"I see." She exhaled slowly, adjusting her glasses. "We all know your family's circumstances are... difficult, Seraphina. Your Nonna raised you alone after everything that happened to your parents. You study hard in this new life. Build something worthy of the Genovese name. And repay that woman's devotion. She deserves that much."
I nodded. There was no time to dwell on the ghosts of my first death.
The sharp trill of a phone broke the silence. Then another. Giancarlo and Salvatore, both calling within seconds of each other, urging me to come downstairs. Their voices carried the easy authority of young men who had never been told no.
I pocketed the phone without answering and stepped into the corridor.
The whispers started immediately.
They clung to the walls like cigarette smoke, following me down the narrow stairwell of the Primo Liceo. Eyes tracked my every step. Clusters of students leaned into each other, their gazes sharp with judgment. I caught fragments. My name. Hissed syllables. The word puttana buried under someone's breath.
Halfway down the stairs, a foot shot out from the crowd.