CHAPTER 2 — The Bloodied Scarf

She didn’t stop running until the alley was far behind her. Her heart still pounded when she reached the main road. The city looked normal now—cars passing, lights glowing, people laughing as if nothing had happened—but for her something had shifted. She tightened her grip on her bag and kept walking.

“Forget it,” she whispered. “Just forget it.”

Her hands, though, still felt like they were pressing against blood.

When she finally reached home, the villa was already lit too brightly. Chiara’s voice cut through the air the moment she stepped inside.

“You’re late.”

Vivienne stopped at the entrance. Her stepmother stood there, perfectly dressed, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“I—college work took longer,” Vivienne said softly.

Chiara didn’t blink. “Do you think this house runs on excuses?”

Silence. From the living room, her elder stepbrother Lorenzo didn’t even look up from his phone.

“Food’s not ready?” he muttered.

Vivienne lowered her gaze. “I’ll cook now.”

Chiara stepped closer. “You always do this. Late. Careless. Do you want people to think we don’t raise you properly?”

“I said I’m sorry,” Vivienne replied quietly.

A pause. Then Chiara pointed toward the kitchen. “Go.”

She didn’t argue. She never did.

Hours later the house finally quieted. Dishes cleaned, floor wiped, kitchen restored—her hands ached, but she didn’t stop until everything was perfect. Only then did she walk to her room. Small compared to the rest of the house, it was hers. She closed the door gently and leaned against it for a moment. For the first time all day—silence.

Vivienne sat on the edge of her bed and looked out the window. The city lights flickered softly. Her thoughts drifted back to the alley, the blood, those eyes. She pressed her fingers to her scarf without realizing it.

“I should’ve just left faster…” she whispered.

But she remembered not walking away—how she had stayed and helped him. A faint, sad smile touched her lips.

Her mind moved to something older: her mother’s warm hands, soft voice, laughter in a house that once felt alive; her father, Giovanni Romano, before everything changed, before Chiara came, before silence replaced everything. Her chest tightened.

“I miss you…” she whispered into the empty room.

She lay down slowly, pulling the blanket over herself. The ceiling blurred as her eyes grew heavy. The last thing she saw before sleep was the faint reflection of city lights on the window glass. The last thought she held wasn’t fear. It was the stranger in the alley.

Meanwhile, the alley was no longer empty. Flashlights cut through the darkness as men searched every corner, every exit, every shadow.

“Boss isn’t here.”

“Check the next block!”

“Move faster!”

No sign of her—no name, no trace—just a scarf left behind, stained with faint blood.

He stood a few meters away, leaning despite himself while his men searched. His gaze fixed on the empty space where she had knelt.

“She disappeared,” one of his men said carefully. “No CCTV in this area. She’s gone.”

Silence.

“She was real,” he said, low and rough. No one answered—no one dared.

Later that night he returned to his office. Calls, reports, blood, business. Everything continued as if nothing had happened, but somewhere between numbers and violence and silence his mind drifted back to a girl kneeling in the dark—hands steady even while trembling, eyes that didn’t look away from blood.

“It’s okay.”

That voice stopped him mid-conversation. The room went quiet.

“Boss?” someone asked.

He didn’t respond immediately. Then, finally: “Find her again.” Not louder. Not emotional. Just certain.

Somewhere across the city she was already asleep, unaware that her life had just been marked by someone who didn’t forget people easily.

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