During those days, only Rosalia reached out. Message after message arrived on the burner phone I had acquired. She told me, in bright and breathless detail, how the two blood-promised had taken her traveling. Bungee jumping off coastal cliffs. Dining at private restaurants overlooking the sea. Every adventure was one we had once planned together as girls, dreams whispered in the dark of the Genovese estate, promises that were never meant for her.
I blocked her number.
When I finally looked up from the phone, two men stood at the foot of Nonna's bed. They were young, composed, and carried themselves with the quiet lethality of professionals. Their suits were dark and unadorned, their postures relaxed but alert. Each wore a small pin on his lapel: a silver net, barely visible unless you knew to look for it.
La Rete.
They inclined their heads in unison.
"Seraphina Genovese." The taller of the two spoke with a calm that bordered on reverence. "We are operatives dispatched by the organization. You have our word and our oath that your Nonna's safety and health will be maintained in your absence. No one will touch her. No one will reach her."