THE PROMISE

Giulia finds me before I find her.

That's how it always goes with us, even the first time around. I'd be somewhere quiet, trying to disappear into a wall, and she'd show up with a tray of something nobody asked for, just so she'd have a reason to stand near me for a minute.

She does it again now, three days after the ledger, while I sit alone on the back steps of the kitchen garden pretending to read a book I'm not seeing a single word of.

"You've been weird," she says, setting a plate down next to me like it's nothing. Lemon cake. My favorite, though I haven't told anyone that yet in this life

. She must have remembered from before I was even born again, some habit that hasn't caught up to the fact that I'm not supposed to know her that well yet.

"Weird how?" I ask, not looking up from my book.

"Quiet weird." She sits down next to me, tucking her apron under her like she's done it a thousand times, because she has.

"You used to talk my ear off. Now you just watch everybody like you're waiting for something bad to happen."

I almost laugh. Not because it's funny. Because she has no idea how right she is.

I look at her properly for the first time since I woke up in this life. Really look, not just the glance I've been giving everyone while I try to keep my head down.

She's twenty-five in my memory, sharp-eyed and tired around the mouth from years of being underestimated. Here, now, she's younger. Nineteen, maybe twenty.

Still has that same watchfulness in her, though. Some things about a person don't wait for age to show up.

She died protecting me. Not right away—not in some dramatic last stand—but slowly, over years, the kind of dying that happens when nobody protects the person doing all the protecting.

She tried to warn me once, quietly, about something she'd overheard near Vittoria's office. I didn't listen closely enough. Three weeks later she was gone from the house, and nobody ever really explained why, and I was too scared and too stupid to ask the right questions.

I'm not going to make that mistake again.

"Giulia." I say her name careful, like I'm testing how much weight it can hold. "If I told you something that sounded crazy, would you actually listen? All the way through, before you decided I'd lost my mind?"

Something shifts behind her eyes. Not fear exactly. Curiosity with fear standing right behind it, waiting its turn.

"Depends how crazy," she says.

"Very."

She looks at me a long moment, then glances back toward the kitchen door like she's checking nobody can hear us. "Try me."

I set my book down. Turn to face her fully. I need her to see my face when I say this.

"I overheard something," I tell her. "About the ledger. About how people who get close to certain secrets in this house don't stay safe for long."

Her face goes pale. "What secrets?"

"I don't know yet. That's the problem." I lean in closer, dropping my voice. "But I need you to be careful, Giulia.

If you ever hear anything strange near Vittoria's study—anything at all—come to me first. Not anybody else. Promise me."

She stares at me. Her hands are trembling slightly, but she doesn't look away.

"Elena, what's going on? You're scaring me."

"Good," I say, and I don't soften it. "You should be scared. This family isn't what it looks like. And I need someone I can trust. Someone who won't just disappear when things get dangerous."

She swallows hard. I can see her working through it, trying to decide if I'm crazy or if I'm telling the truth.

"Okay," she says finally. "Okay, I hear you."

It's not a full promise. But it's enough for now. Trust builds in pieces. I learned that the hard way, in a life I'm not supposed to remember.

"Thank you," I say. "That's all I'm asking. Just be careful."

She nods slowly. "You too, Elena. Whatever you're doing—be careful."

I take a piece of the lemon cake. It's still warm. "I will."

She stands up, brushing off her apron. "I should get back inside before someone notices I'm gone."

I watch her walk back toward the kitchen door. She pauses at the threshold and looks back at me.

"Elena?"

"Yeah?"

"I believe you." Her voice is quiet, barely carrying across the garden. "I don't know why. But I believe you."

She disappears inside before I can answer.

I sit there for a long time after she's gone, holding the lemon cake I'm not eating, feeling the weight of her trust settle on my shoulders like something I need to protect.

---

I see Matteo two days later.

I've been dreading it and wanting it in almost equal amounts, which should tell me something about how much trouble I'm already in.

He's in the east hallway, coming from the direction of his father's study. Dressed plain—dark shirt, sleeves pushed up, nothing about him trying to look like money the way Dante always does.

He's younger than the man I remember. Not as much gray starting at his temples. Fewer lines carved into his face by ten more years of doing jobs nobody else in that family wants their hands on.

But it's him. Same stillness in the way he moves, like he's always half-expecting to need to disappear into a room at a second's notice. Same dark eyes that don't rush to look at anything, like looking too fast might give away more than he means to.

I stop walking. I can't help it.

He notices. Of course he notices—that's the whole point of him, noticing things before anyone else catches up. He slows down too, just slightly, and for one second we stand in that hallway looking at each other, and I feel every year of the ten I lived without him rush up into my throat at once.

You couldn't reach me in time, I think. You held me while I died and you never even knew my name broke apart in your voice, because I never told you. Because I never got the chance.

None of that shows on my face. I make sure of it.

"You're the Rossi girl's daughter," he says. It's not quite a question. "Elena."

"That's right." My voice comes out steadier than I expect, given how hard my heart is working.

He nods, the kind of nod that ends a conversation before it's really started. He doesn't know me yet. Not in this life. To him I'm just another name attached to another family the Marchettis do business with, a girl he has no particular reason to remember.

But he doesn't walk away either. Not right away. He stands there a second longer than he needs to, like something about me has snagged on him without his permission, and he doesn't understand why, and it bothers him that he doesn't understand.

"You're staring," he says. Not unkind. Just observing it, the way he seems to observe everything.

"Sorry." I make myself look down at my shoes, playing the part I need to play. Shy. Harmless. Sixteen. "You just look like someone I used to know."

That's not even a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Something flickers across his face. Confusion, maybe, or the faintest edge of something else I don't have a name for yet. Then it's gone, tucked back behind that careful stillness he wears like a second skin.

"Someone you used to know," he repeats. "From where?"

I look up at him. Meet his eyes. "From a long time ago."

He doesn't smile. But something in his face shifts, just barely.

"That's an interesting answer," he says.

"I'm an interesting person."

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.

"I've heard that about you," he says. "The Rossi girl's daughter. Different from the rest."

I feel a jolt of surprise. He's heard things about me. Someone's been talking.

"Different how?" I ask.

He's quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't know yet. But I'm curious."

I feel that word land somewhere deep in my chest. Curious. That's not nothing. That's the beginning of something.

"Be careful what you're curious about," I say, echoing Giulia's words from yesterday. "Some things are better left alone."

His eyes hold mine. "I've never been very good at leaving things alone."

"I know," I say, before I can stop myself.

His eyebrows lift. "You know?"

I realize my mistake. I've said too much. Shown too much.

"Lucky guess," I say quickly. "You seem like the type."

He studies me for a long moment. I feel him weighing my words, trying to decide if I'm lying.

"Have a good evening," he says finally.

He walks on down the hallway. I stand there and watch him go.

"Have a good evening," I echo, too quiet for him to hear.

---

I think about him that night.

I lie in my bed with the rabbit sheets and stare at the ceiling, and I think about the way he looked at me in the hallway. The way his voice softened, just slightly, when he said he was curious.

In my first life, we never had this. We were always circling each other, always avoiding the real conversation.

He held me while I died and he never even knew my name. I carried that guilt for him for ten years, and he never once knew it.

But this time is different. This time I'm going to give him a reason to actuall

y save me. And I'm going to give myself a reason not to need saving at all.

I don't know yet how much that promise is going to cost. I only know I mean it.