Vengeance was now a part of me, as real and necessary as my heart or my lungs. During the day I was a dutiful daughter, but once night fell, I scoured the streets, spurred on by a singular need to set right a terrible wrong. I hadn’t found anyone who knew the mysterious stranger or recognized his deadly blade, and I wondered if they just didn’t want to admit anything for fear of retribution. Each day that passed fueled my growing wrath.

That dark-haired man had answers I needed. And I was losing what little patience I had. I’d started praying to the goddess of death and fury, making all sorts of promises if she’d help me find him.

So far, the goddess couldn’t be bothered.

“Buonasera, Nonna.” I set my satchel of knives on the kitchen counter in our home and dropped onto a stool. My parents insisted I spend a few hours in the restaurant each day. We could only afford to close Sea & Vine for a week to mourn Vittoria. Then, whether any of us liked it or not, life resumed. My mother still cried as often as I did and my father wasn’t doing much better. But they pretended to be strong for me. If they could try, the least I could do was trudge into the restaurant and slice some vegetables before collapsing back into my grief.

“Emilia, hand me the beeswax and dried petals.”

I found a few squares of wax and a tiny bundle of dried flowers on the sideboard. Nonna was making spell candles, and judging from the colors—white, gold, and pale purple—she was working a few different charms. Some for clairvoyance, some for luck, and some for peace.

None of us had had much peace this month. The polizia tied my sister’s murder to the two other girls. Apparently they also had their hearts ripped out, but there were no suspects or leads. They swore it wasn’t for a lack of effort on their part. But after the initial meetings, they stopped coming by our home and restaurant. They stopped asking questions. Young women died. Life resumed. Such was the way of the world, at least according to men.

No one cared that Vittoria had been slaughtered like an animal. Some more-vicious gossips even hinted that she must have deserved it. She’d somehow asked for it by being too bold, or confident, or ungodly. If she’d only been a little quieter, or more subservient, she might have been spared. As if anyone deserved to be murdered.

My family almost seemed relieved when talk shifted to new scandals. They wanted to mourn and fade into the shadows again, hoping to escape scrutiny from neighbors and police.

Nosy vendors from the marketplace came to our restaurant, ate at our tables, hoping for news, but my family was too practiced with secret-keeping to give anything away.