Page 9 of One Savage Union

It’s been twelve days since she died, and her absence isn’t just a feeling—it’s a presence. A shadow curled in every corner. The apartment still smells like her—jasmine and old vinyl—and that makes it worse. The grief is sharp, but the loneliness is sharper.

And now there’s this other thing.

This prickling at the back of my neck, like I’m being watched. Like the air isn’t mine anymore, I tell myself it’s the grief.The pressure. The lack of sleep. However, I still double-check the locks before I play. Still, I keep the blinds half-closed even though it’s nearly noon.

The piano used to be my sanctuary. Now, it even feels foreign. The notes don’t comfort—they echo. I press down harder on the keys, trying to force something out, but it’s like the music doesn’t recognize me anymore.

Just like everything else.

Mom would usually hum along from the kitchen while cooking dinner, the scent of simmering Ghanaian spices filling the air—a chale sauce for Cornbeef Stew or a peanut sauce for chicken. Each dish from her homeland always pushed a different sound from her lips. Now, the absence of that comforting noise makes my chest ache.

I lean into the piano, my forehead brushing the cool wood. A framed photo of Mom and me rests on top, its edges worn from years of handling. My fingers linger on the keys as a flash of memory overtakes me.

Mom’s laugh is rich and warm, like the songs we’d play together on Sunday mornings. I watch her now, the way sunlight dances on her copper skin as she prepares our breakfast. She’s standing at the stove, flipping plantains, her movements unhurried and precise. The air smells sweet and earthy, a comfort I’d give anything to feel again.

“I may not have riches to leave you, my love,” she says, low and certain, “but I’ll always leave you with the truth.”

I look up from the table, surprised by the weight of her words. “The truth about what?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.

Mom pauses, her spatula hovering over the pan. Her eyes, soft but unwavering, meet mine. “About everything,” she says. “About who you are. About love.”

“Love?” I laugh, trying to lighten the moment. “What do you know about love?”

She smiles a little sadly and sets the spatula down. “Not much,” she admits. “Not the kind of love that lasts, anyway. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t out there. You have to be open to it, Lucia. Even if it’s scary. Even if it doesn’t look like you imagined.”

A knock at the door startles me out of the memory. My fingers still, the last note hanging dissonantly in the air. I rise, wiping my hands on my jeans as I move cautiously toward the door.

I glance through the peephole. A man stands in the dim hallway, his face partially shadowed. He’s wearing a courier’s uniform, but what catches my eye is the envelope in his hand—black, with a large, blood-red “R” stamped boldly across the front. Seeing it makes my stomach twist, a chill running down my spine.

“Miss Asare?” he calls, his tone professional but neutral. It’s also annoying because he butchered my name. What should sound like “Ah-sah-ree” sounds like “A-say-ree.”

I hesitate. I’m not expecting anything. But the man doesn’t look threatening, and curiosity nudges me to undo the chain and crack the door open.

“Yes?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “I’m Ms. Asare.”

“This is for you,” he says, holding the envelope.

I take it, my fingers brushing against the coarse paper. The envelope’s texture is rough and cold against my skin. A faint metallic scent clings to it, sending a ripple of unease through me. Before I can thank him, the man turns and disappears down the hall, his steps echoing faintly.

Closing the door, I return to the piano bench, my hands trembling as I hold the ominous envelope.

My name is scrawled across the front in unfamiliar handwriting. Carefully, I slide a finger under the flap and pull out a single sheet of paper.

The words stop me cold:

Lucia,

Your father is Don Matteo Ricci.

He has been watching you from the shadows since you were born.

The time for secrecy is over.

Everything you need is enclosed.

Read carefully—your life depends on it.

My heart hammers as I unfold a second piece of paper. Bank statements. Regular deposits into an account under my name—$10,000 monthly for the past eighteen years. That’s over two million dollars, sitting untouched in an account I didn’t even know existed. Mom never mentioned money like this, not a man like Matteo Ricci.

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