Chapter 19: The Mothers

Rome, Italy

Two weeks later

The Church of San Lorenzo was empty on a Tuesday morning.

Elena entered slowly, the echo of her shoes resonating against the centuries-old stone walls. The scent of incense and candles transported her back to her childhood, to Sunday masses in Calabria, to her mother's hand holding hers.

At the back, seven women awaited her.

Seven mothers.

Seven stories of pain.

Ferrara had arranged the meeting in secret, far from prying eyes, far from the bosses, far from everything. Only the mothers. Only the truth.

Elena sat down opposite them on a worn wooden pew. The oldest was about eighty, dressed in black from head to toe. The youngest, fifty, her eyes dry from tears.

No one spoke.

It was Elena who broke the silence.

"Thank you for coming. I know it's not easy."

The older woman's name was Signora Fontana; she knew from the files. She practically spat out, "Thirty years of waiting. Thirty years without knowing what happened to my daughter. And now a federal agent comes to tell me the truth?"

Elena met her gaze. "I'm not here as a federal agent. I'm here as a sister. My sister died too. She was also carrying a black rose."

The silence shifted. It became denser, more human.

"Your sister," said another woman, younger. "The one who wrote the article. The one who told the truth."

Elena nodded.

"I read it." The woman stood up and approached slowly. "I cried for three days. But I also... I also felt something I hadn't felt since they killed my Francesca. Peace." Her voice broke. "Peace in knowing she wasn't crazy. That she didn't commit suicide. That someone paid."

Elena recognized the pain. It was the same pain she had felt.

"Her name was Francesca, wasn't it?"

The woman nodded. "She was my only daughter. Twenty-two years old. She wanted to be an architect." She took a photograph from her pocket and held it out to her.

Elena took it with trembling hands. The girl in the photo looked like Sofia. The same light in her eyes. The same stolen innocence.

"She looks like my sister," she whispered.

Francesca's mother sat down beside her.

"Then you understand."

Elena nodded.

"I understand."

Two hours later

They had talked about everything. Of daughters, of shattered dreams, of the lies the police had told. They had cried together, laughed sometimes, always remembered.

Mrs. Fontana, the eldest, had been the hardest at first. But in the end, when the sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor with colors, she took Elena's hand.

"My daughter's name was Giulia," she said. "Like your mother, right?"

Elena nodded, surprised.

"Ferrara told me. She said your mother suffers too. That she waits too." The old woman squeezed her hand. "Tell her she's not alone. That there are others. That we understand."

Elena felt tears burning behind her eyes.

"I'll tell her."

"I will."Mrs. Fontana nodded. Then she stood up with the dignity of someone who has nothing left to lose.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to the cemetery. I go every Tuesday. To tell Giulia the news." She smiled a bittersweet smile. "Today I have a lot to tell her."

She left the church with a determined stride.

The other women followed her slowly, waving goodbye with gestures, with arms, with promises to stay in touch.

When the last one disappeared, Elena was left alone on the pew.

Alone with the silence, the scent of incense, and the weight of seven lives that would never be.

Rome, Italy

That night

Dante was waiting for her in the apartment with dinner ready. He wasn't an expert cook, but he tried. That night he had made simple pasta, with a sauce he had learned from his mother.

Elena ate in silence, lost in her thoughts.

Dante didn't pressure her. He knew how to wait.

When they finished, Elena put down her silverware and said,

"I met them. The mothers."

Dante nodded. "What was it like?"

"Painful. But necessary." Elena looked at him. "One of them was named Signora Fontana. Her daughter, Giulia, died thirty years ago. Thirty years without knowing the truth."

Dante lowered his gaze.

"I know. It was in Salvatore's files. Giulia Fontana was one of the first."

"And you did nothing?"

"What could I do?" Dante looked up. "I was twelve when she died. I knew nothing. By the time I discovered the truth, Salvatore had already been killing for decades."

Elena knew. But grief knows no reason.

"There are seven families," he said. "Seven women. They all deserve justice."

"And what is justice to you?"

Elena thought. Really thought.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I think it starts with the truth. So they know. So they stop wondering."

Dante nodded slowly.

"Then tell them. All of them. I'll help you."

Elena looked at him, surprised. "You?"

"Me." Dante took her hand. "I can't bring them back to life. But I can give them the truth. It's all I have."

Calabria, Italy

One week later

Elena was sitting on her mother's terrace, the familiar sea before her, when the car appeared on the dirt road.

Dante got out with a bouquet of ordinary flowers, yellow, without a single black rose, and walked toward the house with the uncertainty of someone who doesn't know if he'll be welcome.

Giulia saw him from the kitchen.

"So this is the famous Dante," she said, drying her hands on her apron. "More handsome than I expected."

Elena smiled. "Mom, please."

"What? A mother can have an opinion." She went out onto the terrace. "Mr. Moretti. Come in."

Dante approached, visibly nervous. "Mrs. Rossi. Thank you for seeing me."

Giulia looked him up and down with the critical gaze of Italian mothers.

"My daughter says he's complicated."

Dante swallowed. "I am."

"So?"

Dante hesitated. Then he said, "I try to be. For her."

Giulia looked at him for a long time. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Well, sit down. The pasta is ready."

"Well, have a seat."Dante released the breath he had been holding.

Elena smiled.

Rome, Italy

One month later

The memorial was held in a public garden, far from the spotlight, far from the press. Seven names engraved on a white marble plaque. Seven red roses, not black, placed by seven mothers.

Elena spoke last.

"Today we remember Giulia, Francesca, Sofia, and all those who are no longer with us. We remember their smiles, their dreams, their light. We remember that they were daughters, sisters, mothers, friends. And we remember that their deaths were not in vain if we learn to love better, to protect more, to be silent less."

The mothers wept. The few attendees—Ferrara, Alessia, Marco, Luca, Dante—listened in silence.

When she finished, Francesca's mother approached.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For not forgetting them."

Elena hugged her.

"Never."

In Switzerland, a seven-year-old boy lit a candle in front of a photograph.

It wasn't his grandfather.

It was in Sofia.

"I love you, Auntie," he whispered. "Even if you weren't real."

The flame flickered in the darkness.

And for the first time, Matteo smiled without malice.