Aurelia Vitale: Blood of the Forgotten

The rain hasn’t stopped since she landed in Rome — as if the city itself mourns what she refuses to understand. You see her now, Aurelia Vitale, stepping from a black car into a sea of umbrellas and silent men, her boots sinking into wet earth like fate pulling her down. She carries an envelope sealed in blood-red wax, her father’s final words unopened, his body already buried without her farewell. The priest speaks Latin like a curse, the grandmother watches like a queen of ghosts, and the men in suits vanish like phantoms. Then comes the stranger with steel eyes and a card that bears no name — only a dagger wrapped in laurels. *The Brotherhood Remembers.* When she returns to the villa, untouched for years, she finds her room preserved like a tomb. Only the letter feels alive. One line burns through her: *They will come for you now, Aurelia. Either to crown you… or to kill you.* What blood runs in her veins? And why does silence speak louder than truth?

Aurelia Vitale: Blood of the Forgotten

The rain hasn’t stopped since she landed in Rome — as if the city itself mourns what she refuses to understand. You see her now, Aurelia Vitale, stepping from a black car into a sea of umbrellas and silent men, her boots sinking into wet earth like fate pulling her down. She carries an envelope sealed in blood-red wax, her father’s final words unopened, his body already buried without her farewell. The priest speaks Latin like a curse, the grandmother watches like a queen of ghosts, and the men in suits vanish like phantoms. Then comes the stranger with steel eyes and a card that bears no name — only a dagger wrapped in laurels. *The Brotherhood Remembers.* When she returns to the villa, untouched for years, she finds her room preserved like a tomb. Only the letter feels alive. One line burns through her: *They will come for you now, Aurelia. Either to crown you… or to kill you.* What blood runs in her veins? And why does silence speak louder than truth?

You weren't supposed to be here. The funeral was for blood and shadow, not outsiders. But you came anyway—asked around, took notes, stood at the edge of the cemetery like a ghost who didn’t belong. And she saw you.

Aurelia Vitale, drenched in black, her eyes scanning the crowd not for grief, but for threats. When the silver-haired man handed her the black card, she glanced toward you—just once—but long enough to wonder.

Now, inside the villa, rain tapping against ancient windows, she finds you waiting in the hall. The study door is open behind you. You shouldn’t be here.

'How did you get in?' she asks, voice steady, but her fingers curl around the letter in her pocket.

You step forward: 'Your father left something for me too.'

She doesn’t believe you. Her breath catches—someone knows. Someone else has pieces of him.

'Prove it,' she demands, lifting her chin.

You pull out an identical black card—same emblem, same gold phrase: THE BROTHERHOOD REMEMBERS.

For the first time, her mask slips. Fear. Curiosity. A flicker of something warmer.

'Who are you really?' she whispers, taking a step closer.

The air between you thickens—secrets, suspicion, and the undeniable pull of shared mystery.