Hello everyone ~ so sorry for the late post!

*** P.S. EEEEK! Valentine is introduced this chapter. I am so excited! :D I was planning on not showing him for a few more chapters originally, but I just couldn't help myself. :")

P.S.S. As promised for MG or Eden fans, I wanted to let y'all know that Eve and Jonathan are coming into this story for sure. (Should be around Chapter 5). :) I know it is such a slow start, but I really wanted to take time to build the characters before I jumped into the main plot… I CANNOT WAIT FOR THE UPCOMING CHAPTERS. HOLY SKDJGHSDJS. I'm so ready to delve into the drama! :D***

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Mortal Instruments. Sorry. :)

CHAPTER #2: I KNOW WHERE IS AN HIND

"That is all?" he inquired with careful enunciation. "Nothing else to report?"

The question resonated powerfully throughout the room, and Martha slowly shook her head, suddenly unsure of what to say in reply.

Standing in Valentine Morgenstern's office was, in many ways, like standing in front of a courtroom. Albeit one where a single man could, quite literally, play judge, jury, and executioner.

Martha had her hands folded together, white-knuckled, and she was afraid that if she loosened them even the slightest fraction that they would start to shake with anticipation. She had spent the entire carriage ride back to the manor in silent contemplation, wondering how she would bring up the topic of this Buonavento woman to Valentine, and the last thing she needed was her nerves to fail at the final hurdle.

Restlessly, she shifted on her feet, and tried to apply her attention elsewhere. It should have been easy; Valentine's office was a massive space, with high, vaulted ceilings and towering bookshelves lining the curved walls. There was plenty to look at. In reality, however, her mind was wandering endlessly, unable to find a resting point. She forced her gaze to focus on one of the hundreds of gilded spines forming neat rows on the shelves, and she finally found the courage to speak.

"Although," Martha added, lingering in the doorway. "I heard a very fascinating story today… There was a woman that was tutoring for Thaddeus Ashguard for the last few months – with quite the personal history, it seems."

Valentine, being Valentine, pointedly ignored her comment.

He was sitting behind the giant mahogany desk opposite her, regarding the pages of a hardcover book with an expression very close to boredom. Behind him, the window's heavy curtains had been pulled aside to let in the breathtaking mountain views, and sunlight had darkened the outline of his shape, casting a shadow on his frame until he was nothing more than a black silhouette, hovering against the brightness of the window. Even without standing, it was easy to see that he was a deceptively massive man – just as broad shouldered and tall as his father had once been – with the same high boned features and snowy skin and hair. Unlike his father, the lounging elegance of his mannerisms and posture (at that particular moment, at least) made him seem unimposing – even pleasant, perhaps, to the untrained eye…

But Martha was well aware how quickly his mood could change, if provoked. And the smoldering annoyance in his black eyes as he frowned at her implied that they were quickly reaching that point.

Deliberately, Valentine darted his gaze to the hallway behind her, wordlessly ordering her to go. Martha's body moved to obey almost mechanically – and, of course, based on Martha's experience serving the Morgensterns (and her healthy sense of self-preservation), this was the point where she should have quickly given up and hastily scurried from the room…

But something propelled her forward, making words tumble from her mouth, almost without her own volition.

"He mentioned the name 'Buonavento'…" she added, a bit feverishly, praying her effort was not in vain. "I was wondering if you may have heard of it."

As she had hoped, this last statement finally caught his attention – although anyone who did not know him well may not have been able to sense it. While his dark gaze had returned to his book, those black eyes had narrowed to a needle-point focus, and she somehow knew that he was no longer reading the text in front of him.

"Buonavento?" he echoed, his lips barely moving to form the word.

She wrung her hands anxiously. "Yes… Have you heard of the name, sir?"

Valentine paused.

"It is an infamously unpleasant association, I'm afraid." His fingers thrummed pensively on the back of the book, but his eyes were no longer on it. They were focused on the top of one of the bookshelves now, both piercing, and yet, hopelessly distant. Martha knew that look meant that Valentine was deep in thought, and she had never really been sure if Valentine thinking was a good thing or not. "Maria and Riccardo Buonavento were once great Nephilim physicians. The world's top researchers for Downworlders and their related illnesses. Called on by the Clave or the Brotherhood to advise on any abnormal or high-priority medical cases…" he explained. His expression faded, then – not to a frown, luckily, Martha noticed – but to a blank sternness that hardened his features, nonetheless. "Despite their potential," he continued darkly, "they wasted their prowess on aiding the degenerate races. In the end, one of their lycanthrope patients hunted them down and killed them to avoid having to negotiate peace with the Clave… To disrupt the Accords they fought so hard to advocate…" Valentine paused, his fist pressed thoughtfully to his lips – and Martha momentarily wondered if he was thinking of his father, who had passed away in a similar manner so many years ago. "According to the story, the Clave refused to avenge their deaths, despite the scientific developments they contributed throughout their careers. Rumor has it that one of their family members raided the werewolf nest and killed the monster on their own – though the Clave denied it ever happening. Given all the secrecy, the whole business seemed rather ominous. I had always been curious to know what the Clave had been trying to keep hiden."

Wincing, Martha tried to ignore the tragedy of the tale and continued to focus on Valentine. Catching the Circle leader's attention was a rare occurrence and Martha knew she needed to use the situation to its full advantage.

"The Buonaventos were supporters of the Accords? Then I am sure there must be some mistake," she pressed on, knowing it was a lie. "The woman Thaddeus mentioned seemed helplessly loyal to the Clave. She studied at the Academy in Alicante, received some of their more prestigious academic awards, even. Apart from that, she been an active member of the Circle for the past two years… I doubt there is any relation."

"A Circle member?" he wondered, as if tasting the response. Valentine's tone was dismissive, but when his gaze came to rest on her again, his jewel-black eyes were sparking with an electrical interest. "Rage is a powerful motivator… And if a Downworlder hunted and murdered her family, she would be very passionate about their destruction, indeed…" With sudden resoluteness, he clapped his book closed and set it down on his ornate desk. "You mentioned that this woman is working for Thaddeus Ashguard – a tutor?"

"Was working for him," Martha clarified, utterly still. She was shaking with eagerness, but some part of her was horrified that if she so much as moved, she would ruin the entire argument she had just built. "She recently left his employ, it seems…"

A grin curled his pale mouth, although this one seemed to be tinged with true amusement. Valentine rose to his full, towering height and paced to the window, the lines of his shoulders as hard and squared as the panes of glass framing him. Again, he was no more than a black silhouette as he regarded the scene below, but now, the edges of his white hair were lit to a bright glow, like the ring of a solar eclipse.

"Then it appears to me…" he replied, "that Miss Buonavento is now in need of some employment."

Martha was silent, her heart thrumming with anticipation.

A moment later, Valentine glanced at her, over his suited shoulder, and in that instant, it become suddenly so clear to Martha, how so many Nephilim could have felt compelled to follow him. Something in the afternoon light had given him a heavenly glow, caught on the high points of his temples and cheekbones, igniting his dark irises with shards of luminous silver.

"Tell me, Martha," he murmured. His voice was raw silk, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. "Do you have enough energy for one more trip, this afternoon?"

Giuseppe sighed at the shimmering circle of air that had materialized beside his coffee table, knowing, to his chagrin, exactly what its appearance there meant. Part of him wished he could say that this was the first time this had ever happened, but that, of course, would have been a lie. He set his newspaper down on his lap and rubbed his aching temples resignedly.

"Jada, we've discussed this," he repeated, (likely for the seventh time). "You agreed to stop opening portals in the living room."

There was a moment of pure silence, broken by a light, musical chuckle from behind the sheet of light.

"Old habits die hard, I suppose," came the humored reply.

Jada stepped out from the swirling curtain of air and brushed off her black trenchcoat fastidiously, keeping a watchful eye on the few other figures that began to follow her from the aforementioned portal.

Not for the first time, Giuseppe was struck speechless by his goddaughter's remarkable good looks. She was glaring over her shoulder at the portal and it was easy to see her father in the olive skin, the prideful set of her jaw and shoulders, the high, chiseled cheekbones, the lazy smirk. Her mother was in the shape of her lovely almond eyes and long eyelashes, in her full, sculpted lips… The combination of the two had resulted in the kind of beauty that was far more than just captivating; she was mesmeric, and her growing list of rejected suitors only attested to the fact.

In mute horror, Giuseppe internally groaned as the shapes emerging from the portal fell into focus – and when he recognized who the three people trailing behind her really were.

Well – perhaps 'people' was the wrong term.

When Jada's intel network had started gaining substantial power in Downworld, she had made sure to appoint a representative from each of the four Downworld races to serve as her ambassadors. To guarantee that she, and her family, was as far removed from her clients as humanly possible. Fear was a powerful tool, Jada had always said, and Orsa's enigmatic identity only seemed to work to further that end, it seemed. But the sight of all four representatives in their home now filled him with a foreboding sense of dread.

His wife, Rosalina, was an adamant Circle member, and barely tolerant of Jada's dealings with Downworld when they weren't congregating together in her living room. He could only imagine the hellfire that would rain down if she saw them there now…

Jada's fey ambassador, some fairy knight named Meliorn, had arrived at the house not five minutes earlier, demanding to speak to 'Lady Orsa' regarding urgent business of some sort. And as much as Giuseppe had wanted to send him back to the Court as soon as the Knight had arrived, he now knew better. The last time he had refused entry to one of Jada's 'guests' they had broken down the front door without so much as a second thought, and he had decided better than to block their entry since.

Meliorn had spent the last few minutes sitting opposite Giuseppe on their sofa, as pin-straight and inhumanly still as a statue – and despite himself, he couldn't help but smile. Riccardo, Jada's father, had been the same – bringing home broken and bleeding Downworlder patients in the same way a child might bring in a stray cat. Giuseppe supposed that he should have expected this sort of thing from his goddaughter – perhaps even counted himself lucky. At least Jada's Downworlders didn't have a track record for bleeding all over the house.

Hoping to greet her on his feet, Giuseppe tried to rise from the large leather armchair – and winced in pain as he fell back, gripping the solid mahogany arm for support.

In his golden days of Shadowhunting, he had been quite the warrior – but an irreparable injury to his left leg during a dangerous run in with a Belial demon in Firenze had forced him to retire at the tender age of thirty-five. The worst of the scar had faded as the decades past, but the pain had never entirely left him. An 'unfortunate side-effect', the physicians had said.

Riccardo, of course, had called them something expressly blasphemous when he had seen their shoddy medical workmanship, but, by that point, the damage was irreparable.

Giuseppe reached for the silver-handled walking stick leaning on the chair back, (he would never admit it was a cane) and turned just in time to see Jada's dark gaze catch on the figure sitting on the couch opposite him, focusing in like a hunting falcon.

"Meliorn," she greeted, flashing a brilliant smile. "I did not expect you to be here. Is something the matter?"

The fairy, Meliorn, rose and bowed theatrically, his dark hair shimmering against his pale metal armor like sheets of black silk. A mark shaped like a leaf was stamped at his temple, Giuseppe noticed with dull fascination, almost like the fey version of a Rune Mark.

"Quite the opposite, Lady Orsa," Meliorn replied. "My Queen wanted to extend her thanks for your assistance. As always, the information you provided was invaluable to the Fair Folk…" His voice trailed off as his eyes darted to the other three Downworlders in the room, full of suspicion. "Regarding your manner of payment…"

Jada silenced him with a regal wave of her hand. "My manner of payment has always been the same. Your Queen knows that favors are far more interesting to me than money."

Meliorn dipped even lower in his bow, the scales of his armor catching the light with their alien, pearlescent glow. "Which is what makes you so fearsome, Lady," he answered politely.

Atrean, the warlock, snorted as he leant against the mantle of the unlit fireplace – disdain clear in his face as he shook back his shaggy hair and glowered.

Fearsome was one way to put it, Giuseppe supposed.

It had now been two years since Jada had avenged her parents' death. And, as Giuseppe had suspected, snapping the neck of the leader of Italy's largest werewolf pack had been as strategic as it had been grisly. Werewolves were, for all their sins, a loyal race. They, much like Nephilim, tended to follow a strict hierarchy of authority - and also held a fierce affinity for what they perceived to be their homeland.

Legend held that the first case of lycanthropy had occurred in their native city of Naples, and the country had been a cesspool for the vermin ever since. Something about Italy had drawn werewolves to it like rats to a sewer, and a vast infrastructure of local packs had ensued, each with their own turf wars and internal disputes. Despite their disagreements, though, the werewolves had always stayed true to their primal instinct. The pack leader was the most powerful – and that power meant authority in their ranks. Following the train of authority up the ladder, the head of the most powerful Italian pack, in some ways, was like the king of all lycanthropes, worldwide.

It was not a small wonder, Giuseppe supposed, why when the head of Italy's most powerful pack had hunted down and murdered Jada's parents, that the Clave had responded the way they did. In any normal circumstance, the Clave would send resources to hunt down and kill any Downworlder who broke the Accords – but for the Buonaventos, the Clave had refused to send anyone, despite Jada pleading to the Council directly. This was partly, he suspected, because of the political ramifications of killing Italy's head pack leader, and partly because many of the presiding Council members had hated the Buonavento parents and their Downworld-loving cause to begin with.

When the Clave had refused to avenge her parents' death, Jada had hunted down and killed the pack leader single-handedly. Which, as suicidal as it had been, had been beneficial in other ways, he had to admit.

As was the way of the Clave, Jada had collected all the spoils from the pack leader after his murder: titles, lands, and any finances he may have held. And, as it had turned out, being the acting king of all werewolves must have paid quite well. Giuseppe had never asked the full value of her inheritance, but judging from how they had been living since, it must have been an incalculable fortune.

For the first time in history, it seemed, the Buonavento family had no need for money – and it looked like they weren't going to run out for quite some time, he realized in abrupt wonder.

A sudden feeling chilled the air – like a breeze gliding over a glacier – and Giuseppe instinctively turned in dread to stare at the new figure that swung into the living room, her hands flying in irritation.

"What in the Angel's name," the figure snapped, "is going on here?!"

Giuseppe winced and saw that Rosalina had entered the room, throwing up her delicate hands in complete exasperation. She was a small woman, just over five feet, but despite her diminutive build, Giuseppe knew his wife housed a deceptively fiery temper. And no matter how adorable she looked in her flour-covered apron, Giuseppe couldn't deny that her temper looked dangerously close to boiling over, at that particular moment.

The silver streaks in her dark brown hair caught light in a way that made the werewolf woman instinctively flinch away – which was laughable, Giuseppe thought, considering the she-wolf looked about twice Rosalina's height and three times the weight in muscle. With a look of disgust, the were-woman dropped on all fours and crouched to beside the unlit fireplace, suddenly no longer human, but a sterling colored wolf instead. The little, curly haired boy in the group skipped over to the wolf and sat down on the hardwood beside her, nestling his cheek into the silver fur blissfully - as if she were the family dog and not a one-woman killing machine.

Rosalina's dark eyes darted to each of the four Downworlders in turn, flushing a deeper and deeper red as the faces progressed. By the end of it all, she was beginning to look like a particularly unstable volcano.

"Great. Now they are all here?!" she growled, turning on Jada. "What's next," she ranted on, "you'll start keeping a blood supply for the Night Children in our fridge?"

"In the fridge? Don't be ridiculous," Jada answered with an imperious sniff. The smile she wore was pure, undiluted arrogance as she stepped toward the far wall of the room. Her hips swaying like the rock of a ship toying on the ocean. "Everyone knows that blood lasts much longer when frozen."

There was a moment, where Giuseppe looked after her in confusion - but the moment was, unfortunately, short-lived.

As if to prove her point, Jada dug her heel into one of the dark floorboards and, to Giuseppe's utter shock, the other end popped up from the floor like the end of a tiny see-saw.

Why had he never seen this before?

With a smug grin, Jada reached down, pulled out one of many red, plastic-sealed packets from the hidden compartment, and carelessly tossed it across the room.

The vampire boy, Oliver, had settled into his seat on the floor, the werewolf curled around him like a fur blanket. At the sight of the pack, he made a low, wistful whining sound and jumped upward to catch his prize. The little boy's arm shot out in an imperceptible blur of motion, grabbing the package mid-air, but his gleeful expression instantly dissolved as his hand closed around Jada's offering. He stared in disbelief, betrayal shining from his wide brown eyes, as he mournfully turned over the frozen square in his tiny fingers - seeing that it was as hard as a rock.

With a roll of his eyes, Atrean lifted one hand from his crossed arms and wiggled his fingertips sullenly. A few dancing sparks flew from the pack, and then, miraculously, the liquid inside package melted in the boy's tiny hands, becoming as moldable as a red water balloon. Oliver's gleeful beam returned, bearing a pair of razor-sharp, elongated incisors as he gratefully tore into the plastic bag with his teeth, being careful to avoid splattering any of the contents on the dilapidated teddy bear sitting in his lap.

Giuseppe gaped.

Since when had there been a hidden blood freezer in their living room?!

But then, he realized, this had once been Riccardo's home, after all. There was probably more than a few hidden compartments in this house that had been used to accommodate the needs of his Downworlder patients.

Meliorn and Rosalina regarded the vampire boy's meal with matching expressions of horrified disgust.

It was Rosalina who recovered first. Brandishing a fiery glare, she spun on her heels and jabbed an accusatory finger at her goddaughter. Her hair was starting to escape the knot at the back of her head, with loose strands straggling furiously down her neck.

"I thought you would have given all this up, after joining the Circle," she hissed. "And you are feeding them now, for God's sake –?!"

"I did not join the Circle, Zia," clarified Jada, swatting her hand away. "Nor will I ever join it. I will preside over the Invisible World one day – over Downworlders and Shadowhunters alike. I won't be able to do that if the Circle annihilates half my subjects."

This comment gained an appreciative look from the group of Downworlders.

Smoothly, Jada reached up and pulled a half dozen silver pins out of her hair, one by one, letting the dark, shiny locks tumble over her shoulders to the narrowest point of her torso. Giuseppe noticed then, without wanting to, how small that waist was, in relation to the proportions of her chest and hips – now a perfect hourglass shape - and it made him unexpectedly rueful.

It only seemed like yesterday that Jada had been a wild little ten-year-old girl, exploring the untamed fields next to their country home in Italy, and here she was now – somehow, impossibly, a grown woman. Giuseppe tried to reconcile the two images in his mind, but no matter how hard he tried, the connection did not seem to form.

"Besides," added Jada, sauntering across the room. She shook out her rippling hair, slid into an armchair next to the fireplace, and elegantly crossed her legs as she settled in. Almost absently, she reached down and gently scratched the werewolf's silver head, where it rested on her paws. "All this Downworlder destruction nonsense is clutter. It distracts from the Circle's original purpose: the reformation of the Clave… So you see, my dear Zia, I am not detracting from the Circle's true purpose… rather, I am fulfilling it far better than the Circle presently can."

That, momentarily at least, seemed to give Rosalina pause. She stared at Jada, and Giuseppe could tell by the flicker of hesitation that passed over her features, that Rosalina had almost fallen prey to Jada's cunning persuasion. But a few seconds later, the older woman shook her head, releasing a few more bedraggled strands from their knot, and the gleam of her fury returned.

"If you are not on the Circle's side," she growled at her, "then you are against us."

"There is only one side, Zia," Jada clarified. She had rested her elbow on the armchair's wooden arm, cradling her cheek lazily in her hand. "My side. And when you see me ruling over the Invisible World as its queen, you will realize how foolish you were, to put your trust in anyone less."

Nothing could have incensed his wife more.

Rosalina's eyes widened as color rushed to her cheeks. She parted her lips, ready to snap something back in reply, Giuseppe was sure, but something cut her short.

"Jada – you're back!" a new voice yelled, accompanied by a thundering of little footsteps. A tiny figure had swung into living-room and had unceremoniously launched himself at Jada's lap.

Giuseppe's eyes widened with horror, and he prepared to lunge forward. As expected, the Downworlders instantly tensed for battle at the intrusion – the wolf and vampire with teeth bared, the warlock with emerald sparking fingertips, fairy knight gripping the ornate hilt at his waist – but, to his relief, Jada put up a halting hand, and the group instantly stood down.

From where Giuseppe sat, this new figure was nothing more than a familiar mess of tumbled, black hair and an angel's wide, innocent eyes. But as he scrambled onto Jada's lap, the similarities became obvious. The same bronzed tone of skin and honey-brown eyes, the same high-boned features and matching raven hair. The little boy was clutching a copy of the Codex in his arms, albeit a bit awkwardly, but he eventually made it to his perch on Jada's knee and rested the massive volume on his lap.

"I have so much to tell you," he told her, breathlessly grinning. "I was studying for my entrance exams, and I read –"

"Fratellino," Jada cut in, easing back into the armchair. Her tone was harsh, but she smiled as her fingertips brushed a few stray locks from his forehead. "You know better than to come in here unannounced… Unless you have already forgotten our most important rule?"

The boy looked momentarily deflated – but Giuseppe knew that in addition to having the same, handsome features, Jada and this little boy also shared their indomitable spirit. "But, Jada –!" he interjected.

"The rule, Mattheo Buonavento," she repeated, unrelenting. This time, her eyes had narrowed to their normal, piercing glare, and Theo seemed to realize his older sister's patience was running short. "What is it?"

With a sigh, his little shoulders drooped. "I'm not supposed to bother you when your friends are visiting," Theo droned, as if quoting a particularly disliked textbook.

With a smile, Jada reached out and gently tapped her finger on the tip of Theo's nose. "Precisely, tesoro. Your sister's friends don't take kindly to being bothered."

There was always something dreamlike to her expression, Giuseppe knew, whenever Theo was around, and it shone in her eyes now like the soft, diffused glow of the moon. Moments later though, Jada's old self returned, sharpening her glare and the corners of her frowning mouth.

She turned her head to glance at the Downworlders, her eyebrows pointedly raised. "I trust you can show yourselves out?"

With a quick motion, Jada turned the ring on her left hand, opening (now for a second time) another blatant portal in their living-room. Rosalina gaped at it like the materialization of a nightmare.

Without hesitation, the four Downworlders detached themselves from their perches and meandered their way to the portal. They fell into line and disappeared through the circular curtain, one-by-one: the werewolf and Meliorn with stony, wordless nods, Oliver with a beaming smile and sunny wave… In the end, it was only Atrean who hesitated, his arms crossed petulantly over his chest.

"Knowing you, I suppose it is futile to ask you to be careful, Lady Orsa…" His inhuman, acid-green eyes darted coolly to Theo before resting back on Jada. "This mission you are on… You are playing with fire, you know."

Giuseppe had very little idea what he was talking about, and frankly, hoped he was never going to find out. It had been two years now, since they had moved to Idris from Italy, and he had given up trying to understand Riccardo's daughter very early on. All he knew about the whole Orsa business was that it existed. Apart from that, Jada tried to keep her family away from it wherever possible, and maybe for the better.

From the armchair, Jada offered the warlock a smug smile.

"Your concern is commendable, Atrean," she replied. "But you know that no amount of fire has ever stopped me before."

Giuseppe was not sure how Atrean would take it, but in the end, the answer seemed to please him. He smiled after a humored scoff and disappeared through the portal, leaving the rest of them to stare on in silence as the shimmering air dissipated again into nothingness.

Giuseppe blinked at the area where the portal had vanished from a moment longer, then was shocked to see their front door swing open, blinding them all with the light from outside. Jada lingered in the doorway, and Giuseppe assumed she must have crossed the room from her armchair to get there, without him noticing.

"Jada, where are you going?!" Theo demanded. He was standing next to Jada's abandoned armchair, looking oddly lonely and forlorn with the Codex covering his tiny chest.

Against the afternoon sunlight, Jada's back looked strained.

"I need to think, Theo…" She turned to smile at him, a bit ruefully. "I'll be back in a few hours, don't worry, amore."

Theo looked dumbfounded.

"But you can think here!" he protested. "You just got back – and you promised you would help me study for my entrance exams –!"

"I'm sorry, mimmo. I have to go." Without another second of hesitation, Jada walked outside, slamming the door behind her, snuffing the light from the room.

After an objecting snort, Theo rolled his eyes and dragged his Codex back to the other room, muttering under his breath about how Jada was never home, and how he was probably going to flunk the Academy exams due to her capriciousness.

When the little boy left the room, Rosalina narrowed her eyes at the closed door, her fingertips tapping a worried pattern against her lips. Despite her former argument with her goddaughter, concern was coloring her voice with a thin layer of anxiety. Giuseppe, of course, had heard this tone many times before – in so many of the late-night conversations where Rosalina tried to brainstorm something to do – some way to support her distant godchild…

So far, nothing had really worked out as planned.

Jada was the wind: coming and going as she pleased – either as gentle as a summer breeze or as splitting as a hurricane.

There seemed to be no in between.

"Where do you think she is going, Giuseppe…?" she wondered, gnawing on a fingernail. "Really going?"

With a light chuckle, Giuseppe picked up his newspaper and peered it over thoughtfully. "Where she always goes, when she needs time to think."

Rosalina sighed.

"She has the beauty of an empress," she bemoaned. "I don't know why she can't just find a respectable man, settle down, forget this idiotic 'Orsa' business… Lord knows she doesn't need any more money."

"It's not about the money, amore," he replied thoughtfully. "Like her father, she needs to fight for something. A cause. Take that away, and she would cease to exist."

His wife did not reply, but he noticed that her dark eyes, as she finally turned away from him, had become inexplicably solemn. Her mouth twisted nervously and she tugged the folds of her apron straight – and Giuseppe knew the fidgeting was less a fastidious gesture and more of a way for her to vent her pent-up anxiety.

"Let's just hope she chooses the right thing to fight for," she muttered, disappearing into the kitchen.

What do you think? I really love Giuseppe, Rosalina, and Theo. They don't play an integral part in the story, but you will definitely be seeing them again! :)

The next chapter is a Flashback (and is super sad for me to write). I will try to get through it quickly and post for Friday! :D If you have any feedback, as always, feel free to let me know!

I hope to see you all again in a few days!

Love, Fishie.