9:45 a.m. CET — Appartamento Acadia, Brera
A few minutes later, Loconda found herself wandering through every room and every floor of the grand apartment, her voice echoing softly in the stillness. "Aunt Acadia? Are you here?" she called, her words stretching out into the quiet halls.
Room by room, she poked her head inside. The second-floor modern lounge was untouched, its minimalist decor pristine as if awaiting a photo shoot. The guest bedrooms on the first floor were neatly made, beds adorned with lace coverlets and untouched throw pillows.
The fourth floor, however, revealed what Loconda was searching for—or at least something close to it. She hesitated at the door of the largest bedroom, pushing it open carefully. This was where her aunt had spent most of her time, judging by the chaos within. Clothes were scattered across the bed—silk scarves, designer coats, and half-folded dresses tumbling from the edges. Half-open luggage cases sat propped against the walls, brimming with garments, shoes, and accessories. A faint trace of Acadia's floral perfume still lingered in the air, but her presence was missing.
Renata brushed against Loconda's leg, her soft fur providing a small comfort. Loconda crouched to give the cat a quick stroke, murmuring, "What happened here, girl? Where's your momma?" Her concern deepened as she made her way downstairs.
10:05 a.m. CET — The Kitchen, First Floor
The space was a striking mixture of old-world charm and modern convenience. Wide stone countertops framed by intricately carved wood cabinets stood alongside sleek stainless-steel appliances. A large farmhouse sink sat under a window draped with slightly dusty lace curtains. The room opened to a wide dining area with a long oak table surrounded by mismatched chairs, each with a different pattern on the upholstery.
Loconda moved to the refrigerator, grimacing when she opened it. Every item inside was either expired or inedible, some with expiration dates that went back over a month. The pantry wasn't much better—stale crackers, expired canned goods, and a few half-empty jars of condiments were all she could find.
On the tiled floor, she noticed a curious sight: two bowls brimming with cat food surrounded by 11 empty ones. Renata sauntered over and began nibbling from one of the full bowls, her tail flicking contentedly.
Turning back to the rest of the kitchen, Loconda's gaze fell on the stack of mail piled up near the front door. She hadn't noticed it before, likely because it blended in with the neglected plants scattered around the room. The vibrant green leaves of ferns and potted ivy were now tinged brown, their soil visibly dry. It was clear no one had tended to them in weeks.
Her stomach churned as she stood in the kitchen, the weight of unease pressing down on her. The silence of the house was deafening, broken only by the haunting clues around her: the half-open door, the partially packed luggage, the wilting plants, the stale food, and the unopened mail—it all pointed to something unsettling.
10:24 a.m. CET — Guest Bedroom, Third Floor
Deciding to make herself comfortable for now, Loconda returned to the third floor and chose a guest bedroom to settle in. She unpacked her suitcase methodically, hanging her clothes in the closet and stacking her toiletries neatly on the vanity. Once done, she showered and changed into a white blouse, black high-waist bloomers and latte suede flats. Loconda smoothed down the fabric of her blouse as she glanced at herself in the guest room mirror. The outfit was simple yet crisp—practical for a day of errands but polished enough to navigate the winding Italian streets with confidence. She slung her tan leather purse over her shoulder, its contents carefully chosen: the letters from her aunt, Vivian's offer letter, her passport, her phone, and just enough cash to handle whatever the day might throw at her.
Her phone buzzed faintly as she adjusted the strap of her purse. She glanced at the screen. Missed Calls: 275. The sight made her pause—names of friends and family scrolled by, each one heavy with unspoken concern. Loconda's thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she sighed and tucked the phone deeper into the purse. Not now, she told herself, willing her focus to remain on the present. She took one last look at the guest bedroom, its neatly arranged belongings offering temporary comfort, then straightened her posture and walked out with quiet determination.
11:01 a.m. CET — Via Madonnina, Brera
Loconda stepped into the morning air, the door clicking shut behind her like the final note of a song. She paused, taking a deep breath of the cool, flower-scented breeze, but as she turned toward the cobbled street, a soft collision with a figure ahead jolted her from her thoughts.
"Mi scusi!" she exclaimed, her words stumbling over one another as she floundered in her few Italian phrases.
"No harm, no harm," chuckled an old silver haired man, his voice a gentle blend of English and Italian. "I wasn't looking where I was going, either." His eyes twinkled as he regarded her momentarily, studying her face with quiet curiosity. "Do you live here?" he asked, "Perché, I've lived here for years, and I've never seen anyone use that door before."
She smiled, brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and replied, "I'm related to the owner... just visiting from America."
A smile broke across his weathered face. "Ah," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her with a quiet approval. "You are beautiful, ragazza."
A flush warmed her cheeks as she whispered a soft, "Grazie," the word feeling both foreign and familiar on her tongue.
With a knowing nod, he shuffled away, leaving Loconda standing in the delicate stillness of the moment. She watched him go, her heart fluttering, her spirit light as air. The street stretched before her—alive with color, history, and possibility. The cobblestones, worn by the footfalls of countless others, seemed to beckon her onward, urging her into the adventure that awaited.
11:23 a.m. CET — Milano, Italia
The city bustled with life as she headed toward the nearest tram stop, eager to immerse herself in the vibrant streets of Milan. After navigating the public transportation system—a mix of sleek modern trains and charming vintage trams—she found herself in the heart of the city near Brera, the artistic soul of Milan.
Her first stop was the Pinacoteca di Brera, a historic art gallery housing works by Raphael, Caravaggio, and Titian. Loconda lingered in front of The Marriage of the Virgin, marveling at the interplay of color and form, before wandering the cobblestone streets lined with quaint cafés and galleries.
She allowed herself to be pulled into the magnetic energy of Piazza del Duomo, standing in awe before the ornate spires of the Milan Cathedral. The sunlight danced on the intricate marble façade, and Loconda couldn't help but snap a few photos. Across the square, the grand archways of Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II called to her. She strolled beneath its soaring glass dome, indulging in a small gelato as she admired the luxury boutiques.
By mid-afternoon, Loconda's stomach grumbled as whispers of Trattoria Milano's legendary risotto alla milanese drifted through the streets of Brera. The upscale restaurant, nestled near Piazza del Carmine, was renowned for its elegant take on the classic dish. But with her finances limited after being cut off from her father's estate, dining out wasn't an option. Resolving to make the dish herself, she headed to Alimentari Brera, known for its fresh produce and artisan goods.
The scent of ripe tomatoes and warm bread greeted her as she entered. She carefully selected arborio rice, saffron, chicken stock, butter, Parmesan, and shallots, adding fresh vegetables, bread, eggs, and olive oil to sustain her for the week. It wasn't indulgent, but it was practical—a necessity in her new reality.
As she paid for her groceries, a faint longing for her former life surfaced, when restaurant dinners were routine, and grocery bills an afterthought. Still, there was a quiet pride in knowing she could craft something extraordinary with her own hands, no matter how modest the means.
4:12 p.m. CET — Appartamento Acadia, Brera
Back at the apartment, she busied herself in the kitchen, slicing fresh tomatoes and herbs, the sound of the knife against the cutting board filling the quiet space. Renata, her aunt's sleek black cat, perched on the counter, watching her silently with piercing green eyes.
Loconda paused, glancing at Renata. "What?" she asked playfully. "You want some?"
Renata blinked slowly, her tail flicking once before settling back into her vigil.
Loconda chuckled and set the knife down. "Fine, I'll feed you first."
After tending to Renata, she decided to take a quick shower before finishing the meal. The hot water soothed her tired muscles as she washed away the day's adventures. But as she rinsed the soap from her face, a muffled bang outside the bathroom door jolted her.
She froze, listening intently. Then came the unmistakable sound of Renata screeching and clawing at the door.
"Renata?" Loconda called, her voice uncertain.
The scratching stopped, replaced by an eerie silence. Wrapping a towel around herself, Loconda cautiously opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Renata sat on the banister at the far end, her gaze fixed on something below. Loconda followed the cat's eyes and spotted two figures creeping through the lower floor, dressed in dark suits and wearing sunglasses, despite the dim light.
One of them held a gun, the other's hand hovered near a hip holster.
Loconda's breath caught. She backed into the guest room and quickly threw on her clothes—a fitted black turtleneck, high-waisted jeans, and sturdy black boots. Her mind raced as she buckled her crossbody bag. The oddities she had noticed when she arrived—the tampered locks, the faint scuff marks—now made a chilling sense.
Dressed, she crept back into the hallway, but before she could take a step, a shadow loomed behind her. A large hand clamped around her waist, hoisting her off the ground. She struggled wildly, throwing her elbows and kicking, but the man's grip was iron.
Renata sprang into action, leaping onto the man's back and sinking her claws into his neck. He howled, loosening his grip just enough for Loconda to drive her knee into his stomach and shove him backward. The man stumbled and fell over the banister, crashing into the glass coffee table below.
The commotion drew the attention of the two men downstairs, who bolted toward the stairs. Loconda grabbed Renata and darted toward the balcony doors. Her fingers worked frantically to tear the heavy drapes from the rod, tying them securely to the railing.
"Let's go," she whispered to Renata, tucking the cat into her bag and lowering herself over the edge.
5:38 p.m. CET — Via Madonnina, Brera
Loconda landed safely on the street below, but her relief was short-lived. A black van screeched to a halt in front of her, blocking her escape.
The driver leapt from his seat and hurried to the back, pulling the door open with a quick, practiced motion. Slowly, an old silver haired man stepped out, who Loconda instantly recognized as the old man she had bumped into earlier that morning.
He stepped forward, his movements unhurried, deliberate, as if time bent itself around him. His silver hair caught the fading sunlight like a crown, and though his dark shades hid his eyes, his faint smile made her stomach twist. It was warm in the way a predator's patience was warm, an air of inevitability cloaking him. "Signorina," he said in a chillingly calm tone, his Italian accent curling around each word. "Dove vai? Eh? Where are you going?"
Loconda turned to run, but the men from the apartment were already behind her. They advanced slowly, their guns gleaming in the dim light.
Renata jumped from the bag, hissing and clawing at the ground in defiance. Loconda's fists clenched as she backed into a corner, her mind racing. The tension was suffocating as the circle closed around her.
The old man's smile deepened, his hand rising in a casual, almost lazy gesture. The hulking man Renata had sent over the banister earlier stepped forward, his massive form casting a long shadow in the fading light.
"Take her," the old man said softly, as though he were asking someone to pour him a glass of wine.
The big man lunged, but before he could reach Loconda, he froze. A deep, guttural groan o
escaped his throat as his body convulsed violently. His hands clawed at the air, his legs buckling beneath him.
Loconda's eyes widened in horror as the sound of cracking bone filled the street, sharp and relentless. The man's shoulders twisted at impossible angles, his limbs contorting as if an unseen force were folding him in on himself.
"Che cosa sta succedendo?!" one of the other men shouted, panic lacing his voice. But before he could take a step, the same fate befell him. His ribs caved inward with a sickening crunch, his screams cutting off as he collapsed.
All around her, the old's man's lackeys were writhing and screaming, their bodies folding and breaking under an invisible pressure. Loconda stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat as she watched their forms flatten, their once-solid bodies compressing until they were little more than grotesque, human-shaped disks pressed against the cobblestones.