna santa… my poor girl… Did you drink water? Her hands are cold, Beatrice—look at her hands. Cold like marble.”

“Nonna,” Bea says gently, but her voice is thick, too.

Uniformed officers move carefully through the café now, their boots tracking over the polished wood floors that just hours ago smelled of lemon polish and biscotti. Now, the room carries something heavier—sterile gloves, plastic zip bags, dried blood, and the murmur of radios clipped to belts.

Two officers are lifting the body onto a stretcher, their movements slow and mechanical, as if trying not to disturb what’s already beyond help. The man’s face is covered now, but I still see him when I blink. That moment when he gasped his last breath and collapsed into me. His grip on my ankle. The blood pooling around him. His words—those final, frantic words.

“È tuo.”

A soft voice pulls me back.

“Miss Fiore?”

I look up slowly. A woman in uniform crouches beside me, her notepad already open, pen resting gently between her fingers. She has sharp eyes, short brown curls tucked under her cap, and a kind sort of authority about her.

Beside her stands Sheriff Caladori, arms crossed, jaw set like a man still trying to figure out how the night took such a sharp turn.

After it happened, I remember crawling to the phone, fingers slipping over the numbers as my whole body shook.

I called Nonna first.

She didn’t answer.

She was still at evening Mass—sitting in the back pew, no doubt, where she always prayed long after the others had left. I called twice. Three times. Still nothing.

So I called Bea.

I don’t even remember what I said—just that I was crying, breathless, clutching the phone like it could anchor me.

“Help me!” I’d screamed into the receiver. “Someone died here—help me—please, Bea, help me!”

She told me later that she didn’t understand half of it, but the panic in my voice had been enough. She hung up and dialed the sheriff while already running toward the door, ignoring her mother yelling.

Sheriff Caladori hadn’t taken it seriously. Not at first. He thought Bea was exaggerating. Maybe a stray dog, a hurt bird, or some prank that had gotten out of hand.

He’d shown up in his old truck, casual and tired-eyed, muttering about young girls being too dramatic.

But when he saw the blood—when he saw the body—everything changed.

His face had gone pale. His hand reached for the radio faster than I’d ever seen.

---